This operation was very adroitly performed ! so as not to excite attention. ’ First-class ' hotels don’t like to have it even supposed that suspicious characters can gain admittance at any time. “ Great heaven! Why do you ask?” ex- claimed the stranger, in the extravagant, theat- rical manner, so natural to him. “ You’re not a guest of the hotel, and I want to know what you were doing up stairs. Come, speak out quick or I’ll hand you over to the police,” the clerk replied. “ Eternal powers! You would not dream of such an outrage!” the Ttalian exclaimed, not loudly, but in great astonishment, appar- ently. -' “I will unless you gixe a satisfactory ex- plauation.” “ Listen then, although I protest against this interrogation," the Italian responded with great dignity. “ I am an artist—the Signor Castiglione of the Grand Opera—a call I have had the honor to make upon the Mademoiselle Winne. I am poor; genius struggles ever with the dark angels of adversity. Mad- emoiselle Winne is as good as she is beautiful. I have come to her and tell my sad story, and she opens her purse—strings, bright, beautiful angel! and I now depart happy. ” The clerk was inclined to believe this story, for his experience with the “ children of genius ” in the stage and opera line had brought him in contact with some pretty seedy customers. it was plain that the man was a gentleman, and he talked like an artist -—a child of the Bohemian tribe; therefore the clerk apoloyzed for his mistake, and explained how necessary it was to be cautious in a city hotel in regai'd to strangers. “Say no more; it was your duty; from the bottom of my soul do I admire men who do their duty perform!” exclaimed the Italian, grandiloquently. “ Pardon, signor, but will you favor me by taking a glass of wine with me? Everywhere I go, I hear it said th-re is no wine in America to compare with the n rclar of the Fifth Avenue." “Oh, excuse me; but you must take a drink with me!" replied the clerk. who was a jolly fellow naturally. The Italian protested that he couldn’t think of such a thing, but he marched up to the bar nevertheless and took his whisky like a man. This social operation performed, he laid his skinny finger upon the arm of the other. “ The Mademoiselle VVinne is an angel; with her money she is as free as water; at present I struggle in the waves of adversity. I, Phillipe do Castiglione, who as the principal tenor have sung before the kings and queens of Europe in all the good theaters—the Opera, Paree, La Scola, Milan. Here in America the directors do not see it; they go back on me, diavolo! I starve but for that bright angel, the Made— moiselle Winnel I presume there will be no objection to my coming here to see her some- times?” “ Oh, no, new that we know who you are.” The clerk hadn’t a doubt in regard to the man’s story. He was so much like the genuine article—the imported artist, “down on his luck ”--~that even the experienced hotel man was taken in. “ Thanks! In my prayers I shall remember your kindness, and when I make my “ hit”— the time will come—and all New York is at my feet throwing largess, I will not forget my generous benefactor! No! your kindness re— pay I will a tlmusand—fold!" And then, with a graceful, dignified bew, the Italian marched out of the hotel. Outside, a comrade awaited the signer. An 'talian, too, apparently, but quite a con- trast to the noble count, being short and thick and fat. He was dressed in a shabby black suit, much too large for him, and a dozen years at least behind the prevailing fashion. Like the other, his coat was buttoned up tight in the throat, and no linen was visible. It was odds that he didn’t possess any. His face, like his person, was fat, very dark in color, the chin ornamented by a. peaked beard, and the thick-lipped mouth shaded by a huge mustache, the ends carefully waxed. His little, evil—looking eyes were like two jet-black beads, and the smell of garlic that came from his person was enough to sicken one who de— tested that pungent vegetable, so dear to the heart of the Latin races. Colonel Anselmo del Frascati, this individual was called, and, as if to give proof that he had a right to the military title, he bore a switch in his hand, which he either flourished, saber- like, in the air, or else beat against the leg§of his pantaloons. “Ha, ha!” he exclaimed, as the tall man emerged from the hotel, “ you have been long! How goes the fight? Did she see ze point, hey?” The count shook his head. “ And you got netting, diavolo?’ The count displayed a single half dollar. “Bah! that is a dinner only; did you tell her of ze half-a—million, hey ‘4” “ Yes. ” “ And she nothing make of it, hem?” ((N0. 