Norwalk gazette, Friday, September 4, 1896 · page 12

 

 

DAYS LOST AND WON.
" If we sit down at set of sun,
And count the things that we have done,
And counting find
One self-denying act, one word
That eased the heart of him who heard:
One glance most kind.
That fell like sunshine where it went,
' Then we may count that day well spent.

“ But if, through all the livelong day,
We’ve eased no heart by yea or nay;
. ‘ If through it all
We’ve done no thing that we can trace
That brought the sunshine to a face:
No act most small,

That helped some soul and nothing cost.

. Then count that day as worse than lost.”

HIS FIRST WIFE.

Cynthia regarded the flashing little

circlet with evident delight. It was
one of many that sparkled on her deli-
cate white hand, but it here a signifi-
cance beyond the others. It meant the
clipping of butterfly wings; the waning
of the homage due to a beautiful and
marriageabl . eiress, and which, though
often made ‘ subject of scornful wit,
was ever accepted and acceptable; it
meant the ratification of a sweet and
binding contract with the chosen one-
the man to whom wealth was no ob-
ject, and rank no allurement, and, for
that reason, it dazzled eyes familiar
with the radiance of gems.

The fingers that had just bestowed
the gift still clasped hers with tender
pressure, and, for the first time, she
noticed their single ornament—4n oddly
shaped gold ring, that found fault in
her fastidious eyes.

“Why do you wear this?” she asked.
with a curl of the lip.

“Because I value it,” replied her lover,
secretly resenting the little sneer.

Her curiosity was roused. Though
she felt that for some reason he would
prefer not to talk about it, she per-
sisted.

“Did you buy it?”

“N o; it was given to me.”

“By a friend?” -.

“By the best friend I ever had.”

The laconic replies annoyed her. She
dropped his hand, saying: “Well, I
don’t admire it.”

He-accepted the dismissal of the sub-
ject without a word, and the conversa-
tion drifted into another channel—one
of the winding tributaries of love. Fu-
ture plans were discussed, and dates
were fixed, to a running accompaniment
of jest and laughter.

Suddenly the ring caught her careless
glance again. - .

“There,” she said, pointing to it im-
patiently; “it fascinates me. I am sure
it has a history. Tell me.”

She spoke as one who is used to com-
mand, and certain of compliance. Lean-
ing back she closed her eyes languidly
and waited. -

“Go on,” she said at last with some

surprise.

And still he hesitated.

“Is it a sad one. You would not care
to know it.”

She sat erect, intensely curious.

“Indeed I would, now that you are
so mysterious. Does it contain poison?
Is it a Masonic symbol? Or perhaps
some weird sign of witchery?”

For once her gayety jarred on him,
and he was unable to answer in' the
same bantering strain.

“My dear,” he said, gently, it was
given to me by one who is dead.”

She was momentarily silent, then be—
gan again:

“ I have never noticed it before.”

“And yet I always wear it.”

S‘Why?7!

“Oh, Cynthia, you asked me that
once. Because . I value it. more than
anything I possess.”

“Well, I will give you one, quite as
quaint, and with an original inscription
——will you wear it for me?”

Her'pretty eagerness made him smile.

“Of course 1 will.”

She flushed a little. “I mean, will
you wear it instead of this?”

“No; I cannot promise that.”

His answer startled her; it was so
grave and resolute. She renewed the
attack: “But, don’t you see, if I gave
It. you, it would be your most precious
possession. Don’t you care for me bet
ter than any one in the world?”

He drew her to him fondly.

“Yes; I can answer that with truth,
but you would not have me break my
promise?” .

“What promise?” -

"I vowed to wear it as long as I live.

If it be possible, it shall be buried with
me.” .
“The dying have no right to extort
such promises from the living,” she re-
marked, sententiously. “Your friend
was extremely selfish.”

“0h, Cynthia, she was an angel l”

There was more sorrow than anger in
the'tone. He did not look for much
depth of feeling in Cynthia—she had
been too spoilt. It was his task to bring
out the lovable points in her natun
that her luxurious life had left undo
veloped, and in which his love-dimmed
eyes had foreseen great and noble possi
bilities. 4

“She was-your first wife? ’ asked
Cynthia, slowly, and showing no d-s
position to retract her former cp‘;_.‘

“Yes; the ring had been in in:
for many generations. She coun‘ ’ ‘4
it a kind of talisman, and we..- r.
ways, till, dying, she bequeathed i. ..
me. There is my story.”

