v about. wU’ DA11* independent
===•" PERCY H. VAN DYKE, PuUlilwr ind Edltif.
NEWPORT, - - ARKANSAS.
LITTLE THINGS.
A good-by kiss is a little tiling.
With your hand on the door to go,
But it takes the venom out of th« sting
Of a thoughtless word or a cruel Ming
That you made an hour ago.
A kiss of greeting Is sweet and rare
After the toil of the day,
And it smooths the furrows plowed by
care,
The lines on the forehead you once called
fuir,
fn the years that have Mown away.
'Tis a little thing to say: ‘‘You arc-kind;
I love you. my dear,” each night;
But it sends a thriil through the heart,
1 11 nd—
For love is tender, as love is blind—
As we climb life’s rugged height.
We starve each other for love's caress;
We take, but we dp not give;
It seems so easy scyme soul to bless.
But we dole tji< J#ve grudgingly, less and
-legs ' "" \
' Till ’tis bitter anfVhard to live.
—McCall’s Magazine.\
BURNED BRIDGES.
IIY CECIL CHARLES.
She had two of the most beauti
ful children, he remembered. They
were girls, charmingly dainty and
sylph-like. In short, aristocrats.
Jt occurred to him they must be al
most young ladies by this time, at
school, no doubt. Ten, eleven years,
was it. not? Elinor, the elder, had
been nine. She had sat studying
her lessons by the reading lamp that
last night. Alter a tittle sue had
said good-night to her mamma and
to him and gone to bed.
That last night! JIe had never
j liked his thoughts to dwell upon it
in succeeding years. For always,
and strangely, in such connection
there arose before him a picture he
would fain shut out; a picture lie
had seen or dreamed of seeing in
some great gallery. A boat that
tossed upon a sullen sea; within the
boat a solitary man, with drawn and
merciless face, who ever and anon
beat olf the hands of some one in
the water. Small hands, and deli
cately thin, they clung imploringly
to the boat until ho beat them off
relentlessly and the dark waters
closed over them. Even now there
wnas a catch in his breath as lie re
membered. For a second he thought
of stopping the carriage and order
ing the man to drive elsewhere.
Then it passed.
v- STi7^w<iuld_ry^abb "him. ' sTTk
She had smiled approval when her
husband, in his old-fashioned way.
had urged him to drop in on her
“day,” assuring him any old friend
of Mrs. Merrifield’s and “our girls”
was doubly welcome. “Our girls?”
lie had heaitl that Merrifield was
was very fond of his wife’s daugh
ters; had adopted them legally at
the start, and had spent no end of
money in tlveir education. And
nevertheless there had been a
strangeness about meeting the Mer
rifields at the Van Schotens’ din
ner. If any one had told him 11
years before. . . At the Van Scho
tens’ dinner Linda had been by far
the most beautiful woman present.
Linda, indeed! The Spanish name
had suited her well. Wealth and
luxurious living had developed this
radiant beauty. Why, she must be
nearly 40. But she was like a flow
_ v
' or that had pined palely, insignifi
cantly. for want of sun. and now
bloomed( splendid in gracious shel
ter. She owed him gratitude; no
doubt she would admit this. No
doubt she would show him he had
•saved her by the sacrifice of his own
feelings that last night.
His pulse quickened as he stepped
from the carriage. The house was
plain and massive, the outside som
ber. Within, how different! The
magnificence surpassed bis wildest
fancy. And Linda mistress of this
mansion! Linda, who had loved
him so in the old days—might yet,
perhaps—he checked the gloating
thought. Merrifield was not an old
man. Still, if ever she should be
left a widow. . . .
'x .Then Linda stood before him.
The cream-white gown she wore
clung to a perfect figure. Unusual
ly tall, she had been fragilely built
and never would grow stout. There
was not a line in her face, not a
droop of an eyelid, not a tremor in
her voice, which even sounded joy
ous. Her simple greeting gave him
a delicious ease.
“You remembered my husband’s
injunction and came. Of course, he
is accustomed to have his injunc
tions obeyed, lie was so long a
judge, you know. And you are in
town for the season?”