9? “ I have a—wait for you some time.” “ Be calm, my friend,” and he laid his skin— ny finger on the greasy coat-sleeve of the other. “ I have made the acquaintance of one of the hotel young men. I am a. singer at the opera and come to see the Mademoiselle Winne as a brother artist.” “ Ha, ha! it is good—beautiful—divinel” “ Come, we will dine?” The two proceeded down the street, and as they went, the snaky Italian unfolded his lan. p “If we do not succeed—if the heir we do not find, a prize we can make here,” and the speaker nodded back to the hotel. “Diavolol that is superb; how?” “Jewels—real, no paste!” the count ex- plained, mysteriously. “ Five thousand dol- lairs’ worth—more, maybe. I am an opera singer; they will not suspect me in the hotel, for I call upon the Mademoiselle VVinno. The lock is nothing—bah! a child could open it; so easy!” “ Ten devils, but that is good!” “ We can make no money out of the half- a-million; we watch our chance and steal the jewels. South America is near; many coun- trymen of ours there; we will go. Five thou- sand dollairs; it is a fortune!” “ But I have ze other girl found." “ Ha, ha!” “ Ze image of no picture, but hair dark!” “ Good! We will have our pickings out of the half million, after all!” CHAPTER‘X. RONALD CBAIGE. Tun farce with which the evening’s .per- formance commenced at Wallack’s was over; the farce was merely to play the audience into their seats so that the burlesque might be dis- played to a full house, and to those who did come early the farce was as a sort of appe- tizer to prepare the mind for the full enjoy- v- ‘ W 1th the farce Ronald Craige’s duties for, the evening terminated, as he was not gifted l with the talents necessary to the burlesque 5 artist. He could neither sing a comic negro? song, nor dance the soul-inspiring breakdown; flip-flops were foreign to his nature; nor could i he assume the garb of the other sex and charm ' an enlightened audience by a coarse caricature ‘- of a pretty woman. And therefore, as the young man was a student and a gentleman, one who had em- braced the stage from sheer love of the play- er’s art, it naturally followed that he held a subordinate position at the meager salary of twenty dollars per week, out of which he was expected to dress in the hight of fashion, while the burlesque artists’ pay ranged from thirty per week up to a thousand. But the young man had chesen his vocation, and although heartily sick of the life couldn’t very well get out of it—so crowded are all the avenues that lead to a competence, nowa— days. . A sober, steady, hard-working young fellow was the actor. with few enemies, and not a great many friends either, for the semi—wild life common to nearly all the followers of the stage was not at all to his liking. He was emphatically a student and all the time was studying hard, striving to fit himself for some other pursuit than the one which he was now following. The artist world that knew Ronald Craige called him proud and stuck—up, and resented his holding himself aloof from their gay gath— erings. But the young man was not proud; he was simply a gentleman in his instincts, who chose to pick his associates. Some of the sons and daughters of the Thes- pian art are as worthy people as can be found in all the wide world; but then, there are others, so tainted in mind and morals, that to be eoznpclled to associate with them was, to a pure—hearted fellow like Ronald Craige, as dreadful as to herd with the felon hosts of Sing Sing. And because he held apart from these un- worthy creatures, the bane and degradation of a noble art—pure in itself as its sisters, paint- ing and sculpture—the artist—world “made months” at the young man. Little he cared though, for he was striving with all his might to escape from the circle of fire which surrounded him; if the world in which he now lived was angry because he would not associate with it, he despised that world and its opinion. The beautiful burlesque actress, the dashing Avise VVinne, could not understand why the young man seemed so dull to the favor which she was lavishing upon him. He was not blind, did not lack sense, and yet he did not manifest the slightest interest in Avise Winne, although, just at that time, half the empty- headed young men ~some old ones too, for that matter—in New York were running madly after the charming queen of the blondes. Avise, shrewd and cunning, believed that she had a. rival, and so she had dispatched her manof—all-work, the patient and untiring Tim— olcon, in quest of information, and with what result the reader