Saturday Evening Mail, Volume 17, Number 33, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 5 February 1887 — Page 2

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A PAPER FOR THE PEOPLE.

CONTRADICTIOJ

I said to you No and No—no—no! You turned so white as yoa heard! Whom else, ia tli-j world, would have loved me so.

And—taken mc nt my word?

Bui to you, Yes—yes—yes—I aay Ah, now, that you cannot hear! And now, that your eyes are turned away,

I beckon to bring you near.

Ah! so it Roes in this world of ours, There in always too much at stake. We cannot guess at the thorns, for flowers,

Nor at joy, for the hearts that break! —Mary Ange De Vers.

The Ducharmes of the Baskatonge.

[Duncan Campbell Scott in Feb. Scrlbner.] In the heart of a northern wilderness, on the shore of an unnamed lake, stands the ruin of a small hut. Half the roof has fallen in. The logs ar© rotted and covered with moss. In the dark corners spectral weeds and ferns die longing for the sun. The winter wind, untamed out of the north, charges against its crumbling walls and drives "the sifted snow, hissing like steam, across the surface of the lalte. The haunts of men seem as faraway as the stars that throb faintly in the lonely vastness of the summer sky. The silence that dwells forever in the waste places of the world is shaken by unheeaed storms and the muffled cries of life in tho gloom of the immense forests that darken beneath her brooding wings.

"Ducharme! Ducharme! Francois has gone over the rapids 1" The words came in short gusts across the •water to where Octave Ducharme stood, pike-pile in hand. They wore running the logs on the St. Joseph. The river was racing over the rapids to where the falls were roaring and pulsing under the dome of iniat which tho April sun was smiting with rainbow shafts that broke and glanced upon its shifting sides.'

Ducharme struck his pole deep into the boom, and gazed under his hand up tho gloaming river. Tho water was broken and curled, and came turning the sudden bond with foam-toppea waves that were bright now in the afternoon sun. He looked steadily for a moment then, as he saw something drift into sight otjier than the dipping logs, ho pulled off his heavy boots, threw down his hat, and watched again. There was a rush of men on the river road, with waving of arms and confused cries. But Ducharme ever watched tho speck in the swift water, that drew near to him and took the shape of a white face drawn with pain and rocked to and fro in the curront. They were shouting from tho bank: "Don'tgo in!"—1"You'll both go over!"—1"Francois!'—1"Octave!" —shouts—groans—wild jostling of men, and waving of arms. But he stood as calmly as if he wcro watching a muskrat cleave the brown waters of some quiot lake in an ever-widening wedge. Suddenly he drow himself up and plunged just in front of tho floating face. The two men spoke to one another quickly as they were drifted swiftly together. "Oh'! Octave, my log, my log!" "Novor mind, little brother put yQO'* hand on my shoulder."

Tho strong arms wore making new eddies in the torn water. Tho crowd ran along tho bank shouting wildly: "(Jet into the oddv!"-^"Ducharme!"— "Ducharme!"—"Strike into the eldy, or you'll go over!"—"My GojU'*—"Catch tho boom!"—'"Strike in!"—"We'll pull vou out!" "They ran out on the boom where it -was swinging dangerously at the mouth of the chute. The water there was curved in a great glassy heap with long wirv steaks. Above was the eddy, wheeling and turning. To got into its power was safety. The swimmer kept edging in.

In a few moments he would bo abreast of it. Ho was muttering, under his breath: "Keep up, little brother koep up. little brothor."

The men on the shore strained forward, struck in the air as if swimming, stumped with their feet, and reached out over the river." "Mv Ood! he's safo!"—1"No! he'smissed it!" One huge fellow sank on his kness and hid his face. "No! boys, he's i„! Thev get him!"—"They're against the boom!"—'"llaptiste has him!" —"They're safe!"—and a wild yell of

joy tore through the air. "Take him llrst," Octave was saying "two of you hang on—the water will enrrv hini under—I'm all right—pull him along out or tho current—tuere now."

The men stood around as they strove to bring Francois to, and when he opened his eves thev went back to their work and left'him with Octave and the three who had taken him out of the water. His leg was broken in two places and his. head was gashed: but ho was all right, he said, and they carried him into the shanty.