. “It seems impossible that you can f a .
me in so small a sacrifice,” sne rejoine...
with a bitter little laugh; “still, you.
see, such things may happen.” '

Her air of. calm resolution was mad
dening‘. yet he felt instinctively that no
word of reproach or anger would help.
Assent was dishonorable, denial Was
difficult; there was'no. way out of the
dilemma. . >

“A little time,” he pleaded.

“Till to-night,” she said, hurriedly.
“You must let me know your decision
by then. Remember, nothing can alter
mine.» I only - claim my- right. But,"
she added, persuasively, “you can easily
decide now. , Let me have my way.

vAh, do, and endear—first and last quar
rel!” ’
‘_‘ There .was a subtle fondness in he:
tone, an undefinable pewer in her swif

_—

upward glance that swayed his waver-
ing heart, but the golden token on his
finger pressed him~ under her clinging
hand, and he shook his head.

“No, dear, such a vow is not to be
lightly broken. I must earnestly con-
sider your request. I wish you had
asked me anything but this," he went
on, wistfully, seeking sympathy in her
soft, dark eyes.

But Cynthia’s tenderness had vanished.
She drew back, piqued, ill at ease. in
her suppliant attitude; an ominous
frown darkening her fair forehead as
she turned away.

“As you will,” she said, coldly.

Memories that Cynthia’s presence had
chased for many months crowded vivid
1y into the widower’s mind as he strolled
on, heedless of din 6r traflic or the di-
rection to be pursued. Her words of
anger and opposition had investedthe
ring he had almost grown to regard
with the unthinking gaze of custom
with new and startling significance. It
simply riveted him t0'the past. He
might discard it, still holding its pur-
pose in his heart; but the thought was
a base one; he knew that his dead wife
would have home such a. vow to the
gates of Heaven, and that no sacrifice
would have abated the strength and
endurance of the love which he dared
not weigh with Cynthia’s impulsive
passion. He had hardly dwelt on it
since she had been taken from him—at
first because it meant hopeless heart-
ache, latterly because it seemed disloyal
to his betrothed; but now, at this turn-
ing ‘point, he realized his loss afresh

and wondered that the remembrancei

had faded ever so little in the radiance
of Cynthia's smiles.

Yet allegiance to the beloved dead
meant the facing of the old homeless
life, the return of that morbid depres-
sion which Cynthia‘s infectious gayety
and pretty, petulant ways alone had
power to dispel.

He had walked on, dreaming, far he-
pond his original destination—the cosey
set of rooms presided over by his faith-
ful valet. Suddenly he stopped, with
an involuntary exclamation, for he stood
at the very threshold of his old home.
What impulse had led his unconscious
footsteps along the often traversed road
he knew not, or how he came to look
upon the house he had shunned since
the day of mourning. But having come,
he was glad, for the wrench of parting
was not the present pain; he was able
to recall the grim old mansion’s joyful,
as well as sorrowful, associations. For
the first time since his bereavement he
felt the desire and strength to seek the
room within that had been hers, unal-
tered, as she had left it, till Cynthia,
resolute in her banishment of rivalling
recollections, should carelessly scatter
and rearrange.

The old housekeeper, started from her
lethargy of idle caretakin g, answered
his summons with clumsy alacrity, and
soon he stood at the bedside where
some years ago he had flung himself in
an agony of grief and sobbed out a last
farewell. .

A melancholy light struggled through
the curtained window, revealing the
dainty, familiar furniture; the knick-
knacks they had purchased together in
odd corners of the world; the pictures
she had chosen; her favorite chair; the
couch on which she had lain to please
him, with a thought of recovery. He
saw through a mist of tears, for a. gnaw-
ing hunger had crept into his heart in
the chill and utter loneliness of the room
once brightened by her dear presence.
How happy they had been! There was
no death for such a love as theirs. It
walked and throbbed in him again in
this room, where she had breathed out
her blameless life, and all that had come
between them seemed to him like a
dream. ,.

Cynthia was right; he'must always be
making useless comparisons, for some-
thing must ever be wanting in his life
—something that never could be re-
placed.

His brimming eyes sought the spot
where the coflin rested. He could see
her now, lying there, as he had looked
for the last time, white and serene, her
folded hands full of flowers: the eyes
that had reflected his loving gaze piti-
lessly sealed; a strange smile on the lips
that often met his in yielding sweet-
ness. Ah! if he might hear that low
and gentle voice again; if he might pil-
low that weary, golden head on his
breast, and, asking forgiveness for a
fleeting fancy, repeat his vow with all
the fervor of the past!