already knows. At nine o’clock Craige had changed his stage costume for his usual street dress, and was on his way home. Avise, as usual, had taken particular care to encounter him as he made his way t.) the back- door of the theater, as she invu'iably .lid, every evening, so as to be able to exchange a few words with him. The actress’ intent was so apparent that the young man could not very well avoid her, but with his cool, easy politeness he never gave her cause to hope that he was being roused to that pitch of passion which was raging within her fair veins. A few commonplace remarks he would make, then bid her “good-night” and depart, leaving the prdud young actress réady to flame out in open rage. s Straight to his home Craige proceeded, and as he walked along, he mused upon the peculiar position in which he was placed. “ Deuce take the girl 1” he muttered, thor- oughly vexed by Avise Winne’s open and avowed liking, so keenly expressed. “ She has got everybody talking about us now! What on earth has got into her: I should think that she could see with half an eye that I don’t care for her, and that I am trying to keep away from her all I can. I shall get into trouble, soon. She will get angry, and if she chooses to try, she can have my engagement annulled; women do these mean things sometimes; and then I shall probably be obliged to live idle all summer, and spend the little sum that I’ve put by for a rainy day. I can see no way to avoid the difficulty. I can’t bear the girl, and I’m not going to lie to her. It will be either IOVe or hate, and as I can’t go the former, I pre- sume the latter will soon come.” And now we will take advantage of the glare of the gaslight, as the actor passes, to take a good look at him, and we do not wonder at the preference so keenly shown by the blondc burlesque queen for the young 'man. In person about the medium hight, well- built and finely proportioned; clearly-cut fea— tures, regular and pleasing; honest brown eyes, chestnut hair, curling slightly, broad forehead, plenty of room for brains there in fine, a general appearance calculated to win friends at the first glance. The actor had turned into Broadway, after leaving the theater, the walk down through New York’s great artery being so much more pleasant than the way through the side—streets; then he had gone through Grand street until he arrived at Baxter. Walking leisurely along, absorbed in his thoughts, which, as we have seen, were not very pleasant ones, Craige had never taken any particular notice of what was going on around him. In fact, he had never once looked back, therefore he had no suspicion at all that, from the time of leaving the theater until he arrived at the corner of Grand street and Baxter, he had been closely followed by two men, who could not havu stuck to him bet- ter if they had been his shadow, by some miracle doubled. And these two men were afraid, too, that the actor would discover that they were fol- lowing him, for they took particular pains to keep in the shadows as much as possible. But as Craige hadn’t the slightest idea that anyone would trouble their head about him, in such a fashion, the precaution of the two men was clearly needless. As the actor walked up Baxter street toward the old brick barracks, where he had hisquar— ters, he noticed that there were two figures standing upon the stoop, busy in conversa- tion. And as he came nearer he could dis— tinguish that one was a woman and the other a man. And just as he ascertained this, the man raised his hat politely, bid the female good— night, a salutation which she returned, and then he came down the street toward Grand, passing within arm’s-length of the actor. Craige had recognized the voice of the ment of the attraction of the evening. natural curiosity therefore made him take a good look at the man with whom she had been talking, the more so, because he saw that the stranger was dressed in the hight of style—in , fact, a little over-dressed. The man, busy with his own thoughts, passed by the actor without noticing him in the least, but Craige recognized him at once, although not personally acquainted with him, for Captain Jack Leipper, the famous divorce lawyer, was one of the notables of New York; few well-informed men who were not ac- quainted with the dashy figure of the lawyer, always so elegantly attired. The actor, upon discovering who the gentle- man was, stood still for a moment and looked after him. The girl standing upon the stoop of the old barracks was surely the Bouquet Girl; he had clearly recognized her voice; but what busi- ness had this notorious divorce