Palacios Beacon (Palacios, Tex.), Vol. 32, No. 37, Ed. 1 Thursday, September 14, 1939 Page: 3 of 8
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PALACIOS IiEACON, PALACIOS, TEXAS
to Jl(
By
MARTHA
OSTENSO
tfHUfft
O MARTHA OSTENSO-WNU SERVICE
CHAPTER I
For one of those minutes that are
not reckoned as time, but rather as
a curious vessel to hold experience,
she had stood still on the station
platform, rapt and breathless and
unmindful of the inquisitive glances
that rested on her taut figure. The
desire had been acute to fling out
her arms to the circle of the moun-
tains that rose from the valley like
a prodigiously wrought gold and
purple bowl filled with the wine of
sundown in May. She had stood,
aware of the cool star on the south-
ern crest, and of the silver shallop
of the new moon a-sail with its
veiled and mystical cargo. Then
the words had shaped themselves
in silence upon her lips, words she
knew now had paused far back in
her childhood, waiting for her re-
turn: "You beautiful! Oh, you beau-
tiful!"
Only a few moments before, she
had checked her luggage without
giving her name, and the slight nar-
rowing of the old clerk's eyes had
brought a twitch of amusement to
her mouth. She remembered him
well enough, and although it was
nine years since he had seen her—
she had been but fourteen then—it
was evident that some recollection
stirred behind the old man's eyes.
Perhaps, after all, she might have
told him she was Autumn Dean, so
that he might be the first to know
that the Laird's daughter had come
home. He was one of the "relics
of Barkerville," as hor father used
to call them affectionately, those old
men who had become as legendary
as that long-dimmed field of gold.
It would have been fitting to tell
him first, this old man who was the
essence of everything to which she
■was returning, this fabulous, roman-
tic northland of her girlhood. But
It amused her to keep her secret a
little longer, to be to herself alone
the daughter of old Jarvis Dean, the
Laird of the "Castle of the Norns."
That phrase brought an almost un-
bearable ennui for what had been
when she herself had so named her
father's house.
The murmur of the valley town,
like the warm sound of a human
heart within the cool heart of the
hills, lay below her now as she
made her way quickly up the steep
dark street to the house she re-
membered in the mountain's cleft.
A few new dwellings had appeared,
the shade trees had grown, there
was a denser thicket of shrubbery
flanking the street, but the curious
upward climb of the way was un-
mistakable. There, where the grav-
el road took a prankish turn as
though seeking greater seclusion un-
der the brow of the hill, old Hector
Cardigan's cottage peered through,
half suspiciously as she had remem-
bered it, as though it had made its
way from the inner secrecy of the
mountain and were of half a mind to
return there. Her heart gave a lit-
tle leap of delight as she saw the
"monkey-puzzle" tree on the tiny
front lawn, and the two somber, me-
ticulously clipped yews on either
side of the shell-lined walk. The
ancient wrought-iron Italian lamp
hung as of old in the narrow crypt
of the porch, but instead of the wan-
ly flickering oil wick, a dim electric
bulb glowed steadily behind the
parchment. Old Hector had had his
house wired, then!
Her impulse was to go bounding
up the steep little stpps two at a
time, as she had been wont to do,
but she reflected quickly that Hec-
tor, grown older and more than ever
given to solitude, from her father's
reports of him, might be startled
at such an intrusion. Instead, she
ran lightly up the flight to the
carved, narrow, oak door, and
clutched her handbag to still the
excitement of her heart as she lifted
the heavy brass knocker. She re-
membered that the knocker had
been level with her eyes when she
was a reedy kid of fourteen.
That was Hector's step now, quick
and military still in its precision.
She could remember that long pol-
ished panel of hardwood flood of the
hall within, polished to mirror luster
by Hector himself, as no servant
conld do it, had the old man ever
been able to afford a servant. The
door opened quickly, boldly, in its
old manner of brusque inquiry. And
there stood Hector, erect and fiery,
fastidiously groomed as of old, se-
verely dinner-jacketed, his gray hair
grayer now but combed as ever
with sculptured nicety. He stood
very little above her own height,
so that it seemed to her that she
was smiling on a level with his eyes.
As she waited tor his recognition,
a curious thing was happening. She
had snatched off her hat and stood
with hw head flung back, her hair
shaken vividly about her cheeks.
