Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 27 September 1883 — Page 2

^TRAGEDY

-OR—

•HIE STORY

THE CHAIN PIER,

Continued From iMt Week.

CHAPTER X.

This state of things could not last. A shade of fear or mistrust came in her mauner to me. I must repeat, even at the risk of being wearisome, that I think no man was ever in such a painful position. Had it not been for my fore-knowledge,

I should have loved

Mrs. Fleming for her beauty, her goodness, and her devotion to my dear old friend. I could not bear to tell him the truth, nor could I bear that he should be so basely and terribly deceived— that he should be living with and loving one whom I knew to be a murderess. 801 waited for an opportunity of appealing to herself, and it came sooner than Inad expected.

One afternoon Lance had to leave us on business he said he might be absent some few hours—he was going to Yale Boyal. He asked me if I would take Mrs. Fleming out she had complained •f head-ache, and he thought a walk down by the river might be good for her. I promised to do so, and then I knew the time for speaking to her had come.

I cannot tell how it was that our walk was delayed until the gloaming, and then we went at once to the river, for no other reason that I can see, except that Lance had wished us to go there.

But to my dying day I can never forget the scene. The sky was roseate •with crimson clouds, and golden with gold the river ran swiftly, brimming full up to the banks the glow of the sunlight lay on the hills around, on the preen fields, on the distant woods, on the bank where we stood, on the tall, noble trees, on the wild flowers and blossoms. Better almost than anything else I remember a great patch of scarlet poppies that grew in the long green grass even now, although this took place a long time ago, the sight of a crimson poppy makes my heart ache. The withered trunk of a fallen tree lay across the river's bank one end of it •was washed by the stream. Mrs. Fleming sat down upon it, and the scarlet poppies were at her feet. ''We can see nothing so pretty as the sunset over the river, Mr. Ford," she said "let us watch it."

We sat for some few minutes in silence the rosy glow from the sky and the river seemed to fall on her face as she turned it to the water.

The time had come I knew that, yet only Heaven knows how I shrank from the task! I would rather have died, yet my sense of justice urged me on. Was it fair that Lance Fleming should lavish the whole love of his life on a uronleress "What are you thinking so intently about, Mr. Ford she asked me. "Shall I tell you I asked. "Yes, by all means," she replied. "I am sure tne subject is very grave, you look so unhappy."

N.ow the time was come! That beautiful face would never look into mine again. I steeled my heart by thinking or the tiny baby face I had seen on the wooden bench of the pier—so like hers, —the little drowned face 1 "I will tell you of what I am thinking, Mrs. Fleming,"

I said "but I must

tell it to you as a story." "Do." she said, in a gentle voice, and she gathered the scarlet poppies as she epoke. "There were two friends once upon a time," 1 began, "who loved each other •with a love deeper and truer than the love of brothers."

She nodded her head with a charming smile I saw an expression of great relief pass over her face. "I understand," she said "as you and Lance love each other, there is something most beautiful in the love of men." "These two spent much time together their interests were identical, they Bhared at that time the same hopes and fears. They were parted for a time, one was busy with his own affairs, the other, an invalid, went to Brighton for his health."

How the smile died away, the sun did not set more surely or more slowly than that sweet smile of interest died from her lips, but no fear replaced it at first. "The friend who was an invalid went to Brighton, as I have said, for his health, and either fate or Provideuce took him one night to the Chain Pier."

I did not looK at her I dared not. My eyes wandered over the running river, where the crimson clouds were reflected like blood but I heard a gasping sound as of breath hardly drawn. I went on. "The Chain Pier that evening lay in the midst of soft, thick gloom there was no sound on it save tne low washing of the waves and the shrill voice of the wind as it played amongst the wooden piles. He sat silent, absorbed in thought, when suddenly a woman came down the pier,—a tall, beautiful woman, who walked to the end, and stood leaning there."

I saw the scarlet poppies fall from the nerveless hands on the green grass, but the figure by my side seemea to have suddenly turned to stone. I dare not look at her. The scene was far greater agony to me, I almost believe, than to her. I went on.— "The woman stood there for some short time in silence then she became restless, and looked all round to see if anyone were near. "Then she walked to the side of the pier. She did not see the dark form in in the corner she raised something in her arms, and dropped it into the sea."

