Terre Haute Weekly Gazette, Terre Haute, Vigo County, 11 October 1883 — Page 2

BONNIE DOON.

A LOVE STORY

i. *»«*, v. .t'i.

us.'r CHAPTER I. **s. "Times ar*1 1'nn.V said Farmer VaugUan to his wife "there is no mistake about it. It is five years since we have hud anything like a good harvest-, in fact. Catherine, I may as well tell you the truth—I am losing money instead of making it." "I was afraid it must be so," said hia wife, with a sigh. '•It is so, indeed. This is June. Hcavii knows how I have been longing •for line weather, praying and hoping jtg ilnsr hope. If it comes now it will be too late the great corn-fielfls on the liiil arc ruined already." •T cannot tell what has come to the weather," said the farmer's wife, solemnly. "When I was a girl we had fine, long, dry summers the hay was made, the Durley mowed, the corn gathered now there seems to be no warmth in the sun, nothing grows, nothing ripens. I wonder if it be true that the seasons are changing one thing is quite clear to me —the summers I remember in my girlhood are not the summers of this present time at all."

The farmer shook his head despondently, The very brooks had become livers some of his finest clover meadows were under water the corn was all mildewed that grew on the hill where the sun was warmest: the barley would not ripen the long belds of oats were lite fields filled with dirty weeds. "I do not know what to do," he continued. "I made two thousand pounds the first five years I was here, I have lost twice as much during the last five years in fact, Catherine, I have no more to lose. There will be nothing from the orchards this year." "Nothing," was the dreary answer "and yet, James, no spring ever brought fairer blossoms the apple-trees were magnificent, and do you remember the blossom on the cherry-trees? The fruit formed, and I thought we should have the finest fruit in the country then came the bitter winds and the sharp frost— who ever heard of frost in MavV—and "there was an end of all hope. We shall not have enough apples to pay for the trouble of picking them." "We must do something," said the former. "Perhaps if we could tide over this year, the next may be better but we must do something if we are to live at all." "What can we do?" asl^ed his wife. *'I am quite willing to do anything in the world which will make money. What can we do, James?"

The farmer's honest face, grew more troubled and more anxious. "Everything seems to be alike," he sighed. "Larch Hill Farm was famous for its butter, cheese, and milk. Five of our best cows have died this year. It has been nothing during these five years but one continual run of ill-luck. I am tired of it, wife," and the farmer's head fell despondently on his breast. Ilis wife dared not look at him she felt so sure that he had tears in his eyes. Suddenly her face brightened, and she looked up. "There is just one thing I could do, •James, if you will let me?" she said. "Mrs. Caldecott was here the other day, «nd she told me that she had taken in a lodger,—a gentleman from London, and that he paid them three guineas a week for two rooms she said it had paid their rent. If her rooms are worth three guineas, mine are worth more," and the simple, kindly womin looked proudly conscious of her superior rooms. "You see," she continued, "our house has peculiar advantages. We are only a few miles south or London, and yet we are in the midst, of "the most beautifut scenery and of the most bracing air. I feel quite sure that if we advertise as the Caldecott's did, we shall get even a better lodger. Shall I try, James?"

The farmer looked up a little more hopefully. "If you think it will be of any use to us, Catherine," he replied "try it by all means." "IUith will draw-up the advertisements for me," continued the farmer's wife "she will know how to word them best."

Her husband turned to her in sudden alarm. "Mind, Catherine'.' "not one word to the child that we are short of money. would not let her know for the whole world that we lia 1 anv money troubies nothing saddens a girl so much." "I shall not tell her. James, she is only just turned eighteeu, and that is too soon for troubles." "Far too soon." sighed the farmer. *Do you know Catherine," he continued, "I have l'ar.cu that Laurence Rainton comes here of'enerthan he need do." "Laurence Ilainton!" repeated his wife, with an air of surprise "oftener than he need do. Why. .Tames?"