Hector's eyes were fastened upon
her face with a look that grew from
strange, incredulous amazement to
something verging upon pain. His
hand reached uncertainly out toward
her, as though he expected her to
vanish before his eyes, then his fin-
gers grasped the door knob until
the knuckles gleamed white. His
face had become drained of all col-
or, and although she saw that his
hand leaned heavily on the door
knob for support, Autumn laughed
gayly, stepped over the threshold,
and flung her arms about his neck.
"Hector, Hector! Don't you know
me, you old goose?" she demanded,
shaking his shoulders as she smiled
up at him.
"Forgive me, child," he said.
"You—you startled me. I hadn't
expected—but here, come inside. My
manners are abominable!"
They proceeded into the low, shad-
owed living room, Autumn pausing
just within the door to let her eyes
sweep over the place. She wanted
to make sure that the character of
this extraordinary room had not
changed. No, except for an added
piece or two, it was the same as
when she had last seen it—a haunt-
ing medley of the centuries, the oak
walls dim and secret with their tap-
estries, the Louis XIV Gobelin, the
fragile and priceless Renaissance
Grotesque with its quaint assembly
vanishing irretrievably into the
weave, vanishing back into the dead
hands of the weaver, and the bold
Francois Spierinx of Delft with its
heraldry challenging Time.
"But—when did you get back, Au-
tumn?" Hector asked, his voice firm
now, with its old courtly inflection.
"I've just come. I walked right
up here from the station."
"But your father didn't tell me
you were coming home."
Autumn tossed her hat and purse
on the low Spanish settle, ruffled her
IMc
s-tr \<a
"Your education is complete,
I see."
fingers through her hair, and came
over and stood beside him, her feet
spread boyishly apart, her hands
clasped behind her back. She looked
at Hector with grave amusement.
"He isn't expecting me," she said
lightly. "I want to surprise him."
Hector turned slowly away.
"H-m-m, yes," he said, thoughtfully.
"It will be a surprise to him."
"Besides, you old fraud, I wanted
to surprise you. Think of it, Hector,
it's nine years since you saw me
last."
"Nine years! It seems impossible.
Well—we're getting older. I'm ap-
proaching my dotage, child. But you
—you are eternal youth itself. You
have the heritage of your mother."
Autumn's laugh pealed out deli-
ciously. "But not her beauty, Hec-
tor!"
"That was what startled me when
I saw you at the door, You are her
image."
He moved to the couch that faced
the fireplace, seated himself, and
clasped his hands between his knees.
Autumn turned and looked down
upon him, and a wave of swift pity
for him swept over her, obliterating
for a moment the bewilderment and
dismay that were growing upon her
at the strangeness of his reception.
Time, the merciless invader, was
storming the fine citadel of that gal-
lant old soldier, and already had
come an intimation of the ruin that
was to be. Autumn went quickly
and seated herself beside him, tak-
ing his brown hand in her own.
"Is this all the welcome you give
me?" she asked. "You look as if
I had brought you the plague.
What's wrong, Hector?"
He looked at her thoughtfully, then
got to his feet.
?,v
'{•'{'
-i> -.i'lcHl
"There's nothing wrong, my dear.
It's just the surprise, I suppose, It
has knocked me quite silly. How are
you going out?"
Autumn patted one of his brown
hands affectionately. "I'm going to
ride one of your hunters," she told
him. "It wouldn't look right for
the daughter of Jarvis Dean to go
home in an automobile, would it?"
Hector smiled. "One of my hunt-
ers? I have only one left, my dear,
but you are welcome. Are you go-
ing to ride in those clothes?"
"No. I'll telephone for my lug-
gage. I have a riding habit handy
in a bag. You see. I had it all
planned. Where is the telephone,
Hector? Isn't that frightfully stupid!
It's the only thing about the house I
have forgotten."
Hector pointed to a low Japanese
gilt and black lacquer screen that
stood below a Seventeenth century
brass lantern clock with single hand.
"Back there," he said.
When she had arranged for the
immediate transfer of her iuggage
to Hector Cardigan's house, she re-
turned to the fireplace. Hector had
laid another log on the fire, and the
pitch was snapping spiritedly. He
had also brought out a remarkably
cut old English decanter with a ruby
glass snake wound about the neck.
Two fragile wine glasses stood on
the tray beside it, and the liquid
within them glowed with fixed and
inviolate coruscation. On a Meis-
sen porcelain plate were tiny frost-
ed cakes and shortbreads.
"Oh, Hector! You sweet!" Autumn
cried, kneeling before the wine to
look at the light flaming through it.
"I take back all I said about my
welcome." She seated herself upon
a battered hassock and took the
glass he offered her. She sipped the
wine and rcached for one of the
tempting little cakes.