There was a sound, but it was like nothing human,—it was neither sigh nor moan, but more pitiful than either the poppies lay still on the grass, and a great hush seemed to have fallen over the river. "Into the sea," I repeated, "and the man, as it fell, saw a shawl of black and

She tried to spring up, and I knew that her impulse was to rush to the river. I held her arms, and she remained motionless" the very air around us seemed to beat with a passionate pulse of pain. "There was a faint splash in the water," I went on "it was all over in less than a second, and then the swift waves rolled on as before. The woman istood motionless. When she turned to

ICDFC ONE opub UIO mouu SUUUO MU MI

her face,—ghastly, desperate, and beautiful.—he saw it as plainly as I see the river here. She cried aloud as she went away, 'Oh, my God, if I dare—if I dare 1' Can you tell" what happened Listen how wonderful are the ways of God, who hates murder and punishes it. She flung the burden into the sea, feeling sure it would sink but it caught,—the black and grey shawl caught,—on some hooks that had been driven into alio outer woodwork of the pier it caught and hung there, the shawl moving to and fro, with every breath of wind "and every wave."

Without a word or cry she fell with her face in the grass. Oh. Heaven, br pitiful to all who are stricken and guilty I went on quickly,— "A boatman found it, and the bundle contained a little drowned child—a fair waxen babe, beautiful even though it had lain in the salt, bitter waters of the green sea all night. Now comes the horror, Mrs. Fleming. When the man who saw the scene went, after some years, to visit the friend whom he loved so dearly, he recognized in that friend's wife the woman who threw the child into the sea! ",

Again came the sound that was like nothing human. "What was that man to do?" I asked. "He could not be silent the friend who loved and trusted him must have been most basely deceived—he could not hide a murder yet the woman was so lovely, so lovable she was seemingly so good, so charitable, so devoted to lier husband, that he was puzzled, tortured at last he resolved upon telling her. I have told you.

Then silence, deep and awful, fell over us it lasted until I saw that

must break it. She lay motionless on the ground, her face buried in the grass. "What should you have done in thaw man's place, Mrs. Fleming?" I asked.

Then she raised her race it was whiter, more despairing, more ghastly than I had seen it on the pier. "I knew it must come." she wailed. "Oh! Heaven, how often nave I dreaded this—I knew from the first." "Then it was you?" I said. "It was me she replied. "I need not try to hide it any longer, why should I? Every leaf on every tree, every raindrop thals has fallen, every wind that has whispered has told it aloud ever since. If I hide it from you someone else will start up and tell. If I deny it, then the very stones in the street will cry it out. Yes, it was me— wretched, miserable me,—the most miserable, the most guilty woman alive—it was me."

My heart went out to her in fulness of pity—poor unhappy woman! sobbing her heart out weeping, as surely no one ever wept before. I wished that Heaven had made anyone else her judge than me. Then she sat up facing me, and I wondered what the judge must think when the sentence of death passes his lips. I knew that this was the sentence of death for this woman. "You never knew what passed after, did you?" I asked. "No—not at all," was the half sullen reply—"not at all." "Did you never purchase a Brighton paper, or look into a London paper to see?"

uNo,"

she replied.

"Then I will tell you," I said, and I told her all that had passed. How the people had stood round the little baby, and the men cursed the cruel hands that had drowned the little babe. "Did they 'curse my hands?" she asked, and I saw her looking at them in wonder. "Yes the men said hard words, but the wo.wien were pitiful and kind one kissed the little face, dried it, and kissed it with tears in her eyes. Was it your own child?"

There was a long pause, a long silence, a terrible few minutes, and then she answered: "Yes, it was my child."

Her voice was full of despair she folded her hands and laid tliem on her lap. "I knew it must come," she said. "Now let me try to think what I must do. I meet now that which I have dreaded so long. Oh, Lance! my love Lance! my love Lance! You will not tell him?" she cried, turning to me with impassioned appeal. "You Will not!—you could not break his heart and mine!—you could not kill me! Oh, for Heaven's sake, say you will not tell him?"

Then I found her on her knees at my feet, sobbing with passionate cries—I must not tell him, it would kill him. She would go away, if I said she must she would go from the heart and the home where she had nestled in safety so long she would die she would do anything if only I would not tell him. He had loved and trusted heivso—she loved him so dearly. I must not tell. If I liked, she would eo to the river and throw herself in. She would give her life freely, gladly—if only I would not tell him.

So I sat holding, as it were, the passionate, aching heart in my hand. "You must calm yourself," I said. "Let us talk reasonably. We cannot talk while you are like this."

She beat her white hands together, and I could not still her cries they were all for "Lance!"—"her love Lance!"

CHAPTER XI.

