The Bamberg herald. (Bamberg, S.C.) 1891-1972, May 11, 1922, Page 4, Image 4
ELEANOR
ILLOSTRj
RH.LIV1
^ # 'i,
* "Vw
V-V .
(Copyright by ELI
SYN0P81S
PREFACE.?*Mary Marl?" explain? ha
apparent "double personality" and Jus
Why she is a "cross-current and a contra
diction;" she also tells her reasons to
writing the diary?later to be a novel. Tfc
diary is commenced at Axidersonville.
CHAPTER L-Mary begins with Nurt
Sarah's account of her (Mary's) birth
which seemingly interested her fathei
who is a famous astronomer, less than i
asw star which was discovered the sam
night. Her name Is a compromise, he
mother wanted to call her viola and he
father Insisting on Abigail Jane. Tk
child quickly learned that her home wa
in some way different from those of he
small friends, and was puzzled thereat
Nurse Sarah tells her of her mother's ar
rival at AndersonvUle as a bride and ho*
) astonished they all were at the sight o
the dainty eighteen-year old girl whan
t^e sedate professor had chosen for i
CHAPTER II.?Continuing her story
Nurse Sarah makes It plain why th
household seemed a strange one to tin
rhfM hnwhar fjathar and wiatha
drifted apart through misunderstanding
each too proud to In any way attempt 6
smooth over the situation. ,
CHAPTER m.?Mary tells of the tim
spent "out west" where the "perfects
ail right and genteel and respectable
divorce was being arranged for, and he
mother's (to her) unacountable behavior
By the court's decree the child is to spen<
six months of the year with her mothe
and six months with her father. Bostoi
is Mother's home, and she and Mar:
leave Andersonville for that city to spent
the first six months.
CHAPTER IV.?At Boston Mary be
comes "Marie." She is delighted with he
new home, so different from the gloom:
house at Andersonville. The number o
gentlemen who call on her mother lead
her to speculate on the possibility of J
new father. She classes the callers a
"prospective suitors," finally deciding th
choice is to be between "the violinist'
and a Mr. Harlow. A conversation sh<
. overhears between her mother and Mr
Harlow convinces her that it will not b
that gentleman, and "to violinist" seem
to be the likely man. Mrs. Anderson re
ceives a letter from "Aunt Abigail Ander
son, her former husband's sister, whl 1
keeping house for him, reminding her tha
"Mary is expected at Andersonville foi
the six months she is to spend with he:
father. Her mother is distressed, bu
has no alternative, and "Marie" depart
for Andersonville.
\ -
CHAPTER IX.?The diary takes a Jum]
of twelve years, during which Marl*
(always Marie then) has the usual harm
less love affairs inseparable rrom girl
hood. Then she meets THE man?Gerak
Weston, young, wealthy, and already i
successful portrait painter. They &r<
deeply In love and the wedding follow)
quickly. With the coming of the baby
Eunice, things seem to change with Marii
and Gerald, and they in a manner drlf
apart. ween jvuniue is nve ywia uiu
Marie decides to part from Gerald. In
tending to break the news to her mother
j she is reminded of her own frequently
unhappy childhood and how her aetioz
in parting from her husband will sublec
Eunice te the same humiliations. Hei
eyes opened, Marie gives up her idea ol
a separation, and returns to her husband
her duty, and her love.
I Went Into the Library. Father Stood
With His Back to the Fireplace and
His Hands in His Pockets.
Jane said 1 had. "That would be just
like saying Aunt Jane lied. So, of
course, I had nothing to say. And 1
said so.
"But she says you refused to go
hack to school, Mary," said Father
then.
"Yes, sir."
"Then you did refuse?"
"Yes, sir.?
"Well, you may go and tell her bow,
please, that you are sorry, and that
you will go to school this afternoon.
You may go now." And he turned
to the table and picked up his book.
I didn't go. of course. I just stood
there twisting my handkerchief in my
fingers; and, of course, right away he
saw me. H-? had sat down then.
"Mary, didn't you hear me?" he demanded.