lawyer with her? Determined to solve the riddle at once, the actor proceeded straight to the house. The two men who had followed him were snugly hid in a dark doorway on the other side of the street. “ Why, Frank, what did that fellow want?" the actor asked. “Not much,” answered the girl, smiling a glad welcome; “he only wants to make me a present of half a million of dollars.” (To be continued—commenced in No. 387.) THE CHANGE OF TIME. BY A. W. BELLAW. ’Tis said the seasons of the blood An even seven-years orbit run, And then the man is changed in man And all he was is over and done But, oh, what change can come tons. ho go through years and tears and truth, Star-led toward love‘s Bethelehem, In the warm tenor of our youth? And the old covenants, thronging thick. Have hardl left us chance for change; Our swallow carts are round the nest From whence their wings can never range. Stories of a Pulman Car. BY HEN KI MONTCALM. II. ‘i‘H BEELLOOCHIS I‘AN BROTHERS. [TIL- FLASHY MAN’S Smear] MY story w ln’t compare very fav’rably with the one you’ve jest heard, except in p’int of truth (began the rough—looking, fiashily-dressed man, who, in spite of his huge watch-chain and loud manner, evidently had a kind heart un- der his plaid waist-coat), and I reckon I rather hold over my story-telling friend in that r — gard. I can’t tell it as glib and ready-like as he did, either. I never hed much schoolin’, and I expect I shall mix things up a good deal. I’ve been banging about the world with travel- ing circuses ever since I was ten years old. It’s possible you may have heard of me some- time or other, and it’s possible you hain’t. I’m one of the Blue Brothers of Belloochistan. We were called “ Blue ” on the bills to draw attention; and as for Belloochistan, why I came from the Isle of Guernsey myself, and Joe Downs, he was born and partially raised down here on Long Island Sound. Howsum— (lever, that don’t matter. The name looked well in big letters, and it drew. In them days I’m goin’ to tell you of, Joe and me traveled with the Grand Consolidated European. I persume you’ve hcerd of the European, ef you disrememb-Ar the Brothers_ There wasn’t -a circus goin’ out of New York then that could hold over us. We had Captain John Josephus, the greatest living American bareback rider; and Madame Celeste, and Master Harry, the Infant Prodigy; and Signor Pampanini, with his trained (legs; and Mister Merryboy, the popular clown of the day; and a thousand other attractions too numerous to recite. I will say, however, of the pageant, gentlemen, that it was quite un- equaled by anything that had ever been showed in this country. It was gorgeous in the extreme, and whole cities used regularly to turn inside out to see us. But it’s about the Belloochistan Brothers I was goin’ to tell you. Joe and I had a big re— putation in them days, though possibly, as I say, you may never have heard of us. Ours was the trapeze line-—a new thing then——and we drew better t an any other names on the bills. And we g our prices, too. I wasn’t as heavy then as I V now, and was strong as a bull; and Joe, he wasn’t as muscular as I was but he was lighter. That’s why he allus took the lower hold and I the upper. Why, Lord bless you, he could turn twice to my once and was spry as a cAt. We had been so long together that we got quite fond of each other, Joe and I. We call- ed ourselves a kind of partnership—we two— and nobody else was ever admitted till one day the manager came to us and wanted us to take Master Harry on the trapeze with us. The boy was handsome and smart and he thought that we three together might do some very pretty posturing. Joe—he was allus a grufl.’ kind of feller anyway and nobody ever liked him unless they knewed him well—he refused right. up and down; but I rather liked the idea. myself and I worked him over. i had taken a notion to the boy Harry the first time he came among us—a sad-eyed, intelligent, gentlemanly little fellow who never ought to have been there. I came to love him asthough he had been my very own before many weeks, and he got to thinkin’ a heap of me. Poor little kid! that was nateral enough when I was the only one. that didn't scold him and abuse him the whole time. And after a while, he told me his story—and a. sad enough story it was, too. He never would tell me his real name, nor where he come from—he had an old head on him, Harry did, and he had a kind of morbid idea that if it were known who his folks were, or if he went back to them now, after his circus life, that he should disgrace them forever. So he stayed with us, though l know that life was a burden to