That was almost tho tlrstfyear they were on the river together, and all the dangers that crowded thickly about them in the vears of toil that followed wore warded'otT by the strength of four arms for one Ducharme was never alone, and it wan always "The Ducharmes,,v not "Francois" or "Oetave," but "The Ducharmes," "The Ducharmes of the Haskatonge." Whether hunting, or logging, or driving, or running the rafts down to the St. Ijawreneo, or at home on the lUskatonge, it was always the same. "Have you the Ducharmes?" one foreman would say to another "then you're all right." llow the work went when there was Octave to sing and Francois to lead the musical erv, when all arms strained together! And they never seemed to think of one another. They went along unconsciously, working together, and when Francois was hurt it was Octave who stayed with him until he was better. "Octave, Octave," Francois would say, but in return it was always "Little brother." No one could toll why. One was as tall as the other, and as strong. They were like two stalwart young pines, straight and towering only if you watched them closely, Francois never even lit

his pipe until he saw the somke

art Octave lip* and curl about his face. Octave was always first. They did not know it themselves, but Francois always followed

Their little house back on the Baskatonge was heaped round with snow in the winter, and the frosty wind blew no wreaths of nmoke frm the chimney into the pines. But that had not always lieen so there had been a time when the frost drew curtains across the windows of the happiest home in the north.

Hypolite Ducharme was a trapper and hunter who sold his furs to the traders, ami never swung an exe except to cut his own firewood. He had lived for Home years on the Baskatonge, and did not find himself lonely until one day, when he took his winter's haul of fur#

down the Gatineau, he saw a pair of brown eyes that told him plainly that he could not visit his traps day after day, and hear the sound of the wild fowl driving in a wedge southward to the sunlit sweeps of reeds and curved reaehes of moving marsh grafts, without seeing that house, back from the river abont the flight of a wounded partridge, and the girl with the plaited hair working to the music of her own voice.

At noon the next day many were the bends and rapifls between him and the three logs where he had landed the night before but, as his canoe steadied and swung unt into the current, he was watched from the bushes, and until the river hid behind the stony spur of the hill, that never before looked jas cold and hopeless, the dark eyes under the arch of brown hands timed the flashing paddle, and when the sun burned red for a moment on the canoe, as it turned behind the hill—would it ever come bafck?—the November mists came into that May day, and the wind kept turning the dead leaves in the forest.

Tho way had never seemed so long before the canoe was never so heavy, and one season he had twice as many furs But when he turned north again it was a short road he had to travel and when he reached the rocky point the current bore him a white wood-lily, which he took out of the water as it grazed the canoeside.

He travelled north again, but not alone, and many were the thickets that trem bled to the unknown souud of a woman's voice. For it was a little matter whether it was on the Baskatonge or the Gatineau that Marie Delorme lived so long as she was with the man she loved.

But that was long ago and all the marks which Hypolite Ducharme bazed on the trees had grown over the ridges, and when an otter is caught he is always the finest the trapper ever saw.

Before Hypolite was killed by the bear, and before Marie died, the boys had learned all their father could teach them of hunting and trapping but when they were left to themselves thoy chose to go to the shanties, where there was company and better pay. But in the summer, when the season's work was over, they went back to their old home and hunted and fished until the autumn came again.

When they were there alone they would often talk of their father and mother. Octave always remembered his father as he saw him striding through the bushes with a young doe across his shoulders but Francois always remembered him as he found him, that night, dead under the bear. Their mother, too whenever Octave spoke her name a •heory face looked out into the night to welcome the tired trappers but Francois saw her pale, and heard the thin voice, "Francois, Francois, I am dying!" And now thev were not so much alone as they had been. Gradually the settlement had crept boldly from the Desert, up the river and back into the country, and now in a day's journey there were many families on the Bras a'Or, Dubois and randen on tho Claire, Charbonneau and Faubert and on the Castor, McMorran—White McMorran, to distinguish him from his brother, who, however, was never called Black McMorran—and the Phelans and O'Dohertys.

The Castor, where there were no beavers, only broken dams, was Ave miles from the Baskatonge. There was a path through the woods, and an hour and a quarter would take a good walker from the Baskatonge to the McMorrans'. Octave Ducharme could walk that distance easily in an hour, but then few could walk as fast as Octave.

Already the McMorran's place began to lopk iiHp a farm there were always fires eating into the bush.1'Tfl1d'the small barn was getting too small.

