Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 14, Number 11, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 8 September 1883 — Page 7

THE

MAIL

PAPER

FOR THE

PE.PLE.

MY MOTHER'S HYMN.

L,lke patient saint of olden time, With lovely face almost divine, So good, so beautiful und fair, Her very attitude a prayer I heard ner sing so low and sweet, "His loving kindness—0 how great Turnifig,'held tbe saintly face, Bo full of trust and patient grace, t^j

"He justly claims a song from me, His loving kindness—O how free Sweetly thus did run the song, "His loving kindness," all day long Trusting, praising, day by day, She sang tne sweet roundelay— "He near my soul bath always stoo i, His loving kindness—O how good.",

"As safely leads my soul along, His loving kindnes—Oh how strong Bo strong to lead her on the way To that eternal, better day, Where safe at last in that West home, All care and weariness are gone, She "sings with rapture ana surprise His loving kindness in the skies." —Presbyterian.

From Godey's Lady Book.

LITTLE ANNIE.

BY C. M. ARNOLD.

The old-fashioned street of Kingsbridge lay. abroad and quiet under the July sun. The shops on eitherside were nearly deserted two or three heavilylaiden drays, few carriages, and fewer pedestrians were abroad. Richard Dormer was one of these latter, and as he •long, he wondered vaguely if anything ooula break the monotony of the scene. He bad walked this street at odd intervals, for a soore or so of years and in all that time there bad not been a perceptible change.

He noticed tw him, a lady and a little child

He noticed two figures coming toward him, a lady and a little child; the child dancing gayly along, a slant suubeam tangled in her yellow hair. They came nearer, and Mr. Dormer could but see the rare beauty or the tiny face.

Suddenly be heard a hoarse cry, a heavy rumbling noise, and from the open gateway Just in front of him, a horse attached to a heavy cart dashed out with frightened speed. The child had run on a few steps in advance of her oompanlon, and stood just in the pathway. Mr. Dormer'sprang forward—it wfw all over in a moment. The child, safe from harm, stood sobbing in nervyous excitement, and powerful bands bad eome to Mr. Dormer's aid as the maddened brute rared and plunged in wild effort to free himself.

The child's companion vainly tried to soothe her, but it wa* not till Richard Dormer bent over her, and begging her not to cry, assured her that the danger was all over, that the sob* grew quieter, and then with wistful tear-tilled eyes, the little thing oried out. -'Itwasyou— you—I was afraid you would be hurt." "But I am not hurt at all, you see," he said, reassuringly, end after a few more comforting woras, she stopped crying, though she looked so white and wan that it was pitiful to see her.

It was evident that she was unfit to walk, and the mention of driving houie in a carriage so distressed her that the idea was abandoned. Mr. Dormer, to whose hand she still clung, led her into tho adjoining shop to sit and rest awhile, and the lady explained that tbey were not far trom home. Her sister, the ohild's mother had gone to London for the day, and she hail brought her out for a walk, thinking It would do her good. This she said ns she removed the child's hat and put back the hair from her white forehead.

In all his life Richard Dormer had never seen so beautiful a face as the little one upraised to his. The large eyes were blue as the bluest sky, and the mass of rippling hair was pure gold. The delicate features wero perfect in form and tint, and over all there was an expression so so pure, tb tt from her cradle It had 8Hen said of this child that she looked like an angel. She was seven years old, she told nim, and her name was Annie Fay. Her aunt, Aunt Fanny, Annie called her, was of the ordinary elderly English womanhood stout, healthy, comfortable-looking, not bearing tho slightest resemblance to the fairy little creature with her. She demurred at Mr. Dormer's offer to accompany them homo, but Annie seemed to -think it was quite right that he should do «o, and, with child-like readiness, offered to show bim where grandmamma lived. She was quite res tea. she said but she shivered and turned pale when they passed out into the sunlit street, and at •«very sound. Mr. Dormer felt the little hand in his tighten its hold.

It was not very far to "grandmamma's house," a pretty little cottage on the outskirts of the town, and it was with real regret that Mr. Dormer felt that he must now leave the little girl. He said goodbye to the elder lady, and then happened something unknown in his bachelor experience. Baring his head, he bent over the child. "Will you give me a kiss, Uttle Annie?" he said, gravely.