him in the cir— cus and he would rather have died than not— and indeed he couldn’t well help himself, for Pinkham threatened to whip him to death if he tried any games on him—and as I say, though Harry would never tell even me very much about his old life, yet I did get this much out of him, that his father was very rich, and lived in a big house, and had lots of fine people come and see him—only Harry hadnever been happy there because his father did not love him at all and gave all his love to Charlie. Char- lie was Harry’s brother and was jest his age and size, only Charlie’s eyes were blue instead of dark and his hair was jest like gold. And they loved each other dearly and Harry knew down the road and never came back any more. woman; it was the Bouquet Girl, Frank, and 9. Charlie must have cried when he went 011' Only Harry could not live like that, with his father hating him: so he ran away to join a l Circus—a life that seemed all gold and sun— shine to him. Ah, gentlemen, he found out soon enough that the gold was only brass and the srmshine pretty much storm. And there is one other character in this story—for I take it, gents, that a story would be a pretty poor thing without a girl in it.— and that was Dolly Nevers. I hain’t much to say about her, and I think, too, the less I say the better. She wasn’t jest your right sort as I found out afterwards; but I thought she was an angel then, and I loved her ,and she pre- tended she loved me. And it was this that made trouble between me and Joe. Joe he was in love with her too, you see. And some- how or other, bein’ more polished and sociable like than he was, I got the inside track of him there, and she didn’t treat him half-way de— cent sometimes. But he was a mulish kind of feller anyway, and that only made him worse. He set his heart on her and he was bound to have her; and he got more and more sulky every day, and by and by he wouldn’t sav a word more to me than he could help. That's the way matters stood when we started out from New York in the spring again. I tried once or twice to bring him to his senses with kind words, but I got no satisfaction. It must have looked mighty queer to the audience sometimes to see us two on the swing together, each with the other’s life in his hands, and scowling at each other all the time like deadly enemies. But I see you are getting impatient for my story, gentlemen, so I'll come to it at once. One day we were advertised to show at W__——, acountry town down in Massachu- setts. It was jest after dinner, not long be- fore the afternoon performance, that I went around to the back side of the dressing—room and came suddenly upon Joe sitting there all alone by himself. There was a look of fiercest hatred in his eyes as they looked up and met mine. I had never known him look at me so ugly before. But I stepped right up to him and put out my hand. “Joe,” says I, as kindly like as I knew how—and I swear, gen- tlemcn, I did feel kind 0’ sorry about it—Joe and I used to be such good friends and I really liked him—“Joe,” says I, “how long is things to go on like this? Has the old firm got to bu’st up, su: -. ?” He never looked up as he replied back. “Curse you, What do you come here for! Why don’t you keep clear of me? Don’t you know it is as much as I can do to keep my fingers off your cowardly throat?” This kind of got 11: y blood up and I answered up kind of mad. “All right,” I said. “that must he must. A friend’s a friend, and an enemy’s an enemy. But as for your laying hands on me, Joe Dewns, that’s a game two can play at,” and I left him and went off to— wards the big tent. t \Ve had a good audience that afternoon—we allus did in country tOWns, for in the country folks comes ten miles to see a good show—— and the Grand Entree never was finer, and Madame Celeste never more graceful, nor Captain Josephus never more glorious in his Twelve— in—Hand Bareback Exploit. Then came the trained horse Excalibar, then the tamed In- dians and the mule-riding. and then "The Blue Brothers of Belloochistan, assisted by Master Harry, the Infant Prodigy." The swings were let down and arranged, and we three came bounding into the r ng. and were greeted with rapturous applause, especially Master Harry, who was a favorite wherever we went. I went up first, for—as I have said——being the strongest and heaviest I was generally above. Then came Joe and took his seat on the bar by my side, and then, like a young monkey. Master Harry climbed swiftly up the. rope and placed himself between us. We did not exert ourselves specially at first, saving the best for the last. Separately each went on to