The Ducharmes were favorites with their neighbors. Octave always did most of the talking and as Francois was quick-tempered, he had sometimes to stop forward and take the lead in a conversation that would have surely ended in blows. It was seldom that this last over happened, as tho general saying was, "tight one Ducharme, fight two," and so Francois's hot words usually passed unnoticed. But Octavo was so good-tempered that the balance was kept even.

The brothers seemed so entirely as one that the people were not surprised when thev learned in after years that they had both fallen in lovo with the same girl. It seemed quite natural and then, "yon couldn blame them, for everyone was in love with Keila McMorran.'•

There were some things about it, though, that nobody could understand. "One of them dicln know the other was in love with her." "Well, I used to s'eo them down there together, and they'd walk off home like two lambs." "That couldn't last you know." "No, and it didn't last."

This was the general drift of the remarks the neighbors made when they commenced to talk on the subject. It was on ever-recurring topic of conversation, and never was settled to tho satisfaction of everyone, although some had decided for themselves.

However these talks commenced, they always ended in one way. There would be a pause, then the word* would come slowly, as if tho speakers were dreaming of a form thev could not forget. "Strong? believe he could lift an ox. "Yes and he was tho best chopper on the river." "And what a man on the drive!" "And kind-hearledr' "Humph!" "Poor Octave!'

It was a bright August morning, and Francois was sitting at his door smoking. He was watching a squirrel that was seated at the root of a tree, twirling something between his front feet, when a small, tattered bov. with wide, fright cned eyes that turned to all sides as if he cxpeeted to be pounced on by some hidden enemy, came toward him from the bush. Francois turned and spoke to him. He answered: "I—I—want Octave." 'Miotic away." "But I must see Octave." "Can't." S "But must." "Can't: gone away." "Is he going to come back?" "To-night.v "But 1 inust see him before to-night, I have to tell him something." "Can't home to-night. Tell me

It was the youngest of the McMorran boys—Tini.' He could not understand Francois's French, and Francois could speak but little English. "I can't tell you. Will you tell Octave?" "Yes." "Well, when I was fishing last night, down by the bank, two fellows came and talked near where I was, and I heard them, and one of the Phelan boys is going to shoot Octave to-night." "To shoot Octave!" FVancois jumped to his feet, "Why?"

Because onr Keila won't marry him, and he thinks she going to marry Octave." "When?' +& rtiKjsa "I don't know.** "Te shoot Octave—when?'* "To-night, down at the old road." "To shoot Octave—to-night—one of the Phelan bovs—old road." -j

"'V

TERRE HAUTE SATURDAY EVENING

"Will you tell Octave?"' "No!"—in atone that set Tim's teeth chattering—"Yes, yes, yes go home." The small boy ran away, but was soon stealing back. "Will?—will—you tell Octave?" "Yes go home."

Francois thought along time, and then began to throw chips at the squirrel that was hanging head downward half way up the tree.

It wasl*twilight and down where the path from the Ducharmes' joined the old road a figure crouching in the bushes held a gun, steadied in the low crotch of a shrub and pointed right across the path His jaws were tightly locked, and when ever he chanced to open them his teeth chattered as if the warm evening breeze that just stirred the bushes was a blast from the north. Every now and then his whole body shook convulsively, and the gun rattled in the forked branch

He was listening for a step in the path Now he thought he heara it, and drew himself together with a great effort but it was some other sound in the woods. He noticed nothing stirring behind him and when a collie, with an angry growl jumped out into the path and ran awa with its tail between its legs, the colci sweat burst out on his hands. But now he could make no mistake—there was someone coming, and he huddled over the gun. The twigs were cracking in the still air, and he thought he could hear the bushes sway but before he could be sure, there was a grip on his neck like a vice, and his hands left the gun to grasp a pair of iron wrists. He turned'slowly over on the ground, and a figure knelt on his chest, choking him until his eyes glared whitely in the dark ness and his tongue shot out between his teeth, and held him among the little ghtly »d thi breath. And now the twigs commenced to break, the rustle of leaves grew louder, and someone passed with long, swinging strides. They could hear him breathe, and it seemed like a century before the air was quiet again. Then the hands relaxed and an arm reached for the gun. The figure rose slowly, but the other did not stir. He drew in his tongue grasped his throat with his hands, and continued glaring with white, distented eyes into the face of the form above him. The hands bad grasped the un, and had torn the stock from the arrel and thrown each in a different direction. Then the foot stirred the man who was struggling for breath on the ground. He turned over slowly and lay still for a moment then he rose on his hands and knees and crawled, like wounded snake, into the low, uncertain cedar shadows. Watching for a while where the darkness had swallowed up that cringing form, parting the bushes and standing on the path, where the first trembling star of evening was shining, Francois Ducharme stepped homeward to the Baskatonge.