"Yes, s'r. but?Father, I can't go
back to that school," I choked. And I
began to cry.
"But I tell' you that you must"
I shook my head.
"I ecn't."
"Do you mean that you defy me as
iou did your Aunt Jane this morn
RiifP
H. PORTER
U10NS BY
INGSTONE.
EANOR H. PORTER)
ing??that you refuse to go back to
school?"
r "Yes, sir."
For a minutt he sat and stared at
f me just as Aunt Jane had done; then
he lifted his head and threw back his
shoulders as If he was throwing off a
heavy weight
? "Come, come, Mary," he said sterni
ly. "I am not a patient man, and ray
5 temper has reached the breaking
r point You will go back to school and
1 you will go now. I mean that, Mary."
r "But, Father, I can't," I choked; and
: I guess there was something In my
r face this time that made even him see.
\ For again he just stared for a minute,
i and then said:
"Mary, what In the world does this
J mean? Why can't you go back? Have
? you been?expelled?"
[ "Oh, no, sir."
> "Then vou mean yon won't go
back." /
* "I v mean I can't?on account of
* Mother."
F I wouldn't have said it if I hadn't
i had to. I didn't want to tell him, but
[ I knew from the very first that I'd
r have to tell him before I got through.
1 I could see It in his face. And so, now,
with his eyes blazing as he jumped al
most out of his chair and exclaimed:
r "Your mother!" I let it out and got
J it over as soon as possible.
* "I mean, on account of Mother?
J that not for you, or Aunt Jane, or
" anybody will I go back to that school
J and associate with folks that won't
* associate with me?on account of
! Mother."
* And then I told it?all about the
t girls, Stella Mayhew, Carrie, and
f how they acted, and what they said
t about my being Dr. Jekyil and Mr.
3 Hyde because I was a Mary and a
Marie, and the ice-cream, and the
I parties they had to give up if they
- went with me. And I know I was cryl
ing so I could hardly speak, before I
i finlahel; and Father was on his feet
I tramping up and down the room mut>
tering something under his breath, and
t looking?oh, I can't begin to tell how
. he looked. But it was awfuL
i "Anrt en thnt'e whv T wish." I fin
r ished chokingly, "that it would hurry
i up and be a year, so Mother could get
f married."
f "Married!" Like a flash he turned
and stopped short, staring at me.
"Why, yes," I explained; "for if she
did get married, she wouldn't be divorced
any longer, would she?"
But he wouldn't answer. With a
queer little noise in his throat he
turned again and began to walk Jup
and down, up and down, until I thought
for a minute he'd forgotten I was
there. But he hadn't For after a
while he stopped again right in front
of me.
"So your mother is thinking of getting
married," he said in a voice so
r queer it sounded as if it had come
& from away off somewhere.
But I shook my head and said no,"
? of course; and that I was very sure she
wouldn't till her year was up, and
even then I didn't know which she'd
take, so I couldnt tell for sure anything
about it. But I hpped she'd take
one of them, so she wouldn't be divorced
any longer.
Father turned, and began to
walk up and down again, with his
hands in his pockets; and I didn't
know whether to go away or to stay,
and I suppose I'd have been there now
if Aunt Jane hadn't suddenly appeared
In the library doorway.
"Charles, if Mary is going to school
at all today it is high time she was
starting," she said. But Father didn't
seem to hear. He was still tramping
up and down the room, his hands in
I his pockets.
I "Charles!" Aunt Jane raised her
roice and spoke again. "I said if Mary
is going to school at all today it is
; high time she was starting."
"Eh? What?" If you'll believe it,
that man looked as dazed as if he'd
never even heard of my going to
' school. Then suddenly his face'
changed. "Oh, yes, to be sure. Well,
er? Mary Is not going to school today,"
he said. Then he looked at his
watch, and without another - word
strode into the hall, got his hat, and
left the house, leaving Aunt Jane and
me staring into each other's faces.
