tin 4Dailg
1898 01d«ri P»gy a AUifca
OFFICIAL CITY PAPER
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EDITORIAL
One of the New York World's
correspondents at the peace confer
once s^ys. in a copyrighted special,
"X am able to say that In the Pres
rroinion wnrk i<* nroceeding.
on th° whole in a satisfactory man
ner." It is regrettable that Presi
der.' Wilson did not find it advisabl
to make the statement first hand
'o his countrymen. He could reach
■\1 of th^m through the Asociated
Press.
Premier Clemeaaau had no hesi-1
♦ancy in telling the people of France
the same day that the sky was still
clouded but that he looked hopefull
for a satisfactory solution of the
S.rr-a problems. Curiously Premier
IJoyd George on his return to Eng
land the same day, told' the reporter
tha things were going well. Pres
ident Wilson tells the American peo
pie nothing.
The World's correspondent (his
paper has alway5 been the Presi
dents cnampion) says that much
doubt exist* at this time. some of it
due to tupid and unnecessary sec
recy. and some of it Is actuated by
ulterior motives. It is this stupid
and unnecessary secrecy which has
been and is a constant source of
Irritation to the American people,
and which, has shaken the confidence
in the president who promised pit
iless publicity. Every intelligent
citizen knows there are some thing
discussed at the peace table and in
set3rato conferences among the
delegates which ought not to be
disclosed, but they also know that
"news' coming out of Paris Is cen*
sored. Xo one on this side of the
Atlantic has any but a hazy know
ledge of the proceedings of the
most Important meeting of the
world. President Wilson ought to
put an end to the stupid' and un
necessary secrecy.
"Thesuceessml worker is the one
who can do "what he ought to do
when be ought to do It, ■whether he
wants to do it or not.'—paintology."
Tht hopless man Is he, who, hav
ing blundered, is unable to cash in
on the experience.
A nen doesn't quit scratching be
cause the worms are scarce.—The
Advance, i i ;
"When a man loses confidence in
himself he makes the vote unani
mous.
!*r HIS WAY OF LOOKING ^
The Preacher—I suppose yon con
sider gambling debts debts of honor?
i The Gambler—That depends. When
they are due me I certainly think they
are debts of honor.
WHO SHE WAS
She—Oo Is me?
He—Oo's my 'lttle snow-white dove.
PROPER VEHICLE
Bangs—It's a fine day for riding—
overhead.
Wangs—Yes. We ought to have an
airship.
STUNG
"Just my luck! Here I goes an' gits
engaged to a red-headed, freckled
faced, cross-eyed goll. an' den finds
dat de report she's got a quarter Is un
founded."
difference
OF OPINION.
Mother — I'm
afraid you find
my little girl
very backward.
Brutal Friend:
On the contrary I
find her terrlby
forward.
THE REASON
Bunny—Why did yon divorce your
husband?
Sirs. Crow—Oh! for "caws." ~
A TALE OF THE NORTH COUNTRY
IN THE TIME OF SILAS WRIGHT
IRVING BACHELLER
AUTHO* Of
EBEN HOLDEN. D'RI AND I. DaRREL OF THE BLESSED tSL£\
KEEPINO UP WITH LIZZIE, ETC, ETC
--v. . (orrtatT mxtnawivwtm uftwj uoaua
SYNOPSIS.
CHAPTER X—Barton Baynes, orphan,
is taken to live with his uncle, Peabody
Baynes. and his Aunt Deel on a (arm on
Rattleroad In a neighborhood called Llck
ltygpllt about the year 1826. Barton meets
Bally Dunkelber?, about his own age, but
socially of a clasis above the Bayneses,
and is fascinated by the pretty face
and fine clothes.
"Go right home—right home," eaid
she to Amos.
"Mr. Baynes said that he would
take me up with the horses," said
Amos.
"Ye can use shanks' horses—ayes!
—they're good enough for you," Aunt
Deel Insisted, and so the boy went
away in disgrace.
"Where are your pennies?" Aunt
Deel said to me.
I felt in my pockets but couldn't
find them.
"Where did ye have 'em last?" my
aunt demanded.
"On the haymow." 4
"Come an' show-me."
We went to the mow and searched
for the pennies, but not one of them
could we find.
I remembered that when I saw them
last Amos had them in his hand.
"I'm awful 'fraid for liim—ayes I
be!" said Aunt Deel. "I'm 'fraid
Rovin' Kate was right about him—
ayes!"
"What did she say?" I asked.
"That he was goin' to be hung—
ayes! Tou can't play with him no
more. Boys that take what don't
belong to 'em—which I hope he didn't
—ayes I hope it awful—are apt to
be hung by their necks until they
are dead—jest as he was goin' to
hang ol' Shep—ayjis!—they are!"
Uncle Peabody seemed to feel very
bad when he learned how Amos had
turned out.
"Don't say a word about It," said
he. "Mebbe you lost the pennies.
Don't mind 'em."