ferns and mosses so tightly that he could not even have stirred them with his

Octave had walked steadily until he came to where the path turned along the lake-side. There was a thin screen of bushes between the path and the shore, but where the ground rose suddenly the point that jutted into the water was bare of trees, save a maple or two. As he approached this point the sound of singing »lt as

reached his ears, and he almost kno be stretched himself at full length to listen.

From where the'shore line shone like silver against the clear, black4 shades, from where the night was bending earthward, violet-shaded, from where the ni^ht wind waited in the sedges stilling the distant trilling and whirling, floating into the rocking reeds, trembling about the dreaming arrow-heads, waking evasive echoes from sleep-shikoudeJl thickets, calling out the wondering stars the voice floated on the lake to where the listener lay with hidden face and stilled breath.

All the grass seemed stirring about him, and a leaf, withered before its time, dropped lightly on his head. How far away the singing sounded and now he seemed not to hear it at all.

Tho past years—the wide silence of the woods—the' far-away fall of trees—the call of some moss-mantled stream—the mother's quiet ways-^-the future, the future—a home somewhere—and Keila McMorran singing in the evening—until a wilful wind sprang up and caught the unfinished strain and oore it away up the hills, where the young birds just hoard it and opened their wings and slept again. And the years that passed him slowly found him, with the unfinished song in his ears, waiting for the strain that went with the wind over the hill-tops.

He rose and walked on to the McMorrans1, and when his face was set again toward the Baskatonge, and the moon was half way up the sky, there was a song in the air wnich the trees had never hoard before.

The house was dark. He opened the door quietly, and went softly to where Francois was sleeping on the low bed built against the wall. He sat down beside him and passed his hand gently over his face. Then Francois awoke, and the brothers talked for a long time in low tones. "It is all right. I have asked her "And?" "And has she said 'Yes—Yes: Keila herself said 'Yes.' I am happy, little brother.

Francois's face was white in the dim ness. "And now what will you do?" "I will have a farm, and you will live with me." "Not here?" "No, not here down by Oie Castor, when I get money enough/' "You will have the money." "No it is yours too." "But I don't want it. I will live here just the same—only you, Octave, you will not bo here." "No, little brother, you will live with me. Keila said so." "Did she say that, Octave?" his voice trembled. "Yes Keila said so."

Then there was a long silence, and the cry of the loons came from the lake, through the open door, across the strip of moonlight. "Will you come to bed, Octave?*' "No, not yet."

He rose and cloned the door behind him, shutting out the light, and walked up and down the beach* until the sun drove the last laggard star out of the sky.

Aside from the path, near to the Castor, in the dense forest, was a littls oval plot of the greenest grass. The flowers never bloomed there, Dot hovered about the silver stems of the poplars that circled the spot, and when they commenced to die the wind carried their petals inside the close and strewed them on the grass. At one side a large stone had thrust itself for a foot or so into the space, and its moss-covered ledge formed a low bench.

It was a Jane evening of the next year. The darkness bad closed in early, and the poplars were the only trees that answered to the faint breese. Octave was walking, almost as quickly as usual, in the direction of the Castor. The path was familiar to him, and even in the darkness he stepped over the logs and avoided the low branches. He was whistling to himself so softly that the breath just vibrated on his lips.

As he approached the line of underbrush that separated the path from the little circle of grass, he heard the sound of voices. He went on, without slacking his pace, until he came to a place where the hazels were less thick. Then he stopped suddenly, as if he had stepped against a stone wall, and put his baud to his head.

A voice was saying: "We should not have come here we must go away." He could make no mistake. That was Keila's voice. "No I have something to say." It was when he heard these wards he put his hand to his head. ThatTij|hs, it must be, he knew it was Francois.