"Chablis, isn't it?" she remarked.
Hector smiled at her over his
glass, and it seemed to her that he
was more his old self again, the
surprising and eternally enigmatic
old self that she had known, Puck
and Pan and Centaur, all in one,
and sometimes Ariel and sometimes
Caliban—all trie naive and grotesque
and impish legendary beings she
knew.
"Your education is complete, I
see," he laughed. Autumn laughed
too, and ate another cake in one
mouthful.
"Oh, when I went over," she said,
"they were teaching children to
drink so that they would stop beg-
ging for another war." Her mood
changed then and she frowned down
at the last drop that lay in the crys-
tal hollow of the glass. "Seriously,
though, that's why I wanted to come
home, Hector. I had to get away
from the constant reliving of a night-
mare that my generation missed."
"I know—I know," Hector re-
marked.
"The only real thing in the pam-
pered life of Aunt Flo was the loss
of her son—my cousin Frederick,
you know. I don't know whether
there is such a word or not—there
ought to be—but Aunt Flo simply
voluptuated in her loss. I couldn't
live with it any longer."
"It isn't the same back home
as—"
"Oh, I don't mean they are all
like Aunt Flo," she hastened to add.
"But there is something smothery
about England now, with all those
hungry-eyed women stepping on
each other's toes. Du you know what
I mean?"
"Yes," Hector admitted. "I think
I do. You wanted room to breathe
in. Well, you are right, too. Only—
your father isn't the same man ei-
ther. You will find him very diffi-
cult at times. He rarely comes to
see me any more—and you know
how devoted I have been to him."
"Father has always been difficult.
Hector. But I've always loved him,
nevertheless—and he has always
loved me."
"Certainly. He loves the ground
you walk on. I think, perhaps, that
was one of the reasons he didn't
want you to come back."
"Listen, Hector," Autumn said,
shaking a finger at him, "I know
father wanted me to stay in Eng-
land. He wanted me to marry and
settle down over there. Why?"
Hector coughed lightly arid took
another sip from his glass. "If Jar-
vis has any reason for not wanting
you back here," he said finally,
"he'll probably tell you what it is
better than I could, my dear.
Though, for that matter, I am in-
clined to agree with him in this, I
think."
"What do you mean by that, Hec-
tor?"
"I mean—you should not have
come home," Hector said abruptly.
Autumn got impatiently to her feet
and stood before him, her hands on
her hips. "Now, see here, Hector,"
she exclaimed, "are you going to be
as unreasonable as father has been
about my coming back where I be-
long? He has been perfectly ridicu-
lous about it all this time. I've been
fed up with Europe for two years."
Old Hector rubbed his palms ner-
vously together. "I know, Autumn,
I know, But—your father is not a
happy man, my dear. He—he is
given to moods of melancholy—of—
of brooding. Moreover, he has nev-
er considered the ranch a proper
environment for you. I'm afraid it
will distress him very much that
you have come back."
Autumn flung her head impetu-
ously upward. "That is simple non-
sense!" she declared. "Is Monte
Carlo my proper environment? Is
Mayfair?" She reached for a ciga-
rette on the low lacquered table be-
side the couch, lit it and waved it
triumphantly. "I've put up with eru-
dition and polishing and attempts to
marry me off to anemic noblemen
until I'm sick of it, and now I'm
home. I'm home because I belong
here—here in British Columbia—
here in the Upper Country—here be-
tween the Rockies and the Cascades.
Doesn't that sound dramatic? And
here I'm going to stick!"
"You'll probably stick, as you
say," Hector commented. "You've
got enough of Jarvis Dean in you
for that. And if you hadn't—there's
still the blood of Millicent Odell.
If you don't get what you want from
sheer stubbornness, you'll get it be-
cause no one will have the heart to
refuse you."
"A very dangerous combination,
eh, Hector?" Autumn observed.
She refused a second glass of
wine, although Hector filled his own
once more. She moved to the man-
tel and examined one or two of the
curios upon it, amulets, ancient dice,
an Italian dagger with a jeweled
hilt, a string of Inca beads hanging
down over the Dutch tiles. Some of
the things she could recall, others
had been acquired by Hector in his
travels since she had last seen him.
Presently her eyes fell upon a
strange brass object with a strap
attached to its top. She picked it
up. Instantly a sound of unutter-
able purity pierced the room with a
thin, thrilling resonance that seemed
to drift on and on, beyond the con-
fines of the bedecked walls. Star-
tled and entranced with the beauty
of the sound, Autumn turned to Hec-
tor and saw that he had risen and
was coming toward her.