A slight, sad smile came to the farm-

"What for?" he repeated. "Is it so long, Catherine, since \v6 met by the mill stream lower down, and do you forget why we met?"

A bright flush came to the comely face. "But we were sweethearts." she said: **and Ruth, why Ruth is not eighteen yet." "But she is the prettiest girl in the country side."' said the fanner. "I knowno one like her, and she is the best too. If Laurence Rainton has had the sense to fix his heart on her. I shall not only be willing, but well pleased he could not do better, and he would be a good match for any girl. He is the only son, and the Rainton's have owned the Dale Farm for many years. She would be well off. if she married Laurence." "It seems only yesterday that she was learning to walk.1' sighed his wife. "My dear Catherine, you were not eighteen when I tirst met you by the mill stream, and neither of us thought of youth." "It seems different with one's children," she said, half sadly. "I do not say there is anything in it," continued the "farmer, "and I am not at all anxious for anything of the kind, but yesterday he was here three times, the aay before he called twice, and he came again early this morning about some speckled eggs. Now, speckled eggs are all very well, but it is rather too much of a good thiug. is it not?"

But Mrs. ausrhan was rather re!ows,—when ticent, and would say no more, a nne, matronly blush burned her face her .dauiThtar'ft lava affair* would evijj?uT2r

-f. gr

ue more serious toner than her own naa

The. story of Jame3 Vaughan and Catherine his wife resembled that of many hundreds of farmer^ since the sun refused to shine at the.jnght time or the ground to yield good crops. He was a tine, handsome young fellow-of twen-S-one when he first took possession of arch Hill Farm: he had a smattfor-. tune, and he invested the whole of it oh the farm.' He bought model maHmwrjT he did the best for the ground he built new sheds. lie spared no expense, time, no trouble he read all that was written on agriculture he took in the journals that treated of farming and cattle "he studied the art as lawyers study law or doctors medicine, and he was successful so long as the sun shone and the rain clouds were merciful. During this time he wooed and married the miller's pretty daughter, Catherine Blythe, a charming, Blooming girl of eighteen.

Their wooing had not been of the smoothest. Catherine was pretty, and had many lovers she could have married the rich old miller, who lived at the white house on the river, and who was reported to have thousands in the bank she could have married a gay young cornfactor who had the- chief command of all the markets round she could have married a prosperous draper who lived at Aspendale but the miller's daughter had given her heart to James Vaughan, and she would not hear of anyone else so that their wooing was not all smooth, for Catherine's parents were ambitious. The young farmer used to meet his fair young love down by the mill stream until all difficulties were removed, then he married her. They had but one child, Ruth, and for some years they lived happily enough, then came the reverse of the medal. By dint of industry and perseverance the farmer had saved two thousand pounds, but then the bad times began: the sun would -not shine, the grain would not ripen, the cattle would die of disease, the fruit would fall from the trees. Misfortune seemed to pursue him. He had paid his way, it was true, but he had spent all his liardrearned money, and now the time was drawing near when he would have to go into debt for his household expenses or—go without the necessaries of life.

His wife's suggestion seemed to meet the difficulty. Ir they could meet with a lodger who could afford to pay them pretty liberally it would save them from great distress.

The advertisement was drawn up in Ruth's neatest handwriting and sent to the "Times." It was the farmer himself who decided that it should go to the "Times." "The riche.*t people in England take the 'Times,'" he said. So it was sent.

For the first few days it remained unanswered. On the fifth day of its appearance came a letter saying that the writer had been ill with a nervous fever brought on by overwork, and the doctors had recommended him to spend some time in the country, and it was thought that a farmhouse would be most beneficial.