The answered him as gravely "Mamma does not like me to KISS gentlemen, but I think she would not mind if I kissed you," and the fresh child-lips touched his cheek. "Tbauk you, little Annie," be said, "and may 1 come and see you again ••Yes," she answered, sedately. "Come to-morrow, and see mamma and we."

Rlobatd Dormer turned away with a new, strange feeling in his heart. He walked slowly home, and all the afternoou and evening Annie Fay was scarcely out of his thoughts. He wondered what kind of woman was the mother of this bewitching child. Did she at all resemble the sister he had aeeu She ought to be tall and alender as a lily, with a crown of bronse-gold hair, and ^shadowy eyes of darkest blue. Antiie had not spoken of her father, Waa be -ltvtag?

Finally he said to himself, "It is time. Richard Dormer that some change should be made in your life, if you go on specu•iatlog and moralising over a little girl you were fortunate enough to rescue from cruel danger." Then he bit his •cigar, and began to smoke in a deeealve way, aa if tbat were the only thing in hioh he was at all interested. hi« ohild, and before\e set outffor the vinowreathed cottage, where he had left her. he went through the oqpservaties of Bormer Court, culling fragrant waxen blossoms that seemed worthy of the child-bands in which be meant to place them. When he walked through the great cose gardens beyond, he wondered what lime Annie would think of them. Would she like to wander among these

Neverthelens,his first waking thought on the following morning was of the

Bke

lowing beauties, or would she better tbefera-bordered paths by the riverside, where lilies clustered white and pure? He look fresh Interest in his beautiful would loo'

Wbuvt

br lady of the day before met Mm. "Little Annie," she was worry tossy, was

Wfr

iSSSH

not very well, though she was now sleeping quietly. Her mother had returned and wished much to see Mr. Dormer, should he call, as little Annie felt sure he would. She would speak to her at once.

She returned almost instantly, ushering into the room a small figure in black. "Mr. Dormer, Isabel. My sister, Mrs. Fay, Mr. Dormer."

The graceful figure came forward with hand outstretched. A pair of eyes,soft, clear end pure as Anuie's own were raised to his, and a sweet, slightly trembling voice spoke the words, "I thank you, Mr. Dormer." That wasall. Then she dropped her eyes and turned away for a moment and Mr. Dormer's six feet of manhood was more completely and utterly bewildered than ever it had been bofordt

She motioned him to a seat, and sat down near bim. He looked at her in mute astonishment. If Annie was the most beautiful child, surely this was the loveliest woman he had ever seen. Small and slight of stature, with low white forehead, and delicate, finely-chiseled nose, sweet red lips with a drooping sorrowful curve, dark brown eyes and soft fair hair this was Isabel Fay, as with folded bands she sat before bim.

Had a band been placed across the forehead, entirely concealing the beautiful hair, and the heavy gold locket, the only ornament she wore, removed, and in its place a cross hung on the broad black ribbon, she would have looked like some cloistered nun. She waited for him to speak, and at length be found voice. "I am sorry to hear little Annie is not well to-day." "It was yesterday's fright and excitement," the mother answered, quietly. "She slept but little last night, and each time awoke shivering with War." Then, after a little pause, "She is sleeping quietly now. I think," a longer pause —"how it might be with her now, had it not been for you." And agaiu the clear dark eyes rested upon him. "Try and not think of that," he said, gently. "It was my happiness for once to make my presence useful." "You speak of it qoietly." she said, "as if in were a little thing but I think of her—my little girl—struck down and trampled upon." "No, no," he said, quickly. could not be so cruel as that."

'Heaven

There was along silence, and then she spoke again. "Annie went to sleep on the sofa in the next room, Mr. Dormer, and I promised that if you came I would awaken her but I would like so much to have her sleep a little longer. Is your time very precious this morning?" "No, Indeed," Mr. Dormer said, hastily. "Do not on any account, disturb the little thing. I shall be glad to wait." "Thank you." she said, in sweet, grave tones. "I will let her sleep for another half hour." Then she leaned her head back against the crimson velvet of her chair, and said with unconscious pathos, as if in half apology, "My little Annie is all I have in the world."