But I didn't stay much longer than
Father did. I strode in to the hall, too,
by Aunt Jane. But I didn't leave the
' house. I came up here to my own
room; and ever since I've been writ!
lng it all down in my book.
Of course, I don't know now what's
going to happen next. But I wish you
could have seen Aunt Jane's face when
' Father said I wasn't going to school
today! I don't believe she's sure yet
that she heard aright?though she
didn't try to stop me, or even speak
when I left and came upstairs. But
I Just know she's keeping up a powerful
thinking.
For that matter, so am L What is '
going to happen next? Have I got to
go to school tomorrow? But then, of
course, I shan't do that Besides, I
don't believe Fafher'U ask me to, after
what I said about Mother. He didn't
like that?what those girls said?anybetter
than I did. I'm sure of that.
Why, he looked simply furious. But
there isn't any other school here that
I can be sent to, and?
But what's the use? I might surmise
and speculate all day and not
come anywhere near the truth. I must
await?what the night will bring forth,
as thev kav In reallv tmlv novels
FOUR DAYS LATER
And what did the night bring forth?
Ye% what did it bring! Verily it
brought forth one thing I thought nothing
ever could have brought forth.
It was like this.
That night at the supper table Aunt
Jane cleared her throat in the I-amdetermined-I-will-speak
kind of a way
that she always uses when she speaks
to Father. (Aunt Jane doesn't talk
to Father much more than Mother
used to.)
"Charles," she began.
Father had an astronomy paper beside
his plate, and he was so busy
reading he didn't hear, so Aunt Jane
had to speak again?a little louder
this time.
"Charles, I have something to say
n
w yw.
"EJh? What? Oh?er?yes. Well,
Jane, what is it?" Father was looking
up with his m-be-patient-if-it-kill?-me
air, and with his forefinger down on
his paper to keep his place.
As if anybody could talk to a person
who's simply tolerating you for
a minute like that, with his forefinger
lading on to what he wants to tend
to! Why, I actually found myself
being sorry for Aunt Jane.
She cleared her throat again.
"It is understood, of course, that
Mary is to go to school tomorrow
morning, I suppose," she said.
"Why, of course, of course," negan
Father impatiently, looking down at
his paper. "Of course she'll go to?"
he stopped suddenly. A complete
change came to his\ face. He grew
red,, then white. His eyes sort of
flashed. "School?" he said then, in
a hard, decided voice. "Oh, no; Mary
is not going to school tomorrow morning."
He looked down to his paper
and began to read again. For him the
subject was very evidently closed. But
ivsr aiuii juuc 11 v??s iiul tiuacu.
"Ton don't mean, Charles, that she
Is not to go to school at all, any more,"
she gasped.
"Exactly." Father read on in his
paper without looking up.
Aunt Jane's lips (time together hard.
"Charles, I'm amazed at you?yielding
to that child's whims like this?
that she doesn't want to go to school!
It's the principle of the thing that I'm
objecting to. Do you realize what it
will lead to?what it?"
"Jane I" with a jerk Father sat up
straight. "I realize some things that
perhaps you do not But that is
neither here nor there. I do not wish
Mary to go to school any more this
spring. That is all; and I think?it
is sufficient"
"Certainly." Aunt Jane's lips came
togetner again grim ana nara. "\rerhaps
you will be good enough to say
what she shall do with her time."
"Time? Do? Why?er?what she
always does; read, sew, study?"
"Study?" Aunt Jane asked the question
with a hateful little smile that
Father would have been blind not to
have understood. And he was equal
to it?but I 'mosjt fell over backward
when I found how equal to it he was.
"Certainly," he says, "study. I?I'll
hear her lessons myself?in the library,
after I come home in the afternoon.
Now let us hear no more
about it."
With that he pushed back his plate
and left the table without waiting
for dessert. And Aunt Jane and I
were left alone.
I didn't say anything. Victors
shouldn't boast?and I was a victor,
of course, about the school. But
when I thought of what Father had
said about my reciting my lessons to
him every day in the library?I
wasn't so sure whether I'd won out
or not. Recite lessons to my father?