He sat- down, hiding his face in his
hands. With the reopening of this un-
healed wound came a revulsion of feel-
ing, reproach for the self- sought forget-
fulness his want of fortitude had made
desirable, remorse for the shrinking
from pain that made him swerve from
so dear a memory, and for the wrong he
did Cynthia in clinging to it.

But he hesitated no longer. The silent
hour of retrospect had brought him
very near to his first love, and with the
bitter ' ache of longing came a strange
sense of security and rest.

Unchanged she awaited him, fair and
lovely as he had known her, this dear
angel. speaking through the silence of
Heaven, to hold him to his vow.

For Cynthia he had no fears. That
she had been able to make their engag-
ment condition on this breach of trust
led him to hope its dissolution would
cause her little suffering.

A parting pang assailed him as he
penned the brief message of farewell, a
dread of the creeping, gloomy years be-
yond which his brightest hope beckon-
ed, but he lifted the talisman that wed-

ded him to his. dead ‘ bride, pressing it

softly to his lips, and the shadow fled.
Cynthia. crushed the note in her hand.
She was hurt; she was indignant; she
was scornful; a hundred sensations,
mingled with no thoughts of surrender,
struggled for mastery in her breast.
But the faint, unconfessed, regret that
struggled beneath the angry tumult, the
feeling that lies so deep in some souls
that only agony may wring it forth, the
deadened wailing of love that will not
be stilled— -thcse were among the bitter
Pst tears she shed—Hilda Newman, in'
Madame. '

 

: ‘ . 1

A PLATONIC FRIEND.

“Well, I don’t believe it’s possible,
even if you do say it, Miriam: All this
talk about platonic friendship is sim-
ply absurd. Why, I’d be willing to
wager a dozen paid of gloves that you
and Karl Scott will be engaged before
the year is out, in spite of all your
boasting about friendship.”

“Done,” said a laughing voice, and
a bright-faced girl, seated upon a
trunk, proceeded to extract, by means
of a hat pin, a large pickle from an
extremely small-necked bottle. ,

“And by this, my friends, do I here-
by seal aforesaid covenant,” and there
was a shout of laughter from the
crowd of girls about her as the speak-
er solemnly devoured the pickle.

It was not hard to see Miriam West-
cott was the leading spirit among
these college girls assembled here for
their weekly “spree. .” Bright, sensi-
ble and full of humor, she seemed the
life of the little circle about her. The
girls were students in the great Uni-
versity of M——— and after a week of
hard study were disposed to make the
most of their evening together.

“That’s the safest bet I ever made,
gir ,” said Miriam. “Why Karl and
I have known each other since we were
babies, and, besides, he’s in love with
a girl at home!” this last in a very
triumphant tone, intended to carry con-
viction with it. It only. served to
bring to the face of the first speaker
! a most sarcastic smile.

“Well, we’ll just wait and see, and
i meanwhile, Miriam, you’d best save
your spare cash.”

Hardly were the words uttered when
a ring at the door was heard and
Mirium’s mischievous whisper:

“Why girls. I do believe that’s Karl!
He’s come to take me home. You
know, he’s just like my'brother,” but
her words were drowned in the shouts
of laughter that followed.

As the door closed behind Karl and
Miriam, and they went out into the
night, Miriam said:

“It’s awfully nice of you to come
after me to-night, when you’re so busy,
too, with that Latin quiz.”

“You know I wouldn’t let you come
across that campus alone on such a
night as this,” Karl had answered, as
he put the girl’s arm through his, and
in the movement there was something
that made Miriam look up into her
companion’s face and say:

“Thank you, Karl. I am glad yOu
came.” ,

Some way Karl was unusually silent
to-night, and it was not until they
were almost home that he said, hesi-
tatingly:

“Say.
ask you something,
you’ll be angry.”

“Better not say it. then, for ’twould
be a shay o to spoil our friendship. Do
you know I’m very proud of the fact
that We’i-n such good friends, and not
the least bit in love with each other?”
And the girl looked up to her’compan-
ion with a frank expression in her
brown eyes. It was too dark to see
the expression in Karl’s face. There
was a silence, and then a short laugh
from the young man.