The half hour passed rapidlyThis woman was to Mr. Dormer a revelation. She did not talk very much, but there was a charm in every word she uttered. One thing he discovered: her home was not in England. In speaking of the picturesque old ruins of the eastle of Kingsbridge, she said, "Suoh things make up more than half the beauty and grandeur ot England. It seems a pity that in our county we have none of them."

He looked surprised. "In your country?" he said, questioningly. "In America. I thought Annie had told you. She usually mentions the fact the second or third remark she makes. My home,"—she corrected herself—"my native place is in the woods of Michigan. Pray do not look horrified," she went on, the least little smile lighting up the solemn brown eyes. "My father and mother were both English, and I was brought up in the old English traditions." "Is this your first visit to the land of your forefathers?" "No," she answered' sadly. "I came once with my husband some years ago. I come this time," she continued, "for Annie's sake. The doctors thought the sea voyage and the ohange of climate might do her good. She has never been quite well and strong sinoe her father died, and last winter tried herseverely."

The conversation changed, but Mr. Dormer bad gained a small portion of desired knowledge. Miss Fay's sister, indeed! this beautiful, dark-eyed mother of little Annie. 8m ill wonder that the child was lovely as a painter's vision. She was the mother in miniature, save only in the coloring of hair and eyes. The voices were just the same, on both faces rested the same expression of sweet

avity, and when the mother went into adjoining room, and presently returned, leading by the hand her one and only treasure, Mr. Dormer felt himself in a higher and purer atmosphere than he had ever before breathed.

The child was unaffectedly glad to see him, and beut her face in childish ecstacy over the flowers he had brought her. She was an odd mingling of child and woman, this sweet, seven-year-old: one moment talking as If her doll ana its last new dress were the most important thlnga in the universe, and the next moment drifting off into some fanciful waking dream-land, and talking as if surrounded by Invisible friends. She took upon herself the entire task of entertaining her visitor. She told him of her old home in Michigan, of her journey to England, of the grandmamma in whose house she now was, of her one little cousin Helen, and, at this point, looking &£ him with wide-open, Innocent eyes, she asked: "Have you any little girls, Mr. Dormer?" "No," he answered, "but I have a little niece in Sootland. Her name is Fanny."

This was a subject of suoh engrossing Interest that Mr. Dormer had to answer a good many questions, and afterward little Annie «ud quietly. "I'm going to Scotland some day. Mamma has promised to take me. I want to see 'the braes of broom and heather' and 'the mountains dark with rain'—Oh," she went on dreamily, "how glad they must have been to bear the voice of the gletia and hills"—

Mr. Dormer looked a little mystified. "At Lucknow," she explained. "At Lucknow?** Mr. Dormer repeated. "Yes. Didn't yon ever read about the Pipes at Lucknow? It begins:

Pipes of the misty moorlands. Voice of the glens and hills The droning of the torrents,

Tt»e treble of the rills!"

"I am afraid I never read that particular poem," answered her companion. "Will yon read it to met*

Mae answered quickly, "I book," and in an

"On. ves. will run and get ttle the mom.

instant the little white figure had left

Mr. Dormer turned to Abe mother. "What a wonderful child!*' be said In tones oi ml feeling. "Doyou think so?"she said, quietly. 'Sheis notified 1 she were. "Oh, no," sUd/ wish ber anything, All .oyn aweet self." "She has so' maqy strange, mndfal idem," the tnbther wtriMPImf "bat per»

other children. wish

"do not fiosa her

TERKE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING MAIL.

haps she will outgrow some of them. She has had very little of children's society, and I think that has made a difference."

The light footsteps returned, and standing by Mr. Dormer's chair, the child began to read Whittier's soul-stir-ring lines. Mr. Dormer listened in amazement. It was nochildish reading the beautiful voice rose arid fell in perfect accord with the pathos of the words, and a thrill passed over him, as clear and strong rose the dry: "Dlnna ye near it?