the upper bar—first Joe, then ’, and finally little Harry, each winning in turn rounds of applause from the people on the seats. Then Joe and I took the bar and went through our whole pro— gramme of double—posturing, and we were without equals at that time if Ido say it. And there warn’t many difficult or dangerous pos— tures possible which we didn’t execute, you may be sure—and all as easy and calm as if we’d been five feet from the ground, with a feather- bed below, instead of full forty and nothing at all but solid ground to fetch up on if we slipped. Yet why shouldn’t we be easy and calm when we’d been through it a thousand times before, and knew each other perfectly— only once in a" while as I met Joe’s eyes I caught slinking back in them a hateful, treach- erous look that was new to them, and for the instant I felt nervous. At last came the final act, the Great Human Chain, in which all three performed together. It was a simple thing enough in reality, though it looked terrible, I fancy, to the audience. lVe all went into the upper swing and the lower one was drawn aside out of the way. Then this was how we did it: first, Harry went down, swingin’ himself free of the bar and holding fast to Joe’s ankles; then Joe next, putting his hands in mine, while I, ap- parently with great labor and difficulty, let him and myself down slowly and gradually till we hung there a veritable human chain, supported by the slight swing to which I clung, head downward, by my legs. So much did not frighten the audience very much, but pleased them a good deal, and they clapped it loudly. But when little Harry, who had been clinging by his hands, suddenly reversed him- self and was all at once suspended there head downward, locking his legs in Joe’s, then a shudder passed over the whole tent. And yet, as I say, there was really nothing to shudder at. Joe and I were men of nerve and well used to the business; and I never saw a boy prodigy with less nervousness about him than Harry. There was no danger of him. In this position we usually remained for nearly a minute. By that time Harry and I would get enough of it with our heads bang- ing downward and the blood rushing to our brains. And during this minute it was the custom for Joe to be drawn up by the united strength of our arms till his face was on a level with mine. This was a point that always tickled the crowd amazingly. Hardly had we gotten into position this time when I felt Joe drawing himself up with a kind of fierce en- ergy that startled me. In a moment his face was close to mine, and his hot breath burning my cheek; and then, during the instant that we remained so, clearly and distinctly he hissed in my ear these words: “ Give me your word you’ll give upjhe girl, Bill Hanson, or as I’m a living man, I’ll drop the boy.” Then slowly he let himself down again for a moment. ' What do you make of it, gentlemen—what do you think you would have made of it if you had been in my place? I was a strong man and by no means a timid one; but I tell you, when I heard these words of J oe’s, there came over me such a sickening and a weaken— for me. It all flashed across me at once— how much that woman was to me and how much 1 must give up to save the boy—forl knew that in that way only could I save him I knew Joe meant every word he said. He was crazy with jealousy and hatred, and would think nothing of dropping Harry 03 just then. But I did not hesitate at all. I had no thought but to comply—no thought but to save Harrv from the terrible fate i knew would come to him if I refused. And then, again, I felt Joe raising himself, and his face came up close to mine again, and I gasped, “It shall be as you say,‘ Joe; only don’t do that. For the lowe of Heaven, come up, Joe. I don’t think I can hold on.” But he did not hear me, but coolly let himself d0wn again, while I hung desper- ately to the bar, with my head feeling like it would burst, and all the while that awful strain on my arms. I had never found them heavy before, but now they hung on me like lead. And then followed a terrible thing, gentle- men --— so terrible that I can never forget it. so terrible that it robs me of my sleep and haunts my dreams to this day. Suddenly, from among the spectators, sitting near the band, came a cry, not of terror, but of delight, and then a childish voice shouted out in the still- ness, “ Oh, Harry, Harry! Why, father, it‘s my brother Harry!” and then I heard a great cry of a thousand people, and then shouts, and shrieks, and murmuring; and then I felt Joe coining upr—and then, I hardly know how. I found myself beside him on the bar-—him and