"You must listen to me," I said "I want you to see how truly this is the work of Providence, and not of mere chance."

I told her how I had been attracted to the pier I told her all that was said by the crowd around of the man who carried the little dead child to the workhouse of the tiny little body that lay in its white dress in the bare, large, desolate room, and of the flowers that the kindly matron had covered it with.

I told her how I had taken compassion on the forlorn, little creature, had purchased its grave, and of the white I stone with "Marah" upon it. "Marah, found drowned." And then, poor soul—poor hapless soul, she clung: to my hands and covered them with kisses and tears. "Did you—did you do that?" she moaned. "How good you are, but you will not tell him. I was mad when I did that, mad as women often are with sorrow, shame, and despair. I will suffer anything if you will only promise not to tell Lance." "Do you think it is fair," I asked, "that he should be so cruelly deceived? —that he should lavish the whole love of his heart on a murderess?"

I shall never forget her. She sprang from the ground where she had been kneeling, and stood erect before me. I "Vn tJianlr Too von 1 am not that."

une saiu -x am everytmng eise mac is base and vile, but not that.' "You were that, indeed," I replied. "The child you flung into the sea was living, not dead." "It was not living," she cried—"it was dead an hour before I reached there." "The doctors said—for there was an inquest on the tiny body—they said the child had been dr'uggea before it was drowned, but that it had died from drowning." "Oh, no, a thousand times!" she cried. "Oh, believe me I did not wilfully murder my own child—I did not indeed! Let me tell you. You are a just and merciful man, John Ford let me tell you—you shall hear my story, you shall give me my sentence—I will'leave it in your hands. I will tell you all." "You had better tell Lance, not me," I cried. "What can I do?" "No you listen, you judge. It may be that when you have heard all, you will take pity on me you may spare me —you may say to yourself that I have been more sinned against than sinning —you may think that I have sufferea enough and that I may live out the rest of my life with Lauce. Let me tell you, and you shall judge me."

She fell over on her knees again, rocking backwards and forwards. "Ah, why," she cried—"why is the world so unfair?—why, when there is sin and sorrow, why does the punishment fall all oh the woman, and the man go free? I am here in disgrace and humiliation, in shame and sorrow—in fear of losing my home, my husband, it may be even my life—while he, who was a thousand times more guilty than 1 was, is welcomed, flattered, caurtedl It is cruel and unjust. "I'have told you." she said, "how hard my childhood was, how lonelv and desolate and miserable I was with my girl's heart full of love, and no one to love.

When I was eighteen I went to live with a very wealthy family in London, the name—I will not hide one detail from you—the name was Cleveland they had one little girl, and I was her governess. I went with them to their place in the country, and there a visitor came to them, a handsome young nobleman, Lord Dacius by name. "It was a beautiful sunlit county. I had little to do, plenty of leisure, and he could do as he would with his time. We had met and had fallen in love with each other. I did not love him, I idolized him remember in your judgment that no one had ever loved me. 2s one had ever kissed my face and said kind words to me and i, oh! wretched, miserable me, I was in heaven. To be loved for the first time, and by one so handsome, so charming, so fascinating! A few weeks passed like a dream. I met him in the early morning, I met him in the gloaming. He swore a hundred times a day that he would marry me when he came of age. We must wait until then. I never dreamed of harm or wrong, I believed in him implicitly as I loved him. I believed every word that came from his lips. May Heaven spare me! I need tell you no more. A girl of eighteen madly, passionately in love a girl as ignorant as any girl could be, and a handsome, experienced man of the world. "There was no hope, no chance. I fell yet almost without knowing how I had fallen. You will spare me the rest I know. "When, in my sore anguish and distress, I went to him, I thought he would marry me at once I thought he would be longing only to make me happy again to comfort me to solace me to make amends for all I had suffered. I went to him in London with my heart full of longing and love. I had left my situation, and my stern, cruel grandmother believed that I had found another. If I lived to be a thousand years old I should never forget my horror and surprise. He had worshipped me he had sworn a thousand times over that he would marry me he had loved me with the tenderest love. "Now, when after waiting some hours, I saw him at last, he frowned at me there was no kiss, no caress, no welcome. 'This is a nice piece of news,' he said. 'This comes from country visiting.' "T5ut you love me?—you love me?' I cried. 'I did, my dear,' he said, 'but of course that died with Summer. One does not speak of what is dead.' 'Do ypu not mean to marry me?' I asked. 'No. certainly not and you know that I never did. It was a Summer's amusement*' 'And \$hat is it to me?' I asked. 'Oh, you must make the best of it. Of course, I will not see you want, but you must not annoy me. And that old grandmother of yours^ she must not be let loose upon rue. ou must do the best you can. I will give you a hundred pounds if you will promise not to coux- ne::r me again.' "I spoke no word to him I did not reproach him I did not utter his name I did not say good-bye to him I walked away. I leave his punishment to Heaven. Then I crushed the anguish within me and tried to look my life in the face. would have killed myself rather than have gone home. My grandmother had forced me to be saving, and in the post-office bank 1 had nearly thirty pounds. I had a watch and chain worth ten. I sold them, and I sold with them a small diamond ring that had been my mother's, and some other jewelry altogether I realized fifty pounds. I went to the outskirts of London and took two small rooms. "I remember that I rqade no effort to hide my disgrace I did not pretend to be married or to be a widow, and the mistress of the house was not unkind to me. She liked me all the better for telling the truth. I say no word to you of my mental anguish—110 words can describe it but I loved the little one. She was only three weeks old when a letter was forwarded to me at the address I had &iven in London, saying that my grandmother was ill and wished me to go home at once. What was I to do with the baby? I can remember how the great drops of anguish stood on my face, how my hands trembled. how my very heart went cold with dread. "The newspapers which I took daily, to read the advertisements for governesses, lay upon the table, and my eyes were caught by an advertisement from some woman living at Brighton, who undertook the bringing up of children. I resolved to go down that very day. I said nothing to my landlady of my intention. I merely told her that I was going to place the little one in very good hands, and that I would return for my luecage. ....