"I picked that up in Spain on a
walking trip I took one year through
the mountains," he told her. "It is
a Basque bell—a Basque sheep-
bell."
"I've never heard anything so
lovely!" Autumn exclaimed, turning
the bell up to examine it more care-
fully.
Hector looked down at it and
whimsical wistfulness came into his
face. "I should like you to have it,
Autumn," he said. "When you come
in again, take it out with you. There
is no one else I would give it to, my
dear—not even your father."
She looked up at him in quick,
pleased surprise, holding the bell so
that it chimed again, light and clear
as the echo of a fay song in some
unearthly place. "Do you really
mean that, Hector?" she said softly.
"I know how you hate to part with
your treasures—and this one—"
"It's very old," Hector murmured,
and his eyes narrowed with a
strange absent dimness, as though
he were looking into the remote past
where his spirit ubode in a brilliant
reality. "Some shepherd—in the
Pyrenees, perhaps—heard that bell
fifty years ago—when your grand-
mother was a girl here in these
hills, just over from Ireland. When
your grandmother was breaking
hearts up and down the Okanagan,
my dear, some shepherd boy was
listening to that plaintive note on
some mountain-side—on the other
side of the world."
(TO BE CONTINUED)
—Speaking, of Sports—
Betty Jameson,
Fairway Queen
Popular-Winner
By ROBEBT McSHANE
IV/IISS BETTY JAMESON, newly
crowned queen of the Ameri-
can fairways, occasioned no great
upset when she won the National
Women's Golf championship recent-
ly at Noroton, Conn.
In the first place, Miss Jameson
is a sturdy, solid sort of a player.
When she defeated 19-year-old Doro-
thy Kirby of Atlanta in the final
round, even the most rabidly Dixie-
minded fans admitted that the Geor-
gia girl lost to the better shotmak-
er. Betty, Miss Kirhy's senior by
only one year, is recognized as one
of the finest players in feminine
ranks.
This was the second time the two
finalists had met. Two years ago,
in the southern championship, the
pride and joy of Atlanta beat Miss
Jameson 3 and 2. The slender Geor-
gia girl was just too good. This
| year, in the National meet, the ta-
bles were turned. Long-striding Tex-
as Betty walked away from Miss
Kirby during the first nine holes,
and never gave her a chance to
catch up. She was 2 up at the ninth,
4 up at the eighteenth, 2 up at the
twenty-seventh. She took the match
and championship title on the thir-
ty-fourth green with the same score
by which her opponent beat her two
years ago—3 and 2.
Betty Jameson isn't a golfing
blaze. In other words, she didn't set
tlie golfing world on fire the first
time she picked up a club. Back of
her success is the usual story of a
champion. She chose the almost
certain route to succe.ss—hard prac-
tice, plenty of it, and patience. The
long, grueling hours she spent on a
practice fee are reflected in the
game she plays today.
No golfer's game is always de-
pendable. Just as a .350 batter may
take a sudden slump, so may a
golfer run into trouble. But her
1
i
k.
Ml
u
a<z
TO LOVE
A Dramatic, Moving Serial by
MARTHA OSTENSO
Here is a truly great love story, written with the depth of understanding which
characterizes Martha Ostenso. It is the saga of young love in the mountains of
British Columbia; the story of two young people kept apart by a father's past.
PROLOGUE TO LOVE is a story you'll like. It is the warmly human, intensely
dramatic tale of people you might know. Don't miss a single installment.
BEGINS TODAY—SERIALLY IN THESE COLUMNS
BETTY JAMESON
game is basically solid. Every shot
is played cleanly and crisply. She
has no swinging weakness, and is
one of the longest hitters among
women golfers.
Though she isn't an overnight sen-
sation Betty did get an early start.
That's why, at the age of ?0, she
managed to annex the women's ti-
tle. She won the Texas municipal
championship when she was 12
years old, the state women's crown
at 13, and the Southern at 15. Since
that time she has been a major con-
tender in numerous other sectional
tournaments.
One uf the most deliberate play-
ers in the game, she takes plenty
of time to survey her lie and to hit
the ball. Before putting she seems
to memorize each blade of inter-
vening grass.