Why, I couldn't even imagine such a
thing!
Aunt Jane didn't say anything either.
I guess she didn't know what to say.
And it was kind of a queer situation,
when you came right down to it. Both
of us sitting there and knowing I
wasn't going back to school any more,
and I knowing why, and knowing Aunt
Jane didn't know why. (Of course I
had not told Aunt Jane about Mother
and Mrs. Mayhew.) It would be a
funny world, wouldn't it, if wo all
knew what each other was thinking
all the time? Why, we'd get so we
wouldn't any of us speak to each other,
'I'm afraid, we'd be so angry at
what the other was thinking.
Well, Aunt Jane and I didn't speak
that night at the supper table. We
finished in stern silence then; Aunt
Jane went upstairs to her room and
I went up to mine. (You see what a
perfectly wildly exciting life i.iary is
living! And when I think of how full
of good times Mother wanted every
minute to be. But that was for
Marie, of course.)
The next morning after breakfast
Aunt Jane said:
"You will spend your forenoon studying,
Mary.; See that you learn well
your lessons, so as not to auuvj- youi
father."
I "Yes, Aunt Jane," said Mary, polite
and proper, and went upstairs
obediently; but even Mary didn't
know exactly how to study those lessons.
Carrie had brought me all my books
from school. I had asked her to
when I knew that 1 was not goirij
back. There were the lessons tha
had been assigned for the next day
of course, and I suppoeed probabl;
Father would want rae to study those
But I couldn't Imagine Father teachini
me all alone. I couldn't imagine my
self reciting lessons to Father!
But I needn't have worried. If
could only have known. Little did
think?But, there, this is no way t<
tell a story. I read in a book, "Hov
to Write a Novel," that you mustn'
"anticipate." (I thought folks alwayi
anticipated novels. I do. I though
you wanted them to.)
Well, to go on.
Father got home at four o'clock. !
saw him come up the walk, and 1
waited till I was sure he'd got settlee
in the library, then I went down.
He wasn't there.
A minute later I saw him crossing
the lawn to the observatory. Well
what to do I didn't know. Mary sale
to go after him; but Marie said nay
nay. And in spite of being Mary Jusl
now, I let Marie have h$r way.
Rush after him and tell him he'e
forgotten to hear my lessons? Fa
ther? Well, I guess not! Besides, il
wasn't my fault. I was there al
ready. It wasn't my blame that h(
wasn't there to hear me. But he
might remember and come back. Well
If he did, I'd be there. So I went tc
one of tfiose bookcases and pulled ou1
a touch-me-not book from behind the
glass door. Then I sat down and read
till the supper bell rang.
Father was five minutes late to sup
per. I don't know whether he looked
at me or not. I didn't dare to look al
him?until Aunt Jane said, la hei
chilliest manner:
'T trust your daughter had good
lessons, Charles."
I had to look at him then. 1 Jusl
couldn't look anywhere else. So 1
was looking straight at him when he
gave that funny little startled glance
into my eyes. And Into his eyes then
fhara f?rc?nt the fnnnfpfit rtPflrPQf- Httlc
tAAV* V v?-v
understanding twinkle?and I suddenly
realized that Father, Father, was
laughing with me at a little secret between
us. But't was only for a second.
The next moment his eyes were
very grave and looking at Aunt Jane.
"I have no cause to complain?oi
my daughter's lessons today," he said
very quietly. Then he glanced over
at me again. But I had to look away
quick, or I would have laughed right
out.
When he got up from the table he
said to me: '1 shall expect to see you
tomorrow in the library at four, Mary.*1
And Mary answered: "Yes, Father,4
polite and proper, as she should; bu?
Marie inside was Just chuckling with
the joke of it all.
The next day I watched again al
four for Father to come up the walk;
and when he had come in I went down
to the library. He was there in his
pet seat before the fireplace. (Father
always sits before the fireplace,
whether there's a fire there or not
And sometimes he looks so funny sitting
there, staring into those gray
ashes just as if it was the liveliest
kind of a fire he was watching.)