WEEKLY GAZETTE,

-x meant,—00 urrny as neaven nears me speak,—I meant to do right by my little child. I meant to work hard to keep her in a nice home. Oh, I meant welll "I was ashamed to go out in the I streets with a little baby in my arms.

'What shall I do if it erierf?' I asked the kind landlady. 'You can prevent it from crying,' she said 'give it some cordial.' .'What is cordial?' I asked, and she told me. 'Will it hurt the little one?' I asked again, and she laughed. 'No,J she replied, 'certainly not. Half the mothers in London give it to their children. It sends them into a sound sleep, and they wake up none the worse for it. If you give the baby just a little, it will sleep all the way to Brighton and you will have no trouble.' I must say this much for myself, that I knew nothing whatever of children, that is, of such little children. I had never been where there was a baby so little as my own. '•I bought the cordial, and just before I started gave the baby some. I thought that I was very careful I meant to be so. I would not for the whole world have given my baby onehalf drop too much. "It soon slept a calm, placid sleep, and I noticed that the little face grew paler. 'Your baby is dying,'.said a woman, who was traveling in the thirdclass carriage with me. 'It is dying, I am sure.' I laughed and cried it was so utterly impossible I thought it was well and smiling only one hour ago. I never remembered the cordial. Afterwards, when I came to make inquiries. I found I had given her too much. I need not linger on details. "You see that if my little one died by my fault, it was most unconscious on my part" it was most innocently, most ignorantly done. I make no excuse. I tell you the plain truth as it stands. I caused my baby's death, but it was most innocently done I would have given mv own life to have brought hers back. You, my judge, can you imagine any fate more terrible than standing quite alone on the Brighton platform with a dead child in my arms? "I had very little money. I knew no soul in the place. I had no more idea what to do with a dead child than a baby would have had. 'I call it dead,' she continued, 'for I believe it to have been dead,' 110 matter what any doctor says. It was cold,—oh, my Heaven, how cold!—lifeless no breath passed the little lips! the eyes were closed, the pretty hands stiff. I believed it dead. I wandered down to the beach, and sat down on the stones. "What was I to»do with this sweet, cold body? I cried until I was almost blipd in the whole wide world there was no one so utterly desolate and wretched. I cried aloud to Heaven to help me—where should I bury my little child? I cannot tell how the idea first occurred to me, the waves came in with a soft murmuring melody, a sweet silvery hush, and I thought the deep, green sea would make a grave for my little one. It was mad and wicked I know now I can see how horrible it was it did not seem to be so then. I only thought of the sea then as my best friend, the place where I was to hide the belovec^ little body, the clear, green grave where she was to sleep until the Judgment Day. I waited until—it is a horrible thing to tell you! but I fell asleep—fust asleep, and of all the horrors in my story, the worst part is that, sitting by the sea, fast asleep myself, with my little dead babe 011 my knee.