Miss Jameson is the fourth new
champion in four years. Mrs. Glen-
na Collet Vare's victory in 1935, her
sixth, marked the end of the old
order. Since that time the title has
been held by Pam Barton of Eng-
land, 19 years old when she won it;
by Mrs. Estcllc Lawson Page cf
Chapel Hill, N. C., a newcomer; by
Miss Patty Berg of Minneapolis,
who, even in her early teens, was
acknowledged to be one of the best
women golfers in America, and who
was unable to defend her title this
year because of illness, and now by
Miss Jameson.
Winning this tournament may be
of inestimable value to the girl's
game. It will give her confidence,
and will help end a tendency to
tighten up at crucial stages, one of
her difficulties for the past two years
of competition.
It looked for a while as if Betty's
tenseness might cost her the tourna-
ment. She had been 4 up at the
end of the first 18 holes, marking
down a sparkling 78. She looked
like an easy winner then, but tight-
ened up to such an extent that she
couldn't get her tee shots, and some
of her approaches, working normal-
ly. Miss Kirby almost caught up to
her, winning three holes back on the
first six of the outgoing round.
Her game came back, however.
She won the twenty-seventh by soar-
ing two beautiful wood shots to the
green. She played for pars and got
halves on the twenty-eighth and
twenty-ninth, and won the thirtieth,
j The competitive temperament will
] come to her, and that's all she needs.
The eyes of Texas can well rest
upon Miss Betty Jameson—a real
champion.
Lyn Waldorf
Sport Shorts
IN 50 seasons of football. Notre
Dame has won 299 games, lost 00,
and tied 24. The Irish will be after
No. 300 when they play Purdue Sep-
tember 30 in the
opener . . . There
has been no change
in Northwestern uni-
versity's football
coaching staff for
the last five years.
Lyn Waldorf has the
same assistants who
started with him in
1935 . . . Cornell's
annual Thanksgiv-
ing day football
game with Pennsyl-
vania has been set
for Saturday, November 25. The
university,- however, will fall in line
with President Roosevelt's new
Thanksgiving date . . . Billy Conn,
new light heavyweight champion,
employs his brother Jackie, anoth-
er professional fighter, as a trainer
. . . Alice Marble starts a new
night club engagement at Beverly
Hills in October ... In the last 50
years humans have slashed five sec-
onds off the mile record. Harness
horses have reduced it 13 sec-
onds . . . Mrs. Ethel V. Mars, own-
er of the Milky Way farms, who
spent more money for yearlings in
the last five years than any other
horse owner, is becoming economi-
cal. She spent only $52,000 for 12
head at Saratoga recently . . . John
Henry Lewis has followed the exam-
ple of Dempsey, Tunney and other
former boxing champs and gone into
the liquor business . . . There's a
$25 fine levied against any member
of the New York Giants professional
football team caught tussling after
training camp opens. They're
afraid of injuries.
Patterns You 11 Use
Repeatedly With Joy
'T^WO-PIECE styles like 1768 are
I very smart, this new season,
and this is a particularly good one,!
| with wide-shouldered, tiny-waisted
\ jacket-blouse, and flaring skirt, to
give you the hour-glass silhouette.
| Smart in faille, wool crepe or vel-
veteen. Can be made with long
or short sleeves.
Dart-Fitted Slip.
Large women, to whom fit is all—J
important, will revel in the smooth;
slimness of this dart-fitted slip,I.
with darts not only at the waist-
Rainmakers
Gridiron
Topnotchers
This continues a series o/ articles
featuring outstanding football play-
ers from schools throughout the
nation. Ifatch their records during
the coming season.
iBMnHfl
Steve Sitko
Charles Drake, assistant to P. K.
Wrigley, owner of the Chicago Na-
tional league ball team, gives this
account of the manner in which the
team became known as the Cubs.
The National league was formed
in 1876. Through 1877 to 1897 the
Chicago entry was managed by Ad-
rian C. Anson, and called Anson's
Colts. Subsequently the team had
such nicknames as Rainmakers,
Cowboys, Bronco Busters and Or-
phans.
In 1901 the late Fred Hayner,
sports editor of the Chicago Daily
News, used the term Cubs when re-
ferring to the club. But from 1902
through 1906 the te?m, by a ma-
jority of fans, was called Colts. But
by 1907 the name Cubs had caught
on and the club was universally
known by that name, with none oth-
er subsequently used.
According to Drake there is no
record of how or why Hayner hap-
pened to use the term Cubs.
He will answer when someone
yells for Jake, but a loud, quick
"Steve" will do the trick equally
well.