As I said, he was there, but I had
fn cnoob ftrfno hpfnrp hp looked UD.
Then, for a minute, he stared vaguely.
"I Have No Cause to Complain?of My
Daughter's Lessons Today," He Said
Ve*y Quietly.
"Eh? Oh! Ah?er?yes, to be sure,"
he muttered then. "You have come
with your books. Yes, I remember."
o?tT fu'inlrla in hifl
JZ>U L IUC1C VYUSU I ail J L >> tHK.it UX uui
eyes, nor the least little bit of an understanding
smile; and I was disappointed.
I had been looking for it. I
knew then, when I felt so suddenly
lost and heart-achey, that I had been
expecting and planning all day on that
twinkly understanding smile. You
know you feel worse when you've just
found a father and then lost him!
And I had lost him. 1 knew it the
minute he sighed and frowned and got
up from his seat and said. "Oh, yes, to
be sure." He was just Doctor Anderson
then?the man who knew all about the
stars, and who had l>een unmarried to
Mother, and who called me "Mary" in
an of-course-you're-my-daughter tone
of voice.
Well, he took my books ana neara
my lessons, and told me what I was
to study next day. He's done that two
days now.
Oh, I'm so tired of being Mary!
And I've got more than four whole
months of It left. I didD't get Mother's
letter today. Maybe that's why
I'm specially lonesome tonight
* JULY FIRST.
r, School is done, both the regular
y school and my school. Not that my
school has amounted to much. Really
g It hasn't. Oh, for three or four days
he asked questions quite like Just a
teacher. Then he got to talking.
I Sometimes it would be about someI
things in the lessons: sometimes it I
d would be about a star, or the moon.
7 And he'd get so interested that I'd
t think for a minute that maybe the uns
derstanding twinkle would come into
t his eyes again. But it never did.
Sometimes it wasn't stars and moons,
though, that he talked about. It was
I Boston, and Mother. Yes, he did. He
1 talked a lot about Mother. As I look
1 back at it now, I can see that he did.
He asked me all over again what she
did, and about the parties, and the
I folks that came to see her. He asked
? again about Mr. Harlow, and about
I the concert, and the young man who
, played the violin, and what was his
t name, and how old was he, and did I
like him. And then, right in the mid1
die of some question, ?r rather, right
In the middle of some answer I was
t rivinc him. he would suddenly remem
I ber he was hearing my lessons, and
* he would say, "Come, come, Mary,
J what has this to do with your les.
sons?"
> Just as If I was to blame! (Bat,
t then, we women always get the blame,
5 I notice.) And then he'd attend strict'
ly to the books for maybe five whole
minutes?before he asked another
question about that party, or the vloI
linist.
Naturally the lessons haven't
amounted to much, as you can imagine.
But the term was nearly finished, any!
way; and my real school Is In Boston,
of course.
It's vacation now. I do hope th%t
[ will amount to something I
j
i AUGUST FIRST. s
k It hasn't, so far?I mean vacation.
Really, what a world of disappoinfcment
this is! How on earth I'm going
to stand being Mary for three
months more I don't know. But I've
k got to, I suppose. I've been here May,
June, and July; and that leaves Au|
gust, September, and October yet to
: come. And when I think of Mother
and Boston and Marie, and the darling
good times down there where you're
really* wanted, I am simply crazy.
If Father wanted me, really wanted
k me, I wouldn't care a bit. I'd be willing
to be Mary six whole months. Yes,
' A W- - -3 4A OM4 T'm
I 1 U ue |IBU IV> UUV UC u?su W. 1IM
Just here by ordef of the court. And
t what can you do when you're nothi
ing but a daughter by order of the
court?