“Well, after that I don’t know
whether I better say what I was going
to or not. It’s this, Miriam,” he said,
hurriedly: “I wishlyou wouldn’t go
with Paul Weston. He’s not a man
that I would want my own sister-to go
with, and I wishyou wouldn’t do it
either. I knew you’d be angry,” he
continued, as the girl was silent, for
Miriam, with all her good qualities,
could not brook interference from any
one. Independent and self-reliant,
she had always followed her own
wishes, and even her best friends hes-
itated about seeming to interfere at all
with her actions.

“It’s very kind of you to trouble
yourself about me,” she said, coldly,
but I think I know whom 'to go with
and whom not. I never think of
telling you what girl to go with.”

‘You know I never go with any one
but you,” he replied, quickly, and then,
as they went in at the gate: “Miriam,
please don’t be angry. You know very
well that I only said it for your good.”

“Many thanks,” was the cool answer,
and without another word Miriam
went into the house and shut the door.

 

Miriam, I wish you’dslet me
though I know

in love with Karl Scott,” she said as
she went into her room and threw her
hat on the table. “The idea,” with a
little indignant sparkle in her eyes, “of
his trying to dictate to me.” And
there was a flush on her checks as she
sat down at the table to read her

some way it had lost its interest for
her, and, after twice reading the'ex-
traordinary simple and lucid state-
ment: “An object is the objectificd,
lnterpreting activity of intelligence re-
lated by the ego to the abstracted uni-
versal,” she shut the book in disgust
and went .to sleep that night with
Karl’s last words ringing in her ears:

 

“Miriam, don’t be angry.”

The' weeks went on, short, busy
weeks for Miriam. Between herself
and Karl Scott a truce had been do
claned, and they met apparently on
their old friendly footing. Only the

" girl and Karl himself knew that 'there'

was a difference. The old friendly re-
lation had somehow become impossi-
ble. and into their intercourse a
strange, new element had crept.

“Well, Miriam, how’s that bet?” said
Mary Sanborn, one morning some
months after the scene with which our
story opens, as she met her friend com-
lng out of college.

“All right. We had a fight that very
evening, you know, and the sky’s
cloudy even yet.” .

“That’s nothing,” said her compan-
lon’, with a laugh. “I don‘t believe I’ll
buy the gloves Just yeti"

“I’ll get/chem for you, if you like, I’m
going to ride over to lpsi this after-

 

soon.”

“Well, that doesn’t look like falling

psychology for the‘next day. But in -

., \-,--~..._ ,.., '.(,.;5“ v .v.‘._'~.‘~:" -- ..
.gafi ~ . , «um.

Will o: K” L Y ;— N 0 KW A 1.1: _- G AzE T T a.

“No, thanks,” was‘ the laughing
answer, and then the girls separated.

But Miriam was not‘so light-hearted
to-day, as she had led» her friend to
imagine. Somehow Karl’s treatment
of her had often wounded her of late.
It was not that he was unkind, but
some way the old friendly relations
were unbroken. Karl was not the jolly
companion he had once been. He was
silent and reserved; kind, always, but
somehow the girl was miserable and
unhappy.

And Karl? He, too, felt the differ-

ence, but to save his life, he could not
treat Miriam in his old, friendly fash-
ion. Why, he could not have told, but
he realized‘ that life in these past
weeks was a very different thing from
that of the years before. The hills
about the little college town had looked
more beautiful in their snowy white-
ness against the winter’s sky when he
went with Miriam to their weekly ram-
bles. ' .
' On this December day, when Miriam
had met Mary Sanborn, the girl was
unusually restless and unhappy. She
could not study, and after wandering
aimlessly about the house for some
hours, she suddenly put on her hat, re-
membering some trifle she had in
tended to buy at Ipsi, a few miles dis-
tant. Hastily putting the saddle on
her horse, she started ofi down the
road. This was Miriam's usual
mode of recreation, and no matter how
cold or stormy the day, she always re-
turned from her ride refreshed and in
good spirits. It was early in the after-
noon whcn she started.

“I’ll surely be back before dark,” she
said, ‘as'she‘left the house, but the
hours were away, and she did not’re-
turn. 'A blinding snow storm had set
in with the approach of evening. It
was diflicult to discern objects in the
gathering dusk, and the flakes fell
thicker and thicker as the darkness
became more intense. So it was with
a start of surprise that a man rcined
in his horse as the animal started at
the sight of something by the road-
side—a dark object, strangely like a
human form. In an instant he had dis-
mounted, and then Karl Scott heard a
sobbing voice that sent the blood to
his heart in great bounds. He bent
over the mournful little ngure, and the
next instant he had gathered the sob-

bing form'in his arms and was holding "

it as though he would never let it go
again.