S Dlnna ye hear it? The pipes o' Havelock sound.'* She stopped, Hushed and panting, -Isu it beautiful?" she said. "Beautiful!'' he said. He took the book from her hands and turned over the leaves. "I have never read this

"Never read it!" the child cried in dismay. "Why it is the most beautiful book in the* world. You may take it and read it if yon like." "Thank you. I should like to take it, if your mamma is willing." "It is my book," the child explained.

Mamma gave it to me my last birthday. Look," and she pointed proudly to her name on the page.

Mr. Dormer looked at the mother. She smiled and said: "If I had any voice in the matter, I should be glad for you to take the book." "I will take it then, with thanks," he said. "And now, little Annie, I must go away. I would like to stay longer, but I must not." "Can't you do as you like?" she asked, with delicious candor. "No, child," he laughingly answered. "Before I go, however, we must decide on the day you will come to see me. I have quantities of flowers like those I brought to-day, and roses and lilies I want to show you——" "Oh, I want to see them," she cried. "Then there is a nice cool walk bv the river that you would like, and I will take you for a row."

Mrs. Fay tried to question whither this was ail tending, but it was of no avail. Before Mr. Dormer left the house, it was all arranged. Grandmama had been called in (at Annie's suggestion) and she. Aunt Fanny, Mamma, and the little ruler were all to go to Dormer Court on the following Thursday.

Mr. Dormer felt lust a little guilty as he made preparations for his guests. Luncheon was to be served in the summer house by the river, if the day were suitable, he told the old housekeeper, and if not, in the quaint little room opening from the conservatory. He arranged the flowers in hall and drawingroom himself, and bad he expected the noblest in the land to enter the wide old rooms, he could not have been more particular as to their appearance. But was it all for little Annie Fay? Was there not another figure he pictured in the pleasant gardens and flower scented rooms?—a dainty little figure in clinging black robes, with great dark eyes, and a sweet, sorrowful race? Ah, Annie was a lovely child, but the mother—

The eventful Thursday was a day long to be remembered by the little Annie. If ever child was perfeotly happy, it was she.

The grand old trees in the park, the ardens, the river, the fountains that ell with musical tinkle in their marble basins, the comfortable old stone house —a very palace in her eyes—with its suite after suite of unused rooms, had each and all a charm for her and when, after luncheon, Mr. Dormer took her for a row on the river, and she came back with a little moss-lined basket filled water lilies, her cup of bliss was full.

Afterward she sat quietly by Mr. Dormer's side in the summer house while he talked with the ladies, occasionally touching the waxen petals of her lilies, with a tender caress in her small white fingers, and an expression of perfect peace on the little face.

Once she looked up gravely. "You ought to be very happy, Mr. Dormer." "I am happy, to-day," he said smiling upon her. "You ought to be, every day," she in-

Do you not think I am?" •'No you do not look asif you were." "O Annie!" the mother said, distressfully.' ""You are right, my little one," said Mr. Dormer. "I am very lonely here 8ometitnes,and you know I can not be happy when I am lonely."

She looked around her, then up into his face, and with quiet reproach, said, "/should never be lonely here."

The listeners smiled at the confidence of the seven years. From this time Mr. Dormer.neither deceived nor tried to deceive himself. He loved Isabel Fay with all the strength of bis manhood, and he meant, if possible, to win her for his wife. He was a brave, true-hearted Englishman, and he went about his wooing in simple, manly fashion. He was unconsciously seconded by the little Annie, who was always so glad to see him, ana who looked forward with such eagerness to hie society. His name was almost constsntly upon her lips there was no one auite so good, so kind, so perfect, as Mr. Dormer. His fondness for the Uttle girl wss equally apparent and equally sinoe re. He had lived a lonely life at Dormer Court, since it had become his by inheritance, and the child's love was precious to bim. Save his own sister and her Utile girl, he had no near relatives and with all his wealth, Annie had been right when she Baid he did not look happy. The first twenty years of his life had been a hard oontest with poverty and misfortune. His father, a younger brother of the riei ownei of Dormer Court, bad married against that brother's wishes, and the two were as strangers. The father died when the boy was quite young, and the delicate mother had not long survived him. Keenly the man felt in after years that one-tenth of the wealth now surrounding him might have prolonged both lives for years.