He stepped off the path on the opposite side from where they were talking, and leaned against a young tree, twining his arms through the low branches. The words came very distinctly to him, mingled with- the light shivering rustle of the populars. "I know th^t you love me, Keila/' Francois was saying. „r "You must not say so.' "But I cannot live without you." "You must. We must think of Octave he is so good." "Yes but I wish ho had never seen you. Why did you ever tell him you loved him?" "I did love him, Francois—only—only, you should never have come near me, then I would always have loved him the best." "But now, Keila?" "Oh! Francois, you must not talk to me you don't know how Octave loves me." "Yes, Keila, I will promise yoi\ but I must go away. I can never come back. Only let me see you once again, here, tomorrow night, and I will promise you anything." "Well, Francois, I will come for a little while. You must not come home with me. Octave will come to-night. Good-by!" "Good-by!"

They came out onto the path and walked opposite directions. Octave seemed to be thinking the words as they came to him so slowly. It could never be that they were there talking but Francois passed quite close to him, and he could have no doubt.

The words kept recurring as he had heard them, only the rustle of the trees was still, and from about his feet rose the smell of crushed moss and wet leaves. Very near him were a few large white lilies that shone through the darkness dimly, like shrouded stars. He hung there, like a stag caught by the antlers, waiting for death, until the dark forest pools commenced to brighten with the dawn, and the birds near him began to wake then he drew himself up and walked away.

He went, by paths through the tangled forest, toward the lake that was lying silvered somewhere in the north. He passed the spots where they used to set i,heir traps when his father was alive. He seemed to be back in that faded time a^ain, and paused often to wait for the little brother who would always lag behind.

The lake was reached at last. He threw himself down where a group of poplars and a few maples made a shady place, where the shore was high and the water stretched away to the island, where the wrecked cedars lay blanched, like the bones of giants, on the broken shore.

The day wore on. Now and then a small, shadowy cloud drifted dreamily out of the west and vanished like a vision. The winds touched the water lightly, making ripples that never reachthe shore.

All day long he lay quietly, as if asleep, and tlje shadows of leaves kept fluttering over him with countless sbothing'hands. The sun sank, leaving no color in the sky, aud ready the twilight was falling.

The water was verv quiet, and seemed to be heaving toward him as he gazed at it. He folded his arms, and a great calm stole over him, as he tooked past the island where the lake seemed shoreless. And when it was dark he rose and went back by the track that he had followed in the morning, and stood at last very near to the place where he had paused the night before.

There was a low talking in the bushes. He waited for a moment, and then parted the branches and stood just within the little circle.

Francois!" he said. His voice was very clear. They were seated on the low stone, and had nit heard him. Tbey started. Francois stood up and looked at Octave standing in among the ghostly white poplars. "Francois, do not speak. Last night I heard you. You need not go away, you and Keila. She loves you, and I—I iove ou both. I am older than you, little rother. And do not remember when I gave you the little doe I caught back by the ltuisseau?—so long ago and now— now it is Keila that'I givo you. You need,not go away, and I will corno and see you sometimes."

Keila had hidden her face and was trembling, and Francois had turned away. When the voice ceased he came forward, but Octave said: "No, little brother, do not come near me—you will see me often—but I will go home now." and the bushes closed behind him

The sun was setting one October evening, and undera stoep ridge of rock, that rose in steps and mado a jagged outline against the sky, two wero taken. "Where are you going, Octave?" "Home." "To-night." "Yes, to-night. You will stay here?" —11 you be down in the morn-

Yes. Wi

ing?" "I don't know."! "You will come down

"f'es,

MATT,

the wed-

for

I think so." V*

"You must come. Octave." "Yes, I must come." 3*^* "Are vou going now?" „trM" "Yes." It was growing dark rapidly. The sun had set and the sky was flushed and knotted like the forehead of an angry god. Francois turned his back to the hill, but lingered to look after Octave. He could not see him leaping up from ledge to ledge, but suddenly he spri from the low brow of the hill and st for a moment outlined firmly against the sky, then as suddenly vanished. Into the groom, Francois thought but all the little hollow was filled with clear light, and away where the low bushes crouched along* the stream a wakeful bird was uttering a few long-drawn, passionate notes. The night that fol lowed was dark and starless, and the wind, searching for forgotten paths among the trees, heaved long, low, tremulous sighs.

On the morrow there was a wedding at the Mission but hearts would have been happier for the presence of one who never came, and eyes would have been brighter for the sight of one they never saw again.