I Since the lessons have stopped,
; Father's gone back to his "Good-morni
lng, Mary," and "Good-night," and
i nothing else, day in and day out
' Lately he's got so he hangs around
, the house an awful lot, too, so I can't
even do the things I did the first of
the month. I mean that I'd been play'
ing some on the piano, along at the
: first, after school closed. Aunt Jaiie
was out in the garden a lot and
1 Father out to the- observatory, so I
. Just reveled in piano-playing till I
found almost every time I did it that
he had come back, and was in the
library with the door open. ISO I
don't dare to play now. . j
And there isn't a blessed thing to
do. Oh, I have to sew an hour, and
now I have to weed an hour, too;
and -Aunt Jane triea to have me learn
to cook; but Susie (In the kitchen)
flatly refused to have me "messing
around," so Aunt Jane had to give
that up. Susie's the one person Aunt
Jane's afraid of, you see. She always
threatens to leave if anything goes
across her wishes. So Aunt Jane has
*- - ?--? r 1 +/*11 \TT-Q
CO DO caroiui. x ueaxu uci ?,?*
Small next door that good hired girls
were awfully scarce in Andersonville.
As I said before, If only there was
somebody here that wanted me. But
there isn't. Of course Father doesn't
That goes without saying. And Aunt
Jane doesn't. That goes, too, without
saying. Carrie Heywood has gone
away for all summer, so I can't have
even her, and of course, I wouldn't
associate with any of the other girls,
even if they would associate with me
?which they won't
That leaves only Mother's letters.
They are dear, and I love them. I
don't know what I'd do without them.
And yet, sometimes I think maybe
they're worse than if I didn't have
them. They make me so homesick,
? - A.
and I always cry so aiter 1 get mem.
Still, I know I just couldn't live a
minute If 't wasn't for Mother's letters.
Besides being so lonesome there's
another thing that worries me, too;
and that is, this?what I'm writing, I
mean. The novel. It's getting awfully
stupid. Nothing happens. Nothing!
Of course, if 'twas just a story
I could make up things?lots of them
?exciting, Interesting things, like
having Mother elope with the violinist,
and Father shoot him and fgll in
i^tta ti7<+.h Afnthor all ncnlll. OT
iWC VTAU1 AIAVCMV* V*.* v T v* ? J
else with somebody else, and shoot
that one's lover. Or maybe somebody'd
try to shoot Father, and I'd get there
just in time to save him. Oh, I'd love
that f
But this Is a real story, so, of course,
I can't put In anything only Just what
happens; and nothing happens.
And that's another thing. About
the love story?I'm afraid there Isn't
going to be one. Anyway, there Isn't
a bit of a s[gn of one, yet, unless It's
Mother, ^nd of course, I haven't seen
her for three months, so I can't say
anything about that.
(To be continued next week.)
Piles Cured in 6 to 14 Days
Druggists refund money if PAZO OINTMENT fails
to cure Itching, Blind, Bleeding or Protruding Piles.
Instantly relieves Itchmg Piles, and you can get
restful sleep after the first application. Price 60c.
*
To Stop a Cough Quick
take HAYES' HEALING HONEY,f a
cough medicine which stops the cough by
healing the inflamed and irritated tissues.
A box of GROVE'S 0-PEN-T7 YTE
SALVE for Chest Colds, Head Colds and
Croup is enclosed with every bottle of
HAYES' HEALING HONEY. The salve
should be rubbed on the chest and throat
of children suffering from a Cold or Croup.
The healing effect of Hayes' Healing Honey inside
the throat combined with the healing effect of
Grove's O-Pen-Trate Salve through the pores of
.1 ? K
U1C 3&.U1 DUUU otuyo O
Both remedies are packed in one carton and the
cost of the combined treatment is 35c.
Just ask your druggist for HAYES'
HEALING HONEY.
ORDER OF NOTICE.
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT
EASTERN DISTRICT OF SOUTH
CAROLINA.
IN BANKRUPTCY.1
In the Matter of L. Morris, Bankrupt.
On this 18th day of April, A. D.
1922, on reading the foregoing petition,
it is
Ordered by the Court that a hearing
be had upon the same on the
1st day of June, A. D., 1922, before
said Court at Charleston, S. C., in
said District, at 11 o'clock in the
forenoon, and that notice thereof be
puDiisnea in rne isamoerg ineraia, a
newspaper printed in said District,
and that all creditors and other persons
interested may appear at said
time and place and show cause if
any they have why the prayer of the
said petitioner should not be granted.