The summer wore away, and when the shortening October days were closing around the little world of Kingsbridge, Mr. Dormer told Isabel Fay of what waa In his heart. When he looked into the purs, pale face, he read his answer.

Her first words were, "I am so sorry— oh, so sorry, Mr. Dormer. Why did yon think of this?" and there wa* real distress in her voice.

love you.** He repeated tbe words, "I could not help it," Tears stood in her eyes. There was no trace of coquetry In her manner, no thought save of the pain she was giving —"It ts a poor return for what you have done for me. but I—I—it can never be."

Long* he pleaded, but the answer was tbe same. Finally, be said, "Perhaps I ought not to ask your reasons for refusing me. I ought to be content with the simple refusal, bat I am not. I want to know why there Is to be no more happiness for me in this world." "O do not say that," ate pleaded. "Them will be some one else. You will

shall noi forget yon. I will ask another woman to be my wife, so help ma God."

She shuddered. "You ought not to have said that,'.' she cried. "It is like a promise now—yon may be sorry."

Alight broke in upon him. He took her hands in his. "Isabel Fay," he said, solemnly, "is it a promise that stands in the way. Have you promised that you will never marry again

She flushed and paled, and he felt the muscles in the small hands stiffen in his own firm clasp, but she did not speak. "Tell me," he repeated, -'have you made such a promise

She looked at him with quivering lips. "You hurt my hands, Mr. Dormer." He loosened his clasp instantly. "I beg your pardon. I forgot myself. I did hurt them cruelly, and! am sorry. It was maddening to think it might be a promise like that between me and happiness. "Will you not tell me

She was silent some minutes, then she said, slowly, "I have promised that I would not marry again. "No man has aright to exact," he be-

Sim.

an, impatiently, but she interrupted "You do not understand," she said, quietly. "The promise was to me. I have promised myself chat I will never marry again"

He looked at her helplessly,something of his misery showing itself in his eyes. "Why did you do such a thing?" "I will tell you." She spoke rapidly, and her voice was strained and unnatural. "I will tell you what I thought qever to have spoken of to any human being. Mine was a wretched married life—oh, so wretched 1 You do not know what it costs me to tell you this— I did not make my husband happy. I could not. I tried, but I could not. O!" she exclaimed, wildly, "my husband did not even love my child—my little baby girl—because she was like me," she stopped, panting for breath. "What a horrible thing!" the man muttered, with whitened race. "My poor child, you have suffered."

She broke down utterly. "Do not pity me. Do not talk to me. Please go away and leave nie," she said. "It 1B the kindest thing you can do." "lean not ao it," hesaid, firmly. "For heaven's sake, do not be afraid to trust yourself to me. I love you so dearly, and I will care for you sb tenderly, and for little Annie too."

It was tbe flrst time he had mentioned the child's name, and she was visibly affee tod* "I believe you are good and kind," Bhesaid, "but it can never be."

He tried argument and entreaty, but tbe answer was still the same, and at last he left her.

What a life the tender, loving woman must have led, he thought bitterly. She could have been little more than a child when she married and what a cruel wrong had been done her! His pity for her partially benumbed the sense of his own misery and, besides, he was not wholly without hope. He would wait a little while, and then he would write to her. He would once more beg of her to reconsider her decision, and perhaps—

The long letter was written not many days later but when the answer was received, Mr.-Dormer knew that he need no longer hope.

The autumn daysdragged wearily. He still called occasionally at the ivywreathed cottage he felt that it would be unkind to little Annie if be did not but he seldom saw tbe mother.

Winter came, and the short days were longer and less bearable than had been those of autumn. He made uphis mind that he would leave Dormer Court for a season, and travel.

His preparations were soon made, and he was sitting alone in his grand and dreary room on New Year's eve, when a letter was brought to him. He had not seen -little Annie for over three weeks, and he was thinking of this with some compunction, thinking alio that on tbe morrow he must call and give her "good-bye," when the letter came. It run thus: "Little Annie is very ill. She talks of you, and calls for you almost constantly. The dostor thinks that, even though she is delirious, your voice and presence might soothe her. Will you come

Mr. Dormer Btarted to his feet, and very few minutes passed before he stood in Isabel Fay's presence. She reached out ber hand. "Thank you for coming so soon"— "What is it?" he asked hurriedly. "Brain fever," she answered, with white lips. "Listen!" a wild shuddering cry rang through the house. "She cries out like that often—my poor little Annie! and she does not know even me. Come and see her." She turned and led the way.