Regardless of names, the young
man in question is Steven Joseph
Sitko, Notre Dame's senior quarter-
back from Fort Wayne, Ind. The
name Jake conies from his high
school days when he won the Jake
Gimhel award for sportsmanship at
the Indiana state high school bas-
ketball tournament.
Standing six feet tall, and weigh-
ing 185 pounds. Steve won his first
college mono-
gram when he
held aown the
No. 1 quarter-
back spot for
the Fighting
Irish last fall.
Brown eyed,
with a ruddy
complexion,
Steve is slen-
der, solid and
fast. By tem-
perament he
is dogged and
tenacious, a
hard blocker and a good leader.
While in high school he won six let-
ters in football, basketball and
track. He was all-state in football
and basketball.
Selecting one outstanding player
for the 1939 Notre Dame football
squad is an almost impossible job.
But close observers are handing the
palm to Steve, a rare player whose
football prowess is equalled by Ills
classroom skill.
Steve's debut with Notre Dame's
No. 1 squad was made in the Kan-
sas opener last year. He turned in
a nifty exhibition of crisp downfield
blocking, caught four punts and re-
turned them for a total of 60 yards,
dragging them in on the fly under a
full head of steam. He ran the team
intelligently, marching the varsity
45 yards for a touchdown after the
first exchange of kicks. The Irish
scored a total of 52 points.
By his rise at Notre Dame, Steve
is repaying a touching family debt.
His brother, John, all-city tackle be-
fore Steve, and a freshman star at
Butler, left school to work so that
Steve might have a chance to go to
college.
(Released by Western Newspaper Union.)
line, but also under the arms, to
ensure correct ease over the bust.
Make it either with built-up shoul-
ders or ribbon straps. It is per-
fectly flat over the diaphragrm
And so easy to make! Only four
steps in the detailed sew chart
that comes with your pattern,.
1821.
The Patterns.
No. 1768 is designed for sizes 14,.
16, 18, 20, 40 and 42. Size 16 re-
quires 3% yards of 39-inch materi-
al without nap, with short sleeves;.
4'/8 yards with long sleeves; %■
yard trimming.
No. 1821 is designed for sizes:
36, 38, 40, 42, 44, 46, 48, 50 and 52.
Size 38 requires 3 yards of 39-inch
material with built-up shoulders;
2% yards with straps; 1 yard rib-
bon.
Send your order to The Sewing
Circle Pattern Dept., Room 1324,.
211 W. Wacker Dr., Chicago, 111.
Price of patterns, 15 cents (in
coins) each.
(Bell Syndicate—WNU Service.)
FOR CHILLS
AND FEVER
And Other Malaria
Misery
t
Don't go through the usual Malaria
suffering! Don't go on shivering
with chills one moment and burn?-
ing with fever the next.
Malaria is relieved by Grove's'
Tasteless Chill Tonic. Yes, this
medicine really works. Made espe-
cially for Malaria. Contains taste-
less quinidine and iron.
Grove's Tasteless Chill Tonic ac-
tually combats the Malaria infec-
tion in the blood. Relieves the
wracking chills and fever. Helps
you feel better fast.
Thousands take Grove's Tasteless
Chill Tonic for Malaria and swear
by it. Pleasant to take, too. Even
children take it without a whimper,
Act fast at first sign of Malaria.
Take Grove's Tasteless Chill Tonic.
At all drugstores. Buy the large
size as it gives you much more for
your money.
Worth the Wait
For a good dinner and gentle
wife, you can afford to wait.
MINOR SKIN IRRITATIONS
SNOW-WHITE PETROLEUM JELLY
Brings Good Fortune
Diligence is the mother of good
fortune.—Cervantes.
ruined eyes
by neglect; they get red and
sore and you let them go. Don't
do it. Leonardi's Golden Eye
Lotion relieves soreness in one
Cay. Cools, heals and strengthen*.
LEONARDI'S
GOLDEN EYE LOTIOM
MAKES WEAK EYES STRONG
New Large Size with Dropper—50 cents
S. B. Leonard 1 & Co. Inc.* New Rochclle, N. T.
IIEUI IDEAS
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these new things is right here in
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Dismukes, Mrs. J. W. Palacios Beacon (Palacios, Tex.), Vol. 32, No. 37, Ed. 1 Thursday, September 14, 1939, newspaper, September 14, 1939; (https://texashistory.unt.edu/ark:/67531/metapth411871/m1/3/?q=%22%22~1: accessed July 10, 2024), University of North Texas Libraries, The Portal to Texas History, https://texashistory.unt.edu.; crediting Palacios Library.