And it is further Ordered by the
Court that the Clerk shall send by
mail to all known creditors copies
of said petition and this order addressed
to them at their places of
residence as stated.
Witness the Honorable Henry A.
M. Smith, Judge of the said Court,
and the seal thereof, at Charleston,
S.C., in sadi District, on the 18th
da"y of April, A. D. 1922.
RICHARD W. HUTSON,
5-18 Clerk.
S. Q. MAYFIELD
ATTORNEY-AT-LAW
Practice in all courts, State and
Federal.
Office Opposite Southern Depot.
BAMBERG, S. C.
NOTICE
CONCERNING PLOWING
IN PUBLIC ROOADS.
Pursuant to recommendation of
the Bamberg County Grand Jury, the
landowners of the county cultivating
lands adjacent and adjoining public
roads are hereby urgently requested
nr>t tn nlnur intn nr alTnw thftfr hands
to plow into the roads. Landowners
are requested to plant two or three
rows of crops adjacent to roads parallel
with the road, so that there may
be proper turning space without the
necessity of turning plows in the
roads. It is against the law to allow
plows to damage the roads,
and it is an unnecessary practice.
The county spends large sums
of money in road building, and the
roads belong to the people. I have
no desire to prosecute anybody, hut
I must insist that this practice be
stopped immediately. The farmers *
and tenants can cooperate in this respect,
and there should be no necessity
to bring action against anybody.
Full notice is being given before I
take such action. j
W. B. SMOAK,
Supervisor.
January 31, 1922. tf
A 1UIXIW
drove's Tasteless chill Took restores
Energy and Vitality by Purifying and
Enriching the Blood. When yon feel its .
strengthening, invigorating effect, see how
! Knndo /w>l/w ?a /<h??lra anil hnur
11 WIV4 WAV VMWMV mwtt
it improves the appetite, you will then
appreciate its true tonic value. .
(Move's Tasteless chill Tonic is simply
Iron and Quinine suspended in syrup. Se
pleasant even children like it The blood
needs QUININE to Purify it and IRON to
Enrich it Destroys Malarial germs and
Grip germs by its Strengthening, Invigorating
Effect 60c. '
ORDER OF NOTICE.
UNITED STATES DISTRICT COURT.
EASTERN DISTRICT OF SOUTH j
CAROLINA.
IN BANKRUPTCY.
In the matter of Rosa M. Krawchek, ^
Bankrupt.
On the 14 day of April, 1922,
on reading the foregoing petitfon, it
is, .
Ordered by the Court that a hear- v
ing be had upon the same on the 26
day of May, A. D. 1922, before said
Court at Charleston, in said District,
at 11 o'clock in the forenoon, and
' - it.. *
ID.EI nouc? liiereuj. uo puuiiauou iu
The Bamberg Herald, a newspaper
printed in said district, and that all >
creditors and other persons interest- n lj
ed may appear at said time and place
and show cause if any they have why j
the prayer of the said petitioner
should not be granted.
And it is further Ordered by the J
Court that the Clerk shall send by j
mail to all known creditors copies
of said petition and this order addressed
to them at their places of
residence as stated. * I
Witness the Honorable Henry A. i
M. Smith, Judge of the said Court ' w
and the seal thereof, at Charleston,
in said District, on the 14 day of
April, A. D. 1922.
RICHARD W. HUTSON,
5-11-n Clerk.
XOTICE OF DISCHARGE. 4
On the 19th day of May, 1922, I
will file with the Judge of Probate -m
for Bamberg county my final report, I
as administratrix of the estate of
Mrs. S. M. Brown, deceased", and at
said time ask for letters of discharge
as such administratrix.
MRS. MARY A. KIRKLAND,
Administratrix of the Estate of I
Mrs. S. M. Brown. J
April 20, 1922. 5-18