Mr. Dormer's heart sank within him when he entered the room where the child lay. Moving her head wearily from side to side her eyes wide-open, glassy and staring the golden locks all shorn away it was indeed a sight to make one's heart ache.

Curiously enough, just as the door opened she called Mr. Dormer's name. Be stepped quickly to the side of the bod* "I am here, little Annie. I have come to see you," he said, slowly and distinctly.

For a moment the glassy eyes seemed to stare upon him, and then she said fretfully, "No, no Mr. Dormer never comes now."

How his heart smote him at these words! He took the little hot hands in one of his. and laid the other on the white forehead. "Yes. I have come to see yon, little Annie, and I will stay as long as you like. I am going to sit down beside your bed ana talk with you. Does your bead ache?" and he drew his band gently over her fomhead.

To everyone's surprise, die turned her face a little toward him and answered: "Oh, yes. It aches all the time now." "lam very sorry," he went on in the same quiet tones, and bending over be kissed the little flushed fabe. "I will hold it, just as you ones told me you held mamma's head when it ached badly," and he pressed his hand firmly on the throbbing temples.

Tbe child lay perfectly quiet and looked at him. rI thought yon were never coming again," she said, after a while. "We areart happy now—mamma and I. It is dark" and she began to wander. "But yon are going to be happy again," be said, quickly. "Yon am not well now, bat you will soon be better. Try and go to deep, and in the morning your Isead will not ache like this. Shut your eyes now, and I will tell you how it looks at Dormer Court in tbe winter time." And then in messured uiet, tones he went on, telling her of the snow-dad lawn, the great trees bending under their white mantles, the flowers,

tip-toe

and the

ng tbe

nurse to follow mm. "If she sleeps till after midnight, all will be-welVhe **id, in a low voice. "I have another patient with whom I must pass part of the night I will come beck as soon aslcsn. Cheer up, Mrs. Iky you ^ave everything to hope." nurse to lid

posdtioa, and little Annie was sleeping, one hand dose clasped in his broad

palm. Long she stood by the bedside watching tho sleeping child. God knows what passionate prayers went up from her heart.

At length Mr. Dormer held up a warning finger, shook his head and pointed to a chair. She obeyed at once, and in perfect silence an hour went by.

Little Annie moved a little, and for a few minutes moaned pitifully. Tbe mother clasped her hands in an angonp of suspense, but the child did not ftWftk6D«

Midnight came, and still she slept— not till after the clock struck one did the heavy-hidden eyes enclose. ''Mamma," she said, softly.: A

The mother was bending over her in a moment. There was no wild fever nor pain in the sweet blue eyes. On the edge of the Land of Shadows the'child had paused, and now she was coming back.

It was almost too much for the weary mother. She pressed one -hund tightly on her heart as if to still its throbbing. "You are better, my darling," she said, half fearfully. "Yes," the child answered. "My head is better."

Then she saw Mr. Dormer, and a wan little smile flitted over her face. "I dreamed that you were here," she said, and her eyes closed again, and again Bheslept.

The night wore on. At three clock tbe doctor came, and pronounced the cricispast. "Sbo will live," he said, decidedly. Then Miss Fay took her stand by the bedside, and Mr. Dormer led the white and trembling mother away,

In the adjoining room a |bright fire was Bparkling. Isabel Fay stretched out her hands to the cheerful blaze. "I did not know it was so cold till I saw the fire:" "You poor child," he said, tenderly. "You look in need of almost as much care as little Annie." In truth, she was fearfully thin and worn.

She was silent seme minutes, then she raised her eyes to his. "You bavesaved her life again, Mr. Dormer. How can I thank you?" "There is no need of thanks," he said quietly, looking into the large tear-filled eyes. "If my presence were again of use last night, it was enough for me."

She took his hand—she pressed her lips to it, once—twice-r-he felt her hot tears fall upon it— "Mrs. Fay! Isabel!" he said, almost sharply! "I cannot bear that."