Years hare passed. On many silent hill and many lonely valleys the stumps of pines stand where the sun used to touch the green tops a hundred feet above them. The stalwart trunks have gone to cover homes in the south, and to shelter the beads of happy children from the storms which they learned- to resist on their native hills in the north.

But great changes have taken place at

the Castor. The lake seems wider now, but that is because there is onlv one little strip of forest on the west side. The fields'rise gradually on the rounded hill, and the.sun, which used to cast gloomy shadows into the lake, has a smile now across golden fields of ripe oats and barley.

The rocky eastern shore remains unchanged but on the west there are two houses, with their barns and low outbuildings.

In the evening the collie drives home the cows and the bells clang wildly throngh the bushes. A young voice keeps calling to him, and he answers with sharp yelps. Soon a stalwart lad bursts through the underbrush into the path, and goes singing after the cows. He hears a voice calling from the bars. "Octave! Octave! Octave!" His brother waits there for him to pass, and they put up the bars and go home together.

Then there is often singing in the evening, and laughter and White Mc Morran loves to come over and smoke, and. listen to his grandchildren talk, and hold the youngest on his knees. But now it is always the Ducharmes of the Castor no more the Ducharmes of the Baskatonge.

In the heart of a nothern wilderness, on the shore of an unnamed lake, stands the ruin of a small hut. Half the roof has fallen in. The logs are rotted and covered with moss. In the dark corners spectral weeds and ferns die longing for tho sun. The spring winds, touching the water lightly, make ripples that never reach the shore. In early summer the small, shadowy clouds drift dreamily out of the west and vanish like a vision. In autumn the sky is flushed and knotted, like the forehead of an angry god a wakeful bird, somewhere in the bushes, utters a few long-drawn, passionate notes the night that follows is dark and starless, and the wind, searching for forgotten paths among the trees, heave? long, low, tremulous sighs. The winter wind, untamed out of the north, drives the sifted snow, hissing like steam, across the surface of the lake. The haunts of men seem as far away as the stars that throb faintly in the lonely vastness of the summer sky. The silence that dwells forever in the waste places of the world is shaken by unheeaed storms and the muffled cries of life in the gloom of the immense forests that darken beneath her brooding wings.

Charles A. Roberts, of East Wilson,' N. Y. had thirteen scrofulous ulcers on his face and neck. Hood's Sarsaparilla cured them.

The Household says: "The cpmlng girl will walk five miles a day."

Three members of my family, says Mr. James A. Sample, Cash Room, office of the Treasurer, 1J. S., who were suffering from aggravating coughs, much benefited by takin Cough Cure. None of tho noticeable in other cough remedies, have followed the use of this.

for 10 cents remain the same size. [eow.

Fl4

MY

have been

lg Red Star Til effects so

Hartford Religious Herald: It is one of Satan's devices to blind the eyes of worldly men by dust from the soiled garments of Christians.

'1

FREE TRADE.

The reduction of internal revenue and the taking off of revenue stamps from Proprietary Mcdicines, no doubt has largely benefitted tho consumers, as well as relieving the burden of luyne manufacturers. Especially is thra tho case with Green's August Flower and Boscfiee's Gorman Syrup, as the reduction 'of thirty-six centst per,dozen, has been added to increase tho size of the

... ... aud every pain and ache of dally toll. Elebottles|containing theso remedies, there- gant, new, original, speedy and Infallible. At by triving one-fifth more medicine in the druggists, 25c. five for $1.00 or. postage free, 75 cent size. The August Flower for

of

Dyspepaiaand Liver Complaint, and the gh and Lung troubles, have "perhaps, the largest sale of any medicines in the world. Tho advantage of increased size of the bottles will be greatly appreciated by the sick cur^T8"^"i'^^ and affheted, in every town and village in civilized countries. Sample bottles ,DdP.o.TDDREU. mi.T.