Terms were no object quiet and cleanliness being the two things .most needed. The letter was signed—"Eric St. John," and Ruth, who had read the letter t» her mother, puzzled over the name, "Eric," she had not heard or seen it before. "Eric St. John." She repeated it once or twice while her mother pondered over the answer. "I think," said Mrs. Vaughan. at last, "that we may ask five pounds a week we shall have plenty of trouble with him if he is an invalid." "It is a great deal of money,!' said the daughter, gently. "Your rather needs it all. my dear, and if the gentleman can pav it there is no harm in asking for it. We can try if he objects we can lower the terms."*

But Mr. St. John did not object, he seemed perfectly satisfied. He -wrote to engage the rooms for two months, and Mrs. Vaughan showed her husband the letter with triumph." "That will be forty pounds. James," she cried, "and if we are careful that will be a great help to us."

But they had better have lost farm, and lands, and house. They had better have died from hunger thaii have written the letter that brought Eric St. John to the house.

CHAPTER II.

ISO one could describe Ruth Vaughan the word beautiful was not appropriate, pretty was out of the question.—sue was far more than that. Sweet, fair, fresh and bright, with a soul as white and pure as a lily leaf: innocent and simple as a child, with no thought beyond the routine of home life. She was tall, slender, and shapely, ho one, neither man, woman, nor child, looked at her face without loving her. trusting her and thinking how bright and fair she was.

The only face that hers resembled is one well known in the world of art,— the beautiful girl in the famous picture of "Les Huguenots," who wished to tie the white scarf on her lover's arrfl, the same beautiful, clear, pure face. Nature had been good to Ruth .and had given her a wreath of golden brown hair not content with that she had given her the sweetest blue eyes that ever shone, and because they were so beautiful she had fringed them with long dark lashes. It was'a treat to look at Ruth's eves.—so glorious, bright, clear, and shy. Nature, who takes supreme delight 'at times in making the face of a beautiful woman, had given to liuth a mouth so sweet, so delicious in its curves and lines, that a smile from hers was like the breaking of a sunbeam it was the greatest treat one could have. Everyone who talked to Ruth tried to make her smile, becahse her smile was so pleasant and so fair to see. Nature had given her a complexion that a duchess might have envied.—so clear and fresh, with the da in test bloom: she had a voice that was as clear and sweet as the coo of. the cushat dove.

Evervone who saw her find wondered that a country girl—a farmer's daughter—should possess such rare and refined beauty: but then there were little drawbacks. Ruth had the sweet, low voice of a cushat dove: but there was a touch of provincialism in her accent. She had 'beautifullv-shaned hands, but they were coarse and reddened with daily work.— slight drawbacks that could'easily have been remedied. She had known no life beyond the home life*—the whirl of great cities, the gaiety, fashion, excitement. and frivolity "of life were dead letters to her.

When the leaves began to shoot.— when the primroses eame.—when the pnettv white lambs skipped inthemeadthe calves lapped the sweet new milk she took them,—when the chickens grew and the blue i?5.?™1'" whirl wi and circled in tnc

uie mut ripened tne meadow, ana the corn stood in golden sheaves,—those were her seasons of happiness and pleasure.

The vanity that is so natural to young and especially pretty girls had not reached her yet. She was quite content with a plain print or muslin dress, and a hatwithout feathers.

She had no idea that she was considered the prettiest girl in the county, and that people often called at the farm for the pleasure of seeing her she had no idea that young Laurence Rainton worshipped tl'ie very ground she stood upon, that the simple, nonest young fellow looked up to her as to some beautiful queen, and would have been content to die for one smile from her. She had wondered why he came to Larch Hill so often why he was so interested in the blue pigeons, which were hers, and never cared for the white ones, her mother's especial care why he paid so much attention to her poultry, advising her what to give them and what to withhold the same over her birds and her flowers. He must be wonderfully fond of such things. She was very kind to him, with a good-natured kindness that was death to the hopes of any lovers. He was one year older than herself, and a girl of eighteen is in reality always about five years older than a young man of nineteen. She never thought of him as a sweetheart, or even as a probable lover he was a nice boy with whom she spent at times a pleasant lialf-hourover tne birds and nowers. Why his face flushed when she spoke to him, why he trembled if she came near him she did not know, and, perhaps, cared less.