He took both cold white hands, and said solemnly. "I have done nothing. I would give my life gladly if it were necessary."

She trembled but she made no effort to withdraw her hands. "Isabel," he continued passionately "do not send me away again. Let me stay with you, and care for you and little Annie, now and always."

Still she made no reply. "For little Annie's sake" he pleaded, and with solemn tears, the mother bowed ber bead and let him have his way.

So, through the love and faith of a little child, the great happiness of Richard Dormer's life came to him. Is it any wonder that, next to the wife for whom his love nearly approaches worship, In his heart he treasures the beautiful girl still called "Little Annie?"

:PrrrsFORD,

MASs.,Sept.

28.1878.

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MRS. J. W. TULLER,

Sec. Women's Christian Tmp. Union.

Nevsr Ulve lip.

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BAY NEVER.

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The True Teat.

a man is hungry within sn hour more 6r less after a meal he is a tic, it shows his stomsch is not able to dispose of what be has eaten, but to eat again, and thus impose tfiore work, is absurdity. Take Dr. Johns' Red Clover Tonic which cures dyspepsia, and all stomacb, liver, kidney and bladder troubles. It is a perfect tonic, appetizer, blood purifier, a sure cure for sgue and malaria diseases. Price 50 cents of Gullck A Co. Druggists. (3)

leek Cssd c*sfh cure. Warranted to Cure or money refunded. Coughs, Colds, Host sen ess, Throat and Long troubles, (also good for children.) Bock Csndv Cough Cure COB tains the healing properties of pore white Rock Candy with Extracts of Roots and Herbs. Only 25c. Large bottles 91.00 cheapest to by. For sale by Gullck A Co

|14^ge Boxes^soldtaa

SELLERS LIVER PILLS

Act Directly onthc Um. Cvns Cam* a*d fim, Djwwu, IMSC HB&BACTB, BILIOOT OOLJC.OQL nam, BronuTim, pn^w. PAtiCTAWty or Bun, Visznrwm,TOOTS Lrns.

roa 46 BQifSael very wril.w* P*0 at MMM *ttaal»tM tb* stomach, mews tb*a»»»Ml*, Import* rigor to tb«

WafeMk Sentrkd uid Iteb tlscaasd in tHirty miautsstnr tbeappltflaifcm of WOOLTORD'8 SANITARY TxrTlOlf. Bold by Prnytot*.

•ijiFGHtfflrswmEs

Tskin.

olesn«e

tbe

Scalp and

Blood of Itching,Scaly Pimply, ^scrofulous, Iuherited, and Contagious Humors, Blood Poisons, .U cers, Abscesses, and Infantile Skin Tortures, the CUTICURA REMEDIES are infallible. CunCTTRA RKSOLVKNT, the new Blood Purifier, .Diuretio and Aperient expels disease germs

from the blood and perspiration, and thus removes the cause. CUTICURA, the great Skin Cure, instantly allays Itching and Inflammation, clear the Skin and Scalp, heals Ulcers and Sores, restores the Complexion. CUTICURA SOAP, an exquisite Skin Beautiner and Toilet Requisite, is indispensable in treating skin diseases, and for rough, chapid or greasy skin, blackheads, blotches, and ^„by humors. CUTICURA RKMKDIKS are the only infallible blood purifier and skin beautiflers.

Chas. Hoaarbtoii, Esq., lawyer, 28 State street, Boston, reports a case of fc^lt Rheum under his observation for ten vears, which covered the atients body and limbs, and to which all known methods of treatment had been applied without benefit, which was completely cured sole by the CUTICURA. REMEDIES, leaving a clean and healthy skin.

Mr. and Mr». Everett St ebb Ins, Belchertown. Mass., write: Our little bojr was terribly afflicted with dalt Khum and Erysipelas ever since he was born, and nothing we oould we give him helped him until we tried CUTICURA RKMKDIKS, which gradually cuied him, until he is now as fair as any child.

H. E. Carpenter, Henderson, N. Y., cured of Psoriasis or Leprosy, of twenty years' standing, by CUVWIKA RKMKDIKS. Tfc most wonderful cure ©n record. A dustpan full of scales fell from him daily. Physicians and friends thought he must die. Cure sworn to before a justice of the peace and Henderson's most prominent oUlEons.