When I woke the tide was coming in full and soft, with swift-running waves, the sun had set, and a thick, soft gloom had fallen over everything, and then I knew the time had come for what I wanted to do."

CHAPTER X3T. AND LAST. 44I

went on the Chain Pier. I had kissed the little face for the last time I had wrapped the pretty white body in the black-and-grey shawl. I said all the prayers I could remember as I walked along the pier it was the most solemn of burial services to me. "I went to the side of the pier—I cannot understand how it was that I did not see you—I stood there some few minutes, "and then I took the little bundle I raised it gently, and let it fall into the sea. But my baby was dead—I swear to that. Oh, Heaven! if I dared —if I dared fling myself in the same green, briny waves! "I was mad with anguish. I went back to my lodging the landlady asked me if I had left the baby in Brighton, and I answered 'Yes.' I do not know how the days went 011—I could not tell you I was never myself, nor do I remember much until some weeks afterwards, I went home to my grandmother, who died soon after I reached her. I need not tell you that afterwards I met Lance, and learned to love him with all my heart. "Do not "tell him promise me, I beseech you, for mercy's sake do riot tell him!" "What you have told me," I said, "certainly gives a different aspect to the whole affair. I will make no promise—I will think it over. I must have time to decide what is best.-'

You will spare me," she went on. "You see I do no one any harm,wrong, or injury. If 1 hurt another, then you might deprive me of my husband and my home as it is. Lance loves me and I love him. You will not tell him?'-' "I will think about it," I replied. "But I cannot live in such suspense." she cried. "If you will tell him, tell him this day. this hour." "He miglit forgive you,'' I said. "No, he would not be angry, he would not reproach me, but he would never look upon my face again." "Would it not be better for you to tell him yourself?" I suggested. "Oh. no," she cried, with a shudder. "No, I shall never tell him." "I do not say that I shall," I said. "Give me a few days—only a few days —and I will decide in my mind all about it."

Then we saw Lance in the distance. "There is my husband," she said. "Do I look very ill, Mr. Ford?" "You do, indeed you look ghastly," I replied. •'I will go and meet him," she said.

The exercise and the fresh air brought some color to her face before they met. Still he cried out that I had not taken care of her that she was over-tired. "That is it," she replied.' "I have been over-tired all day I think my head aches I have had a strange sensation of dizziness in it. I am tired,—oh, Lance, I am so tiredl" "I shall not leave you again," said Lance to her, and I fancied ne was not

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Iler eyes met mine, and in them I read the question—" What are you going to do?" I was struck by her dreadful pallor. "Is your head bad again to-day," I asked. "Yes, it aches very much," she replied.

The hot tea came, and it seemed to revive her but after a few minutes the dreadful shivering came over her again. She stood ufc. "Lance," she said, "I will go to my room, and you must lead me. my head aches so that I am blind."

She left her pretty drawing-room never to re-enter it. The next day at noon Lance came to me with a sad face. "John, my wife is very ill. and I have just heard bad news." "What is it, Lance?" I asked •, "Why, that the girl she went yesterday to see, Rose Winter, is ill with the most malignant type of small pox.

I looked at him in horror. "Do you think," I gasped, "that the —that Mrs. Fleming has caught it?" "1 am quite sure,"' he replied. "I have just sent for the doctor, and have telegraphed to the hospital for two nurses. And my old friend," he added, "I am afraid it is going to be a bad case."

It was a bad .case. I never left him while the suspense lasted but it was soon over. She suffered intensely, for the disease was of the most virulent type. It was soon over. Lance came to me one afternoon and I read the verdict in his face. "She will die," he said, hoarsely. "They cannot save her," and the day after that he came to me again with wistful eyes. "John,'' he said, slowly, "my wife Frances is dying, and she wants to see yon. Will you see her?" "Most certainly," I replied.

She smiled when she saw me, and beckoned me to her. Ah, poor soul! her judgment had indeed been taken from me. She whispered to me: "Promise me that you will never tell him. I am dying! he need never know now. Will you promise me?"

I promised, and she died! I have kept my word—Lance Fleming knows nothing of what I have told you.

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nau negieci/eu ner. weauttiree went home together. Mrs. Fleming did not say much, but she kept up better than I thought she could have done. I hearer her that same evening express a wish to be driven to Yale Iioval on the day following a young girl" whom she had been instrumental in saving from ruin, had been taken suddenly ill and wanted to see her. "My darling," Lance said, "you do not seem to me strong enough. Let persuade you to rest to-morrow." "I should like to see Rose Winter again before—before I—" then she stopped abruptly, and her face grew crimson. "Before you—what, Frances?" asked her husband, with a smile. "I mean," she said, "that I should like to see Rose before she grows worse." "I think you ought to rest, but you shall do as you like, Frances you always do. I will drive you over myself."