Then came a bright June morning true the clover meadows were still under water, and the corn was mildewed, but this morning the sun seemed to re}ent of his misdeeds and tried his best to atone he shone with the brightest warmth. The birds, who had thought for some weeks that it was all over with them, cheered up and began to sing the flowers, who were all despondent over the absence of their lover, raised their heads to salute him once more the bees and butterflies took heart,even the rainbeaten trees and grass looked up again.

A fair morning. The blue pigeons were restless, and Ruth took them some c6rn. One or the prettiest sights in the world was to see Ruth feeding her pigeons they knew her so well, and tney were so tame that they perched on her arms, on her shoulders, even at times on the dainty golden brown head. This June morning they seemed to know that the sun had repented of its surliness, and they were wild with delight. How she enjoyed their happiness. She talked to them, sang to them she gave them fresh corn she caught them, kissed them, and let them go again. "Oh, how I wish I were a pigeon!" said a voice near to her, and looking up she saw Laurence Rainton. "How I wish that I were a pigeon!" he repeated.

Ruth laughed, the delicious musical laugh that made one feel inclined to run awav with her. "You would lie a clumsy one. Laurence. You would not circle and soar as these do." "I might if I were a pigeon," he said. "All! but you are not," she replied. "Are you not glad to see the sun shining again, Laurence? It is weeks since we have had one fine day. My father says this year should be called ihe

She was so perfectly accustomed to his presence, and so completely unembarrassed by it, that she went on feeding her pige'ons and singing just as if he were not there. Always the same song it was her favorite. Sne sang it at all times, and in all seasons—a sweet, sad song, that told of the sorrows of someone who lived at "Bonnie Doon." "Ye banks and braes of Bonnie Doon,

How can ye look so fresii and fair?" In after years, when the cruel thorn had worked its worst, he knew how prophetic that song had been. "Miss Vaughan," he said. She called him Laurence, because she felt that he was a boy compared with herself but he never dared to call her Ruth. "Miss Vaughan. I have often wondered why you like that song so much. You sing it when you feed the pigeons, wheh you gather fruit or flowers, when you are in the dairy. Whenever I come you are always singing about Bonnie Doon."

She laughed the sweet, silvery laugh no one could resist. "I did not know it," she said: "but it is my favorite song. My father likes it too he is never tired of it. So soon as the gloaming falls, and he comes in from the farm, the first thing he ask for is 'Ye banks and braes/ but he always calls it Bonnie Doon: and do you know. Laurence, that his favorite name for me is Bonnie Doon?" "It is a very pretty name." he replied, "even prettier than'your own. I wish vou would let me" call you Bonnie Doon." "No, no one but my father must ever do that," she replied.

Laurence went on.— "It is such a sad song, and you are always so blythe and gay. the song is sad. IIow can the little birds sing while the mourner is so weary, fit. care? -,?= 'My fa use lover stole the rose.

Uut. ali. he let'i tlie thorn wi' tne?

"That part of the song will never come true to you. Yon may be. weary and full of care in the years to come, everyone is at times, but you will never have' a false lover, and your heart will never be pierced by a thorn. "I want no lover at all. either true or false:" laughed the girl. "My mother says the liappiest.time of life is when one is voung and free." "But your mother had a lover he said, insinuatingly, and she, most unconsciously, reechoed her mother's words. "Ah!" she said, "my mother, that is different and then she weut to take some corn to the white pigeons who

were looking with jealous eyes at their neighbors. She left him sitting on the rnntlv

EAWm WBEKLY €h4X«rm

kvear

of rain.' I hope it is over. I- have thought a great deal aUnit the Deluge and Noah's ark lately." she added, simply. "IIow dreadful it must have been—rain, rain, nothing but rain. Imagine the white dove out on the wild world of waters, with not even one branch to rest upon. I am glad that the world is never to be drowned again."