Hon. Wm. T»y lor, Health Commissioner, Boston, says: After three months' use 91 the CUTICURA REMEDIES, and twelve yeajs of as constant suffering from Scrofulous Humor of the face, neck and scalp as it was endured, I can say that I anyjured, and pronounce my case the most Teraarkable on record.

Price of CUTICURA, small boxes, 50 ct?. large boxes, »1. CUTICURA RESOLVENT,«1. per bottle. CUTICURA SOAP, ^cte. CUTICURA SHAVING SOAP, 15 cts. sold by all druggists. Potter Dfng and Chemical CO.. BO#t0Nend for "Mow «o Cure Skirt1 Biteases."

ucians, prepared by the elite, oa'es, i«* 1882, 1,000,000 cakes.<p></p>CATARRH

radical, permanent, and uever falling.

I IMa. For the relief and proventlon, the instant it isapplied VOLTAIC/ /of Rheumatism, Neuralgia, \N\ .1

dri.

Die la «fceH*as«.:r

"Rough on Rate." Clears out rats, mice, roaches, bed-bugs, flies, ants, moles, chipmunks, gophers. 15c.

Sciatica,Cou«hs,Colds,Weak Back, Stomach and Bowels, Shooting Pains, Numbness, Hysteria, Female Pains,Paltatlon, iepsla, Liver Complaint, Bullous Fever, \Malaria, and Epidemics,use

7 Collins'Plasters (an Electric Battery combined with a 1 porous Plaster) and laugh at pain. 26c, everywhere.

I l.ti la., March 2,1MB. PREPARED BT O.A"or& Co., Lowell, Mfsa. si, six bottles for '.-5. ..i

Portland, Maine.

IS THE

ii||S

Said everywhere.

Sanford's Radical Cure,

The Gieat. Balsmle niwtlllation of Witch HAKI, American Pine, Cnnadian^Pur, Marigold* 1*

Clover Blossom, elc.,

For the Immediate relief and PermananC Cure of ©very form of Catarrh, from a Simpie Head Cold or Inflaensa of the Loss of Smell, Taste, and Hearing, Cough Bronchitis, and Incipient Consumption. Relief in five JS minutes of any and every case. Nothing like it. Grateful, fragrant, wholesome. Cure begins from flrst application, and Is rapid,

Moore's (Lev's Shaped")?, 4 Surif Vl Coated SiW*

Cure ffer Chills 50J50 IftilSf? Tha Great Malaria 1 Antidote, Sold by DruggfrU. Dr. C: Moore, 78(!ortlandtSt. NewVoA.

IsislssMs to eteqr tumSkf.

'Iff

jV Tfc

li?

One bottle Radical Cure, one box Catarrhal Solvent and one Dr. San ford's Inhaler, in one :y «ckage, of all druggists, for $1. Ask for .m JANFORDW RADICAL CURB. POTTER DRUG and CuKMiCAiiCo., Boston.

-At

Sarsaparilla

Is a highly concentrated eztraet «C ,4 Sarsaparilla and other blood-purifying roots, comblnod with Iodide of Potas» r.ium and Iron, and is the safest, most rettable, and roost economical blood-purifier that can be ttscd. It invariably expels all Wood poisons from tbe system, enriches and renews the blood, and restores ite vitalizing power. It is the best known remedy for Scrofula and all Scrofulous Complaints, Erysip- s|? clas, Eczema, Ringworm, Blotches, Sores, Boils, Tumors, and Ernptlona at the Skin, as also for all disorders caused by a thin and impoverished, or corrupted, condition of tha blood, suoh as Rheumatism, vpiirblsla, Rheumatic Gont, General

l»"b)iHy, tint! Scrofulous Catarrh.

Sfpj

Rbenstatlsa CurU.

R'H 8 \RSAPARTIXA has cured me of •i ttnmiUory Rheumatism, vlth 4' Uiro iuttered for many years. \V. H. MOORE."

.38A

,H,uu,un

11teSSfS5K5S •frf nw 'ffi&ffanasis fa ^niiifiiaSit