“Oh, Karl, I thought no one would
ever come, and my foot hurts me sol”
Then two arms crept up about Karl’s
neck, and for awhile the darkness and
the storm were forgotten by the two
there alone on the hills.

Miriam’s horse had thrown her as
she was returning, and for several
hours she had been here by the road-
side with a terrible pain in her ankle
and chilled and wet by the storm.
And then the darkness had come, and
the girl had given up all hope of res-
cue for that night, till she had looked
up to see Karl’s frightened, gray eyes
and felt his kisses on her lips. How
she got home that night the girl could
never have told, but there was always
the dreamy consciousness of her
lover’s white, anxious face bending
over her.

“But, Karl, just think! How will I
ever endure it?” said Miriam one even-
ing, a few days later, as she was lying
on the couch by the open fire, whose
ruddy gleam was making a hundred
fantastic shadows in the little room,
and making the sweet, girlish face
there among the cushions more beauti-
ful than ever, as Karl who was bend-
ing over it, fondly imagined.

“You know these girls will never get
through teasing me. 'And I was sure,
too! Why did you do it, Karl?”—this
last with a reproachful glance from
her brown eyes that makes her lover
answer, softly, as he bends and kisses
her: ,

“Why, just because I couldn’t help it.
dear.”

And, strange to say, this illogical
answer ,seemed quite satisfactory to
the college girl, though in all her stud-
ies in Kant and Spencer no trace of
such reasoning had ever been found.

The next morning's mail brought a
package to Mary Sanborn, and, as she

held up to view a dozen pair of gloves .

she said, critically: _ ‘

“I always knew Miriam Westcott
had good taste in gloves.”—-Chicago
News.

Advertise in the Gaza or;

I! care: from lzead to flat.

Pu riutana

 

 

 

To make thf» cure of any disease com-
plete and permanent, the purifying, tor-
recting and building-up process must begin
and end in the Stomach.

o .. of all sickness is caused, by

a wrong Stomach. Puritana
0 makes the Heart right, the
Lungs right, the Liver right, the Blood
right, the Kidneys right, the Nerves right,
the Health right, b‘ccause it makes the
Stomach right. ,

 

The Puritana treatment consists of one bottle of
‘ Puritans, one bottle of Puritans Pills, and one bottle
of Puritans. Tablets, all in oncpackage. Price $1.
‘ All druggists. . » '

.pa-é-

4

\ ' .

 

 

 

 

s
PRANKS OT A ZULU.

HE WAS ONLY A BOWERY BOY OFF
THESTAGE; BUT HE WAS WILD.

He Seared the Night Watchman Almost
into Fits with His Pasteboard Hatchet.
Hair-Mat Wig. War Paint and Wild
Gibberish. ’

In private life William Huggard is a
tall, lanky lad of 16 years, with a ge-
nius for going to sleep on all occasions,
suitable and unsuitable. Officially he
is a Zulu chief, with a formidable as-
segai, a hairlmat wig, and enough war
paint to coat a house, those being his
“props" in a farce called “The Jay Cir-
cus,” which has been running in New
York. ‘

The other evening he went to sleep,
and when he woke up at four o’clock in
the morning he found himself very
much in the dark. Struggling to his
feet he tripped over his assegai, falling
with considerable clatter.

‘ ‘Who’s there?” called William Kiley,
the night watchman from below.

Much alarmed, the Zulu chief scuttled
out from the wings and started across
the stage, but tripped over a chateau,
and, doing an avalanche act down the
side of a distant mountain, landed with
a tremendous thud on a moonlit lake.

“Stop! or I’ll shoot,” shouted the
voice, now nearer, and Kiley, carrying
a lantern, appeared on the stage.

The Zulu chief attempted to retire
but knocked against a tree and brought
it down with a crash. .At the same mo-
ment Kiley flashed the'light of the lan-
tern upon him, and beheld an uncanny
figure, with a matlike mane and a ter-
rific countenance.

“G-g- g- good Lord,” he twittered, his
teeth chattering. “What are you?”