She believed as implicity that the rainbow was the perpetually recurring sign of God's promise as you. reader, believe in Heaven.

Laurence thought how beautiful and spiritual she looked. He felt himself a long way from her. He had never thought about the Deluge or Noah or the rainbow: yet in his own fashion he had suffered much from the incessant rain. "It will take some days for the sua to drv the earth even now.'" he said.

lence tooKing alter ner wito longing eyes. No, Heaven bless her! no false lover should ever come after her, he would be her lover staunch and true the rose for her. and not the thorn. Heaven bless her! The tears rose in his honest eyes as he looked after her. He would be her lover, she should have no other no man should ever trifle with her, play her false, or leave a thorn with her. Never he was to be her lover, and, if ever any other dared to whisper one false word to her, dared to hurt even one hair of her head, he would slay him, yes, as surely as the sun shone in the blue sky above as surely as the birds were singing, and the blue pigeons circling in the clear summer air, so surely would he slay any man who wrung a sigh from her lips or a tear from her eyes. But no one would, he should be her lover staunch and true. Only a short time and he would tell her how much he loved her, only a short time, and then he would ask her to be his wife, to go with him to the dear old farmhouse where the scarlet rowan berries gleamed like fire.

A short time. Just now she did not seem to understand. He was a whole ear older than herself, but she seemed think he was still a boy. 'Nineteen! one is almost a man at nineteen!" he thought.

She would treat him differently in time,—when she realised that he was a man and loved her with a man's love.

Yet, as he left the farmyard, ha caught himself singing the words,— "My fause lover stole tbe rose,

But ab! he left the thorn in me." & .-•,

CHAPTER III.

Still noon on the same June morning, and Ruth has fed the pigeons. Then she remembers that she has roses to gather for the lodger's room. He is coming that day, and she does not like the idea of it. True, the money wiU be useful to her father but she does not know what home will be like with a stranger in it. The stranger is to have the pretty little drawing-room,—her pride and delight,—a room that smells always of roses and lavender, with long French windows that open into a sweet old-fashioned garden. That drawingroom was the cherished delight of Mrs. Vaughan's heart no other farmhouse either far or near had such a room. "Best parlors,"—even "dining rooms," —in use are too rare but no other farmer's wife had a drawing-room in that part of the country. It was such a pretty room, too, with a deep green carpet that looked like moss,—pretty light chairs, long white lace curtains, and an abundance of flowers a few water-col-ors on the walls, and a few books. That was all buf the room was very pretty, and one could see every sweet old-f ashioned flower that bloomed in the garden. The bedroom let with it was a large, old-fashioned, airy room, with roses climbing all about the window-panes, and great bow-pots of dried lavender on the mantelpiece.

Everything was clean and bright as human hands could make it only one thing was left to do before Eric St. John appeared, that was to till the old-fash-ioned china vases in the drawing-room With roses. "Do not forget the flowers, Ruth," said Mrs. Vaughan. "nothing makes a room look so homelike and cheerful as plenty of flowers."

So that now the pretty pigeons were disposed of she must attend lo that. Going into the garden with a pair of scissors and a basket she found that Laurence had not gone home as she thought, but was waiting for her there. "I could not go until I had said 'good morning,' Miss Vaughan," he said and Ruth laughed. "It must be very important," she re-

lied, "considering Unit you are sure to back this afternoon or lo-uicht." "And what shall I come for?" ho asked. "Speckled egg,s or—"

Then the words died suddenly, for they both heard the sound of carriage wheels in the stone courtyard. "That is our lodger, and the roses are not ready," said Ruth. "I must be quick. You must go, Laurence. I told you our lodger was coming this morning." "Only a short time longer." thought Laurence, as he vaulted lightly over the low hedge, "and my beautiful love shall be able to do without lodgers. How I hate the thought of it."