SEEDS

and Flower I PenltT FLOW atttrcsa

WI8I

little son, aged eight years, liftif been afflicted with Eczema of the scaly, and at times a nreat portion of the body, ever since he was two years old. It began in his oar, and exteuded to his scalp, which became covered with scabs and sores, and from which a sticky fluid poured out, causing intense itching aud distress, and leaving his hair niatted and lifeless. Underneath these scabs the skin was raw, like a piece of beefsteak. Gradually the hair came out and was destroyed, until but a small patch was left at the back of the head. My friends in Peabody knows how my little boy has suHerod. At night he would scratch his head unll his pU-' low was covered with blood. I used to tie his hands bellinu, and lu manv ways tried to prevent his scratching but it was no use, ho would scratch. I took him to the hospital and to the best physicians in Peabody without success. About this time, some friends, who had been cured by the Cuticura Remedies, prevailed ou the loth of January last. In seven months every particle of the disease was removed. Not a spot or scab remains on Ills scalp to tell the story of his sutlerlng. Bis hair has returned and is thick and strong and his scaly is as sweet and clean as any child's In the world. I caunot say enough to express my gratitude for this wonderful euro by the Cuticura Remedies, and wish all similarly atUlcted to know that my statement is true and without- exaggeration.

Potter Drug aud Chemical Co., Bostou.

b»V6 positive remaity lor tua *lovo ul*eaa

MARK.

"ECZEMA ERADICATED.

Gentlemen—Tt is dne yon to nay that think 1 am entirely well of eczema after having taken Swift'a Specific. I nave been troubled with It very little In my face since last spring. At the beginning of cold weather last fall it made a slight appearance, bnt went

0is never returned. 8. S.M. nodonbt broke It tip: at least it put my system in good condition and I got well. It also benefited my wife greatly in case of sick headache, and mode a perfect care o' breaking oat o& my little three year old daughter last summer.

Watkinsville, Ga., Feb. 13,1886. HEv. JAMK8 V. M. MORRIS. Treatise on Blooa and Skin Disease* mailed free. THIS Hwirr Snscrrro Co.. Drawers, Atlanta, GI

'Vs

A Child's Skirt

Ears and Scalp Covered with Eczematous Scabs and Sores Cured

by Cuticura.

V'

i,

CHARLES MCKAY,

Oct- (J, 1885. Peabody, Mass. I have seen Mr. McKay's boy when badly affected \vith the Kesema. He was a pitiful to look at. I know that he has tried our best pliylscians, and did all a father could do for a sutferlngchlld, but availed nothing. I know that the statements he has made you as regards the curing of his boy by your Cuticura Remedies are true in every particular.

WILLIAM J. MCCARTHY,

vV Foster St., Peabody Mass.

I do not know of any instance in which the Cuticura Remedies have failed to produce satisfactory results. I believe I have sold,,, a a in dies I have ever handled during the thirtythree years of my experience as a druggist.

A. D. 'lltYON, Batavia, N. Y.

Cuticura Remedies are sold everywhere.'' Price, Cuticura, fit) cents Resolveut, $1.00 Soap, 25 cents. Prepared by the Potter Drug and Chemical Co., Boston, Mass. Send for

"How to Cure Skin Diseases." DIUPLES, Blackheads, Skin Blemishes, and

lni

Baby Humors, use Cuticura Soap.

A Word About Catarrh.,

"It Is the mucous membrane, that wonderful semi-fluid envolope surrounding the delicate tissues of the air and food passages, that! Catarrh makes Its stronghold. Once estab-: tablished, it eats into the very vitals, and renders life but a long-drawn breath of misery and disease, dulling tho sense of hearing, trammelling, tie power of speech, destroying the faculty of smell, tainting the breath, ana killing the refined pleasures of taste. Insidiously, by creeping on from a simple cold in the head, it assaults the membranous lining and envelops the bones, eating through the delicate coats and causing inflammation, sloughing and death. Nothing short of total eradication will secure health to the patient, and all allevlattves are simple procrastinated sufl'erings, leading to a fatal termination. Sanford's Radical Cure, by Inhalation and by Internal administration, has never failed even when thodlsea.se has made frightful inroads on delicate constitutions, hearing, smell and taste have been recovered, and the disease thoroughly driven out"

Sanford's Radical Cure consists of one bottle of the Radical Cure, one box Catarrhal Solvent, and one Improved Inhaler, neatly wrapped in one package, with full directions price, $1.00.

Potter Drug & Chemical Co., Boston.

HOW IT ACHES. Worn out with pain, but still compelled by stern necessity to stand up to the work before us and bear the pain. Relief In one minute In a Cuticura Anti-Pain Plaster fort he aching sides and bttokfthe weak and painful muscles, the sore chest and "backing ooujrh,

4

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