In an instant an inspiration came to
the Zulu chief. For the first time he
remembered he had his war costume
on, and be determined to make use of
it. Leaping in the air he gave a terrific
how! and flourished his assegai, to the
great detriment of an ancestral staircase
that happened to be in the way.

‘ ‘Ikey pikey- sikey- crikey !” he yelled.
"Whoop! Wahl! Wow! l 1”

“Lord ha’ mercy,” cried the terrified
watchman ;- ”it’s a wild man 1” and he
made a bolt with intention tofexit, but
collided with the wing, which knocked
him flat.

As he rose the Zulu chief was flourish-
‘ng a hatchet. It was a papier mache
hatchet, but Kiley didn’t know that.

"Wubblety-jubblety-jubub l” whooped
the savage. ‘ ‘Whoo-ee. eeee !”
flung his hatchet straight at Kiley’s
head.

“Help!” shrieked Kiley.
Help! Police l”

.Seizing his lantern be cleared the
footlights atabound, dashed up through
the aisle, and out into the street, still
shrieking until he found Policeman
Frazer of the East Fifty- first street sta-
tion. He told Frazer that a gorilla with
a spear was in the theatre doing a spec-
ialty act to an empty house. Frazer
said that he’d see about it. Meantime

“Murder 1

the Zulu chief had set out exploring for A

away out and had found the fire escape.
Up this he started, and had got pretty
well up when Frazer came back on the
stage, and, hearing him, put his heal
out of the rear window. The sight he
saw somewhat amazed him, but he only
said:

“Come down from there.”

“Hunky- tunky- tunk ! Whoosh ! Chil.
limawallebadory!” vociferated the Zn-
lu chief, thinking he could scare this
one away, too.

“You’ll not call me that twice,” said
Frazer. and he climbed out -on the fire
escape and chased the wild man to the
roof, where he captured him. Straight-
way the Zulu chief was transformed in-
to a very much scared youth who pro-
tested that he had done nothing wrong.
—New York Sun.

REPLIED TO BILLY FLORENCE.

"A Spectator who Answered the Comedi-

an’s Question.

' William J. Florence. the comedian,
had a reputation for bright stories and
practical jokes. The following one, is
said, by Harper’s Round Table, to have
been told by him at a dinner one even-
ing, when the conversation turned on
traveling theatre companies:

“Years ago,” said Florence. “I was in
a small 'company skipping from town to
town. We had met with extremely
bad luck up to our landing in the town
of D—. There we found the lowest
ebb of all, for when the curtain rolled
up there were just two persons in the
audience, a young lady in the orchestra
chair and a young man in the front row
of the balcony.

.“We went on with the performance
however, possibly to warm ourselves
more than anything else. According
to my part, I was helping the heroine

to escape the clutches of the villain.'

and ' in one of my lines, I said, ‘Have
you noticed that even the bright moon
is rising to light us on our- way? Be
fore she had‘ time to reply, the young
man in the balcony called out:

“ ‘I am not so certain about the lady
down stairs, but I can see it all
right.’ ”

Queen'Vlctor-la’e Donkey.

The story of the purchase of the
Queen’s favorite donkey is not very
wi’dely know. During her Majesty’s
first stay at Aix-les-Bains, eleven years
ago, it was bought from a peasant by
the wayside for 200 francs. Jack was
being driven peaceably along the banks
of the lake, when the Queen asked his
owner if he would part with him.

“That depends, madame,” said the
old peasant; “if I sell my donkey, I
shall not be able to get my living any-
more.”

“How much did you give for him?”
she asked. . ,

“A hundred francs, madam,” was the
answer.

"Well, I will give you double,” and
the bargain was forthwith concluded.

The story of the‘ sale spread through
the land, and since then , whenever he:
Majesty took her drives abroad, wheth-
er at Biarritztor Aix-les-Bains, she was

sure to meet on her read one or two.

peasants leading a handsome but a?
tenuated donkey. -—Tit. Bits.

and he.

 

For: SALE BY , -

s. ] 3. WILSON.

UILDER, 9.2 WALL STREET.

One S-room cot-inge- ‘Boio ' "
1 lot Myrtle evenve an’d 1 10315113323
avenue, 37x300 ~feet, East Norwslk ' 1
lot, 129x180 feet, Broad Roam Cabin
Steam Launch, 30x7 feel; 1 two-seated
Sleigh; 1 two-seated Business Wagon;
? good Stoves; House and Lot on'easy
erms.