No thought of the lodger himself disturbed him. lie naturally supposed that the lodger would be an elderly man, very tiresome and very cross, just recovering from a long illness, and he pitied the fair, bright girl who would have to wait upon him. His face burned, too, as he thought of the indignity of it—his wife who was to be waiting uwon a lodger. It would soon be over but, ah me, if he had known all he would have wished that she might have died there amongst the roses it would have been so much better for her. Quick as she was, Ruth found herself too late. When she reached the drawing-Doom with the basket of white and crimson roses in her hand, he was there.

She saw a tall figure standing against the wideopen window, and she saw, poor child one of the most beautiful faces ever given to man, turned to her with a smile—a smile that dazed her as the light of the sun at noonday had ever done. "The Goddess Flora," said a laughing voice, weak and faint, despite the laughter. "I beg your pardon," said Ruth, advancing boldly into the room, "my mother'wished me to place these flowers in the room before you came. She said it would make it look more homely." "Shades of Lady May Cnrleton." he murmured to himself, and she had not the faintest idea what lie meant. "Your mother is very kind, and very sensible." he replied ""there is nothing so pleasant as flowers in a room." "Except." she added, brightly, "flowers out of a room. I like them in the garden best." 'Then..she realized the fact that they were still looking at each other their eyrs had met when she iirsl entered the rouin, and they were still looking one at the other. "The most beautiful face ever given to man." was the thought that first went through her mind, and she never saw beauty in Jny other. It was an effort to loos away from him.

It was a face that should have been labelled "Beware." for no woman looked at it without loving it. Dark, beautiful, proud, yet with tender light about the handsome mouth and a tender light in the ardent eyes. He seemed even with one glance of his to absorb her whole heart and soul as the sun drinks up one drop of dew. "I beg pardon," he said, almost abmtlv. ••A.m. I in the wuv? I* should

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It was worthy of note'that when she had gone the young man sighed, then smiled, then muttered to himself the well-known lines, "Satan finds some mischief still for idle hands to do." "Verily,'' he added to himself, "my lines have fallen in pleasant places. I do not remember to nave seen a prettier face than that and what a voice! sweet as the coo of a cushat dove. I had dreaded the monotony of a farmhouse, but there will be something to enliven this."

Ruth returned with the glass full of sweet, warm milk. She found the lodger lying back on his pillows very weak ana ill. It seemed quite natural to her to slip her hand underneath the pillow and raise the sick man's head so that he could drink the milk. As she did so the dark eyes looked full into her own, and something—what was itV—stirred in Ruth's heart that had never stirred there before. "I am very fortunate," he said, "to have so kind a nurse. You are Yengood to me but shall I not tire you if I ask you for all I want?" "No," she replied, simply. "That is, unless you want very unreasonable things, and want very often."

He smiled at the simplicity of her answer—indeed, it was her utter simplicity that formed her greatest charm in his eyes, then and always. "What a Paradise this is for flowers^" said Eric St. John. "You have no flowers like these in London," said Ruth, with the calm superiority of one Who knows that the feet cannot be controverted. "No," he replied "at least they do not grow there. The finest flowers in

gri

England are sent to London. I believe?" "I pity those ijoor flowers!" she said. "We liave a neighbor living over the hills there who cultivates flowers for the London market,—lilacs and violets, mignonette, lilies and roses. He gathers them in the early morning while the dew lies quite wet upon them, and sends tliem away. They are packed in great hampers of cool moss, and sent by train. I often wonder if they feel the change from those dewy uplands to the smoke and heat of London. I am sorry for them I always feel as though they were going to prison and to death. I nave a curious fancy about flowers," she continued "it is that they live and can feel." "Many people have that fancy," he replied. "I know it is absurd," continued Ruth "but if I see people throw flowers into the fire it gives mq a shock. When they are cut from trees the same I have never thrown even a dead flower into the fire in my life."