Soon after that, one afternon,
Aunt Deel came down in the field
where we were dragging. While she
was talking with Uncle Peabody an
Idea occurred to me, and the dog and
I ran for the house. There was a
pot of honey on the top shelf of the
pantry and ever since I had seen St
put there I had cherished secrei de
sires.
i run lino me ut-seneu uuuse, nuu j
with the aid of a chair climbed to
the first shelf and then to the next,
and reached into the pan and drew
out a comb of honey, and with no
delay whatever it went to my mouth.
I Suddenly it seemed to me that I had
been hit by lightning. It was the
sting of a bee. I felt myself go
ing and made a wild grab and caught
the edge of the pan and down we
came to the floor—the pan and I—
with a great crash.
I discovered that I was In desper
ate pain and trouble and I got to
my feet and ran. I didn't know
where I was going. It seemed to me
that any other place would be better
than that. My feet took me toward
the barn and I crawled under it and
hid there. My lip began to feel better,
by and by, but big and queer. It
Ktiifk nnf so that I cnnld see It I
heard my uncle coming with the
horses. I concluded that I would
stay where I was, but the dog came
and sniffed and barked at the hole
through which I had crawled as if
saying, "Here he Is!" My position I
was untenable. I came out. Shep
began trying to clean my clothes with
his tongue. Uncle Peabody stood
near with the horses. He looked at
me. He stuck his finger Into the
honey on my coat and smelt It.
"Well, by—" he stopped and came
closer and asked.
"What's happened?" ^ ,
"Bee stung me," I answered.
"Where did ye find so much honey
that ye could go swimmln' in it?" he
asked.
I heard the door of the house open
suddenly and the voice of Aunt Deel.
"Peabody; Peabody, come here
quick," she called.
Uncle Peabody ran to the house, but
I stayed out with the dog.
Through the op^n door I heard Aunt
Deel saying: "I can't stan' It any
longer and I won't—not another day—
ayes. I can't stan' it. That boy Is o
reg'lar pest."
They came out on the veranda. Ua
cle Peabody said nothing, but I could
see that he couldn't stand it either.
My brain was working fast.
"Come here, sir," Uncle Peabody
called.
I knew It was serlou9, for to had
never called me "sir" before. I went
slowly to the steps.
"My Lord!" Aunt Deel exclaimed.
"Look at that lip and the honey all
over him—ayesl I tell ye—I can't
stan' It"
"Say, boy, Is there anything on this
place that ye ain't tipped over?" Uncle
Peabp&z. jisfced. in & sorrosYfaUaae.
_ ■*,—...I. . -?-r-a
"Wouldn't ye like to tip the "h&use
over?"
I was near breaking down In this
answer:
"I went Into the but'ry and -that
pan Jumped on to me."
"Didn't you taste the honey 1"
"No," I drew in my breath and
shook my head.
"Liar, tool" said Aunt Deel. "1
can't stan' It an' I won't."
UDCle Peabody was sorely tried, but
he was keeping down his anger. His
voice trembled as he said:
"Boy, I guess you'll have to—"
Urcle Peabody stopped. He had,
been driven to the last ditch, but he
had not stepped over It However, I
knew what he had started to say and
sat down on the steps In great de
jection. Shep followed, working at
my coat with his tongue.
I think the sight of me must have
touched the heart of Aunt Deel.
"Peabody Baynes, we mustn't be
cruel," said she in a softer tone, and
then she brought a rag and began to
assist Shep in the process of clean
ing mj coat. "Good land! He's got to
stay here—ayes!—he ain't got no
other place to go to."
"But If you can't stan* it," said Un
cle Peabody.
"I've got to stan' it—ayest—I can't
stan' It, but I've got to—ayes! So
have you."
Aunt Deel put me to bed although
it was only Ave o'clock. As I lay
looking up at the shingles a singular
resolution came to me. It was born
of my longing for the companionship
of my kind and of my resentment. I
would go and live with the Dunkel
bergs. I would go the way they had
gone and find them. I knew It was
ten miles away, but of course every*
body knew where the Dunkelbergs
lived and any one would show me.
I would run and get there before
dark and tell them that I wanted to
live with them and every day I would
play with Sally Dunkelberg. Uncle
Peabody was not half as nice to play,
u'ith oc cho xvna
I heard Uncle Peabody drive away,
I watched him through the open win
dow. I could hear Aunt Deel wash
ing the dishes in the kitchen. I got
out of bed very slyly and put on my
Sunday clothes. I went to the open
window. The 6un had Just gone over j
the top of the woods. I would have
to hurry to get to the Dunkelbergs' |
before dark. I crept out on the top
of the shed and descended the lad*
der that leaned against It I stood ■
moment listening. The dooryard was
covered with shadows and very still.
The doqr must have gone with Uncle
Peabody. I ran through the garden
to the road and down It as fast aa
my bare feet could carry me. In that
direction the nearest house was al
most a mile away. I remember I
was out of breath, and the light was
growing aim before I got to It. 1
went on. It seemed to me that 1
had gone nearly far enough to reach
my destination when I heard a buggy
coming behind me.
"Hello I" a voice called.
I turned and looked up at Dug Dra«
per, In a single buggy, dressed in hla
Sunday suit.