She had not addressed him by
name. He bad wondered if she
would <a\\ him “Mr. Sevmour” or
Mortimer. Words came crowding
up in his mind. He hardly knew
what first to fay—what best to omit
far a later opportunity. He wanted
to be sure of her absolute forgive
ness for anything in the past. He
wanted to allude to that last night.;
review it hastily, and receive assur
ance of her absolute good feeling.
There must not remain the faintest
shadow of rancorous remembrance.
All would then be well. Some rec
ollections would be forever effaced.
Never again would that, terrible pic
ture rise—of the boat at sea, the
man that, beat the woman’s bands
until’she sank!
Was she waiting for the answer to
some question, or had he answered?
Surely, the first exchange of speech
was over. “1 am, you know, a wid
ower,” he foundhimself saving.
“Are you, indeed?”
“And have no child.”
“Ah!”
“in that, you are more fortunate.
The little girls—”
“Not. so little. My daughters are
grown very tall. Klinor made her
debut last year. I shall present
Katherine this season." She moved
over to a table and took up a pho
tograph. “This is my elder.”
“My God!” said Seymour, in a
whisper. “Your image!”
She appeared not to hear. “Kath
erine is darker,” she said carelessly.
Seymour returned the* picture to it#
place “1 have long since forgiven
them,” he said, suddenly.
“J beg your pardon?”
<4 F hflvn fnrrrivnn thorn-for OilllS
o
ing me the greatest sorrow—com
pelling me to the greatest sacrifice
of my life.”
“Indeed, and how was that?”
She turned her beautiful, untroub
led countenance unon him. The
candor of her gray-blue eyes1 invited
explanation. For an instant he felt
puzzled. Had she forgotten—or
was it but pretense? But there was
no retreat now: he must go on as he
had begun.
“I think,” he said, in a lower tone,
“1 hated them that night. 1 hated
myself, 1 know, and everything and
everyone else—but you.”
“Hated them?”
“Yes. Until then I had loved
them. But all of a sudden1, when
they seemed to rise to stand be
tween me and—a barrier between
us—”
“Poor little girls!” he heard her
murmur in a rippling tone. Still lie
went on. “1 think 1 hated them be
cause 1 had loved them, odd as that
may sound, Because 1 might not
doom their innocent lives to pover
ty. Together you and 1 could tight
it out, perhaps. But for the chil
dren's sake it might not be.”
Linda Merritield was smiling at
him. The smile was dazzling, yet he
could not escape it. “Your wife—
you inherited money at her death?''
He caught his breath as if struck
in the face by a hand invisible. But
Linda's hands were plaving with a
rope of curious beads she wore.
Recovering he murmured a faint
remonstrance. “1 have less than 1
ever had.”
“Really? Some had invest
4 c- ?•> Qnoi ml . lio L.wuiin/ul c4-Jll
to look down unon him, while his
gaze, avoiding hers, searched the
costly tapestry behind her.
“Mo," ho said, with an undertone
of stubbornness that he meant her
to feel, “my losses in life have not
always been unintentional."
She was silent, and her silence
battled him. In her tine erect slen
derness she suggested a delicate tree
that east its shade upon lvim. Her
•mile was as sunlight wavering, her
voice the rippling of a brook; he
felt as one wandering astray in a
pleasant woodland, unhindeied and
of infinite inconsequence. Had Linda
ceased to remember? lie was goad
ed on to know. He must not hesi
tate; others might arrive. He had
purposely come early. "Your daugh
ters," he began, “shall 1 not have
the pleasure—"
“I am sorry that they are not at
home. 1 think they might remem
ber you."
A momentary pause of insolence
—exquisitely veiled—made him
break out: “Have you taught them
to forget me? 1 lave you forgotten?"
“I never forget," said Mrs. Merri
(ield. And, as she caught his half
appeased sigh, “1 have an excellent
memory—for everything."
“And I," he said, “too excellent
at times. How often have I lived
over the cruelty of our last part
ing."