Eric laughed, but the beautiful eyes were full of tender wisdom, and the sweet face was full of serious wonder. "Will you Show me all your favorite flowers to-morrow?" he asked. "Yes," she replied: "it it will please you?" "I am sure it will please me," he said. "I shall learn many lessons from you. You know all about flowers, and birds, and trees, I am sure." "I have had nothing else to think of," she said, and he thought what a contrast her life presented to his—spent amongst books. "Will you teach me some of the many pretty secrets you must know?" he asked. "Yes," she replied, gravely "if you wish to learn." "I do wish to learn," he said. "There comes a time in every man's life when he tires of the artificial and longs for the natural, and that time has come for me now." "I am very glad of it," says the beautiful Ruth, with an air of sweet, grave wisdom that charms him and Eric St. John promises himself that he shall talk to her soon again.

[To be. Continued.]

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HfContains no drastic cathartic or opiate^.' Promptly cures Rheumatism by

Restores'life-giving properties"to the tfloo^* Is guaranteed to cure all nervou* disorders. "Sellable when all opiates fail.-«»

Refreshes the mind and invigorates the body. Cures dyspepsia or money refunded.-®* •^Endorsed in writing by over fifty thousand Leading physicians in U. 8. and Europe.-®* Leading clergymen In U. S. and Europe."®* Diseases of the Wood own it a conqueror.-®* For sale by all leading druggists. $1.60."V*

The. Dr.S. A. Richmond Med. Co. Prop's., 3T. JOSEPH, IMO. for testimonials and circulars send stamp.

Health is Wealth

DR K. ('. WKST'8 NERVE AND BBAIK TBEJ MENT, a ffuaranteed specific for Hysteria, Disc rneas. Convulsions, Fits, Nervous Neuralgi?. Headache, Nervous Prostration caused by the n: .. of alcohol or tobacco. Wakefulness, Mental Dpressiou. Softening of the Brain resulting in sanity and leading to misery, decay and deatn. Premature Old Ago, Barrenness, Loss of powee in either sex, involuntary Losses and Hpermat orrhiea caused by

over-exortionof

the brain, selt.

abuse or over-indulgence. Each box con tail", one mouth's treatment. $1.00a box,or fciX boxa." for $5.00. sent by mail prepaid on receipt of pne^.....

WE. GUARANTEE SIX BOX EJ» To cure any case. With each order received by r.\ for six boxes, accompanied with foil0, we gen 1 the purchaser our written guarantee to sfund the money if the treatment does.not fccure. Guarantees ireued only by

C. F. ZIMMERMAN, Druggist.

Sole agent.

Corner Thirteenth and Main fttftfeti.

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WTH SENDING FOR!

Or. J. £L80HEKQKliaa lust pnbliahed a book oa «.•

DISEASES OF THE LIIN8S

!SH HOW TO CURE THEM

rhich is offered FREE. postoa!d.to all applicants. contains vahtabu information for all who auj/poaa vmsedve? afflicted with, or Kz ole to any disease of 1. «». Uroat or lungs. Mention this paper. Address .: -r. Jf. M. HOHENCK A- SON. PhllMlelj»hla. P«. (StM* if yvunoitk kr, v-

Suf-violV-' ••5

I, ,n- '"A

GOLD SLtiD.?. PASIS, 187*

BABJ R'S

"MM GOGOL

Warranted ab»thit€ty/ pur* Cocoa., from which the enceaa OU has been removed. It baa (Are. time* the strength of Cocoa mixec .with Starch, Arrowroot OJ flugav "and is thvefore far more ecoaont* cal, it delicious, n"«rishinL strengthening, easily digested, an admirably adapted tor invdida *4 well

for pefsons in health

gold fcy town en»i wfcwi.

C0„ DwcMer.

ADVERTISING*

contracts made forTaisyAPEH, which is krj on file with LORD ft THOMAS, i-f AdvervUia* Clrfcaco,

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