/‘

Wm. Lockwood -,

Real Estate. Insurance and Investment
Securities.
—_—MONnr To Loam— ~

Insurance Placed in First-Class Companies.
Ofllce— Corner Main & Wallets" Norwal

 

ETER L. _GUIGUE.I-'lonst and Nursery
man .Uuion Avenue, north of Union
Cemtery Norwalk, Conn. Dealer in Greer.
cuse Hot House and Bedding and Vega.
table Plants .Fruit and Ornamental ‘Tr'ees
Shubbery, Vines. Cut Flowers. always on
hand. and all sorts of desrgns in flowers ar-
ranged to order. . _ j ' ‘
Grading and refilling cemetery lots at-
tended to. -

HENRY TILLY.
CARRIAGE MAKEF,

ISO UTH N OR WALK, CONE,

 

 

———Manufaciurerof—

Family Carriages. Violoooasloooios or
ALL KINDS OF REPAIRING.

 

ETNA INSRUANCE 00., of Hartford
Incorporated 1812. Charter Perpetu a
Capital and Assets, $8,902,272.64.

Insures against loss and damage by mm: on
terms adapted to the hazard and consistent
With the laws of compensation

CO LES dz. MERRILL,
Sole agents for Norwalk and vicinitv:

 

J. Belden Hurlbutt,
Allooooolaol Counselor a! Law

Room 4, up stairs,
GAZETTE BUILDING. "“‘""'

 

ADAMS EXPRESS COMPANY

Low Rates.

Main Office. depot. an‘b Norwalk,
' L. BUST. Agent.

 

 

 
 

 

Selentlfic Amerlcan‘

 
 

l.

 
 
 

 
 

, . emu".

- ruse: annexe.
DESIGN PATII‘I‘So
COPYRIGHTS, etc.
For information and frée Handbook wrlte to

MUN N a CO. 361 Bnoanwar, New YORK.

Oldest bureau for securing patents in America.
Every patent taken out by us is brought before
the pa lie by a notice given free otcharge 1n the

fidwfim ‘gllltritllll
La est circulation of any scientific paper in the
wor d. Splendltgy illustrated. No intelli out
man shou d be thcut it. Weekl &’ 00a

'3

ear; 81.50 six months. Address. MU. N
‘ BLXSBEBS. 361 Broadway, New York City.

 
 

 
 

 

The Celebrated

HAZE—LION

CROSS AND
CREEK *

GOALS, '
Foo RANGE AND FURNACE.

 

These Goals are Free From
nmm‘suu. Wino.
Delivered bytarc‘ful

Driver

Send Order for Sample Load and Satisfy Your
self that our claim is correct. .

 

Raymond Bros.il

SOUTH NORWALZ.

EW YOBK.NEW HAVEN d: HABTFOLD
RAILROAD *
' -an YonxDrvfsrox
June 14, 1896.

Trainsleave South Norwalk aSJollowv:

For New Your—Accommodation trains at
9-36 a.m., 1.11. 2.54. 4.07. 5.40. 6.50. 8.11. 10.20
p. m. Express trains at 4.55. 5.45. 6.15 (local)
6.55. (local). 7.05. (local), 7.55.
9.03 (local) 9.58. 10-40. 11.37.‘(local) a, m. 12.,52
225.420.535.620 7.35 pm. Eor Washington via
Harlem River 12.53 a.m.(daily.) ' -

Barbara—Accommodation 915 a. m.. 543,

 

(local) .7.23.(local) 9.28 p. m Express, 4.55 5.45.
a. m. ,
Fen Nuw Huron AND ran EAsT.—Accommo.

dation trains at 0.32. 7.38. 8.46 and 11 44 a;1,n.,
1.37. 2.42. (to B’p’t), 4.20. 5.27. 6.27. 7.52.8 (to B p t).
8.41. 9.41 and 11.15 p. m. .‘Express trains at 12.40,
1.11. 9,11, 10.12. 11.08 a. m. 12.05, 3.05. 5.04 (hanga-
tuck Express) 7.10 p. m. o

. SUNDAYs.—Accommodation.7.38. 9.12 can. and

.15 pan. Express 12.40 and 1.11 a. m.

 

c. T. HEMPBTEAD. GenffPass. Agent.

 

‘ Prompt Delivery
Eacnh Oflice, Norwalk, at Morris Benedic t ‘

(local). 8.21. -