"Is it much further to where the
Dunkelbergs live?" I asked.
"The Dunkelbergs? Who be they?"
It seemed to me very strange that
he didn't know the Dunkelbergs.
"Where Sally Dunkelberg rives."
That was a clincher. He laughed
and swore and said:
"Git In here, boy. FI1 take ye
there."
I got Into the buggy, and he struck
his horse with the whip and went gal
loping away In the dusk.
By and by we passed Rovin' Kate.
I could Just discern her ragged form
by the roadside and called to her. He
struck his horse and gave me a rude
shake and bade me shut up.
It was dark and I felt very cold and
began to wish myself home la bed.
"Ain't we most to the Dunkel*
bergs' ?" I asked.
"No—not yet," he answered.
1 burst Into tears and he shook me
roughly and shoved me down on the
buggy floor and said:
"You lay there and keep still; do
yon hear?"
"Yes," I 6obbed.
I lay shaking with fear and fight
ing my sorrow and keeping as still as
I could with It, until, wearied by the
strain, I fell asleep.
What befell me that night while I
dreamed of playing with the sweet
faced girl I have wondered often.
Some time in the night Dug Draper
had reached the village of Canton and
got rid of me. He had probably put
me out at the water trough. Kind
hands had picked me up and carried
me to a little veranda that fronted
the door of a law ofHce. There I
slept peacefully until daylight, when
I felt a hand on my face and awoke
suddenly. I. remember that .1 felt
col3T "* "X kfn3Ty 'faces' iiian \fas Tean
ing over me.
"Hello, boy!" said he. "Where did
yon come from?"
I was frightened and confused, but
his gentle voice reassured me.
"Uncle Peabody 1" I called, as I
arose and looked about me and be
gan to cry.
The man lifted me In his arra3 and
held me close to his breast and tried
to comfort me. I remember seeing
0CN(n<KL itont
* sniAS w<
LAW (QFFK
— rr
A Kindly Faced Man Was Leaning
Over Me.
the Silent Woman pass while I was
in his arras.
"Tell me what's your name," he
urged.
"Barton Baynes," I said as soon as
I could speak.
"Where do you live?"
"In Lickitysplit."
"How did you get here?"
"Dug Draper brought ine. Do you
know where Sally Dunkelberg lives?-'
"Is she the daughter of Horace
Dunkelberg?"
"Mr. and Mrs. Horace Dunkelberg,"
I amended.
"Oh, yes, I know her. Sally is a
friend of mine. We'll get some break
fast and then we'll go and find her."
He carried me through the open
door of his office and set me down
at his desk. The cold air of the
night had chilled me and I was shiv
er lOJT
(Continued on Saturday)
Many Slcagway people Knot*; th«
| Importance of Healthy Hid&ftySt
The kidneys filter the blood.
Thoy work night &nd day, i
S
Well kidneys remove impurities.
Weavr kidneys allow impurities to
multiply. | !., i
No kidney ill anould be neglected.
There is possible danger In delay.
If you have backache or urinary
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If you are nervous, dizzy or worn
out, ! j j | ! • j {
Betjin treating your kidneys &t
ones;
Use a proven kidney remedy.
None endorsed like Doan's Kidney
Pil la. :
Recommended bjr thousands
"Mrs. Gus Andreas, 243 W. Fifty*
eighth St., Seattle, Wash., says:
"Wnat caused my kidneys to get out
o£ order, I don't know. Across
the small of my back and oyer my
; kidnays, 6harp PainS caught me *11
! the time. Dizzy spells annoyed mo
a lot, too, and I always felt tired
and languid. I used different kid
ney remedies but wasn't helped
until I used1 Doan's Kidney Pills.
In a short time Doan's had re*
moved the trouble and I have felt
I fine ever since."
Price 60c, at all dealers. Don't
simply ask or a kidney remedy —
get Doan's Kidney Pills—tha same
I that Mrs. Andrea^ ha& Foster*
1 Mil burn Co., Mfgrs., Buffalo, N. Y.
Only One "BROMO QUININE"
To pet [the genuine, call for the
j full nam^ LAXATIVE BUOMO
j QUININE. Look for slgna*ur» ti
; E. W. GROVE. CuTe# a Cold in
One Day. 30c. Tho
. - 1M, A remedy (of infection*
JersM EMM of the urinary Met.
• -• -SL WSI« P&mksB. nca-poi*»ou5
rid wiAnot «tt*tara
. njL \4£i » Relieve* i n 1 to 5 day*.
HB.CE 51.20 Sold By Dmgglitt
i .cause Wi h e^ch ttot'.le or mailc<i on requtft.
T:;£ EVANS CHEMICAl'co!/ CINCINNATI, 0.
White PasF V 'ukon Route
TIME TAliJ,15 NO. 42
Thursday ai.d Friday
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WHITE PASS Leaves 2:60 p. m.
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Passengers mast be at dejytt In time to have Baggage in
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leaving time of trains.
160 pounds of baggage will tv <becked free with e»di f*fl
(are ticket and 75 pounds with each half fare ticket.
So. 1. N. Bound
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