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I saw them start on the following morning, and then I tried to think over in solitude what it would be best to do. Her story'certainly altered facts very considerably. She was not a murderess, as I had believed her to be. If the death of the little hapless child was attributable to an overdose of the cordial, she had certainly not given it purposely. Could I judge her?

Yet, an honest, loyal man like Lance ought not to be so cruelly deceived. I felt sure myself that if she spoke to him—if she told him her story with the same pathos with which she had told it to me, he would forgive her—he must forgive her. I could not reconcile it with my conscience to keep silence, I could not, and I believed that the truth might be told with safety. 80, after long thinking and deliberation, I came to the conclusion that Lance must know, and that she must tell him herself.

It was in the middle of a bright sunshiny afternoon when they returned. When Lance brought his wife into the drawing-room he seemed very anxious over her. "Frances does not seem well." he said to me. "Ring the bell, John, and order some hot tea she is as cold as death."

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-1 T$e Wonderful Effie?".y of

OR. SCHENCK'* MANDRAKE PILLS

Has hftsri BO frequently aui satisfactorily prove ttiat .t reems almost superfluous to say anythin iXiore their favor. The immense and conptantl increasing demand for them, both in this and foreig countries, is the best evidence of their value. Thei tale to-day in the United States is far greater the other cathartic medidnc. This demand ^ot spasmodic, it is regular and steady. It is nc ai to-day or yesterday, it is an increase that has bee steadily growing for the last thirty-five years. Whi are the reasons for this great and growing demand Mr.

Schenck'o Mandrake Pillscontaln no me: cory, and yet they act with wonderful effect ape the liver. They cleauso tho stomach and bowels«. aU irritating mritter, which, if allowed to reinali loisonstlio blood, and brings on Malaria, Chills an .Vever, and many other diseases. They fri.e heult rJid strength to the digestivo onarac fhey creat lppetite and give vigor to the whole The axe In feet the medicine cf all others which shoul aken in times liketha present, when malarial an *sier epidemics are raging, as they prepare the sy, to resist attacks

disease of every characte

»r. Schnncii'a Mandrake PHis are sold by a OuRgista at 2OR. PAR bos, or cent by mail, postpan sn receipt of ptice. Jlfr. Schcnck's nook on Consnmption, Lh

Complaint and Dyspepsia, in English ierman, is cent free to all. Address Dr.

MKAV

•CHENCK & SOUPMadeHj*^M P».

Health is Wealth

A*.'™**

DR E. C. WEST'S NERVE AND BBAIN Tni MEKT, a guaranteed specific for Hysteria, Di ness. Convulsions, Fits, Nervous Neural Headache, Nervous Prostration caused by the of alcohol or tobacco. Wakefulness, Mental pression. Softening of the Brain resulting in sanity and leading to misery, decay and dei Premature Old Age, Barrenness, Loss of po in either BOX. involuntary Losses and 8pern orrhoea caused by over-exertion of the brain, abuse or over-indulgence. Each box contr one month's treatment. $1.00 a box,or tjX b: for $5.00, sent by mail prepaid on receipt of pr

WE GI ARAXTKE SIX BOX EM To cure any case. With each order receiveJ

lr,

for six boxes, accompanied with $5.00, we sen 1 the purchaser our written guarantee to fnnd the money if the troatment does not efl fecure. Guarantees issued only by

A dress /V .K. 5^.. 7* 1

C. F". ZIMMERMAN, Druggist, Sole agent.

Corner Thirteenth and Main streets.

DR. H. F. PEERY'8f

VERMIFUGE, or "DEAD SHOT'

"r FOR WORMS, 11 the best Worm Syrup in the market itcan be rt ltd upon as a safe and effectual remedy for tbi 1 tseaee, to which aliohildren are more or leas sobje-

Its speedy operation in all sudden attacks, a* Coii tits or Spasms, gives it an unrivalled superiority.

ftOMAN 2YE BAL8AN

t: a certain cure *or inflamed Eyes and Eyelid I nndreds of testimonial* of its efficacy a.shed.

Often

when the best medical

*?pc0Jh'rubecan

(ailed to relieve the patient, a box of Roman IGB has effected a radical core.

E. FERRETT, Ag^rit8Te Pearl St., J*ew Tori I