him only! But where was Harry! I was dizzy and I could hardly see, and I seized him roughly by the arm, and fairly screamed the question. “He let go himself and fell when the young one on the benches yelled,” said Joe, gasping for breath. “So help me Heaven. Bill, ’1 did not do it, and I thank God that I did not!” I looked stupidly down into the ring and saw it all, hardly understanding it yet. There was a gentleman in the ring and a golden-haired little boy, and they were bending over a shapeless, mangled thing in tinsel and gold— all that was left of poor little Harry. And thcn I saw the gentleman lift him up and go out of the ring, and the light-haired child weeping by his side; and then a kind of dark- ness and dizziness came over me, and I fainted. I can forgive Joe the awful crime that had been in his heart; it was he~who saved my life. who caught me as I let go the bar and held me until a rope could be sent up to let me down by. And I found out then how it had been with Harry. Poor little fellow, hanging there by his feet, head down, and hearing a voice he had known in other days had been too much for him—he had let go his hold and fallen. He was quite dead of course when they tobk him up—quite dead and terribly crushed. And that is all. The Blue Brothers did not perform that night nor any other night after that, for I never went into a swing with Joe again. I knew it had not been his fault—the was sincerely repentant, I forgave him that horrible threat. And I told him bitterly that I would keep my promise about the woman: only he swore, with tears in his eyes, that he should never see her again. Nor (lid I see her again either, for when I went back to New York she had gone off with another man, and I learned that about her that made me pity her, but which killed my love for her. And, as I said before, that is all. (To be continued —commeuced in N0. {‘88.} Hm? for the weak, nervous and debilitntmi. Chronic and painful diseases cured without med;- cine. Electric Belts and other appliances, all a! u'llI them. and how to distinguish the genuine from . spurious. Book. with full particulars. mailed free. Address PI'LVERMACHER GALVANIC 00.. 292 Vine 5' .. Cincinnati. 0. 385-5t. e.o.\\‘. T0 ADVERTISERS. g?” A few Advertisements will be inserted on this page at the rate of fifty cents per line, non- pareil measurem nt. Dime Serio-Cumic Speaker. A new and choice collectibn of original, selected and adapted laughable and enjoyable pieces for School, Exhibition and Home stage. For sale by all newsdealers, or sent, post-paid, to any address, on receipt of price—TEN CENTS. BEADLE AND ADAMS, PUBLISHERS. 98 WILLIAM STREET, an Yeas. Can make $5 a (la in their own city or town. Address 's Man‘g, Waltham. Mass. 389-4t. d . ELEGANT CARDS, no two alike, with name. 10c. post paid. J. B.’ Hcs'rzn. Nassau, . 9. TRUTH IS MIGHTY! um um. um. “an. a. of mum... 4 Prof. MARTINEZ, Cl Pun-inc. 7-: 3., Bowen, III. 1‘16- 6: no 5-5“: I " I 367 26t e, o. w, BEAUTIFUL PHOTO’S & Circ’s of books, etc . 4 10c.; 3 nice stereo. views. 250. S. L. LUDDEN. E. Lincoln, Me. 387—4t.a V Extra Fine Mixed Cards, with name} 0 20 cts., post-paid. L. JONES & 00.. Nasszgh 1:5. .1' FANCY CARDS, no 2 alike, with name, 10c., post- 2 paid. Nassau CARD 00., Nassau. N. Y. Boxt50. ' “as, Repp, Damask, &c., with name 5 Enfufiac. Clinton Bros., Clmtonville, £0211. t- . terms free. TRU & 00., Augusta, Maine. $ I 2 a day at home. A cute wanted. Outfit an 355-1)’ ants. $10 Outfit. Fret. -Y, Augusta, Maine. IO $736;ng mm per da at home. Sam les worth 35 $5 To tree. ySTDISON is 00., ortlandkgfi This Is No Humbug. BY sendln 35 cents and stamp with use, hlgnt coloro eyes and hair, fyou will receive by re- turn mail a correct picture 0 {our future husband or wife, with name and date 0 marriage. Address W. FOX, P. 0. Box No. 88, Fultonville, N. Y. 859 1 y 556%??? EGANT CARDS no two alike with name, 10 géoEtgq post-paid. GEO. I. REED CO., Nfiau. 382- . n D CARDS with name. 10c. and 3c. stamp. 6 was 60. Do’wdd: Co., Bristol,(‘.9n_l;t. 3t our own town. Terms and 85 outfit LLE'I'I‘ & 00., Portland, Magma y Mixed Cards. with name. 10 cts. Samples for ing that I felt as though my legs would let go . 30 3 ct. Sta-mp. J..INKLER & 00., Nassau, N. _,._.__... .,.w P...»— accident; and for saving me, and because he - 389 9tr. _ ' r ' l 1:": I. .. " .~"‘ ".111 ,7 ' ~ ;. . Ix :j . L ; l L i H“ F ; ,i' . . ,L, ; lbw“. Hui: or, _ , ‘ fr: » .ill'ii'" v- . 5 5%: a I ‘1.;J‘l' ~ . 212'?! l .‘13, _l' 1' l .‘f' '. ‘3‘ l ‘r' ‘ l ‘5' .93: l il’l‘ ,3 *1: l '53,; .3 g. 3.; I .,_;' l ' l -'.,; 2' , l i l 1 i i ,. i ' I i R 3; I - was}??? 451‘: -12.