“Ah?"
lie fancied she but affected to be
unmoved. Some word of his must
presently touch her to tears. He re
membered her nature so well. “It
compensates a little,” he went on,
“to have given you up to—all this
, rjm'J*Xl"L'L"..IT.1.. —
Mrs. Mr rrifield allowed some sec
ond# to ])V#s before she spoke with
peculiarly Sweet intonation: “I am
so sorry to know' that things have
not gone so well with you. Since
my marriage I heard nothing, and
before that your future seemed as
sured. You had made a very satis
factory match, it was said. 1 trust,”
attain her smile was like the waver
ing sunlight, “I trust your position
is not <inito as painful as I found
mine then.”
He stirred confusedly. “My lone
liness.—”
“We must expect loneliness under
certain circumstances.”
“No one can. blame us for trying
to dispel it r”
“True. A human impulse.”
Again he felt the moments slip
ping by. “When J met you at Van
Schotens.” he hurried his words. “I
was strangely overcome. When you
said I misrht call it was like a
thought of Heaven. After these
weary years, I w onder if youl realize
what it means, to me. A worn trav
eler longing to find his way back to
his youth. And suddenly coming
face to face with the one who once
was dearest of all. And she puts
out a hand and clasping it he jour
neys back with her across memory’s
meadows and bridges of tender rec
ollection. until they reach some spot
where once they stood as lovers.”
“The poetic instinct,” said Linda,
softly, “inherent—sometimes even
rlanfrnrAiii if in
“How dangerous?”
“Why, you see—the meadows
might be flooded, and—the bridges
burned.”
“You have not burned our
bridges. Linda?” His breath pame
rapidly again.
“They are well charred, rest as
sured.”
“No," he cried, huskily. “I will
not believe it.”
“I counsel you not to approach
them. They might not bear you.”
He stood up suddenly. Good
heavens!” he cried, “you hate me!”
“Hate you?” The murmured
words ran into easy laughter. . . .
She, too, had risen. Her counte
nance was radiant, maddening. He
plucked at her wrist.
“You laugh? You have forgotten
how your arms were round my neck
your face upon my shoulder—you
have forgotten'—” There he paused,
drew a hard breath and instantly felt
that he would give all he possessed
to recall his words. For Linda Mer
rifield shrank, eluded his grasp, and,
putting out her hand, seemed with
an indescribable gesture to brush
a way con t a m ina t ion.
“I will go,” he said, chokingly.
“So soon? A thousand pities not
to have seen the judge. . . . You
will find him sympathetic and—ah—
charitable. . . More so than my
self.”
Seymour turned. There was a
sound of voices in the hall. Some
one came swiftly through the music
room arch. He stood dumb. Was it
her daughter, this reincarnation, this
old-time Linda—only in richer, fit
ter attire?
“My dear,” he heard the mother
sav. “do vou remember Unsold friend
of ours?”
And then the girl, her gray eye?
sweeping him in eiw-y scorn from
head to foot: “One meets so many
—old friends.”
Not even to have recalled his
name! He hardly knew if he stam
mered an adieu, lie was in the street
once more stumbling to his carriage.
And now a singular sensation pos
sessed him. For all tin1 ?tone and
granite faces of the avenue’s man
sions seemed convulsed with sardon
ic merriment, and from splendid in
terior lie seemed to hear the echoing
mockery of women's voices:
“An impudent adventurer.”
“Oh. no, my love—the very merest
—trifler.”—N. O. Tinies-Demoerat.
Toothpicks, Skewers and Reels.
One of the first wood mills estab
lished in Maine was to manufacture
wooden toothpicks. A small machine
was invented, which at present gives
an annual output of 500,000,000 of
toothpicks. They arc made of the
smallest pieces of waste wood, the cost
of the raw material being practically
nothing. The wooden skewers used by
butchers are manufactured at the rat
of 500,000 a week. One mill alorr
turns out in the summer season 5,000,
000 skewer? and 50,000,000 toeth
picks, besides a number of other arti
cles. Keels for cotton and thread arr
manufactured at the rate of 250,000,
000 a year. For this output more than
15,000,000 feet of white birch is
needed.
A Poor Workman.
When a man works because he i»
compelled to. he is never a go©<6
workman.—Atchison tflobo.
2
CANTERBURY CATHEDRAL.
Famous Archbishops That Are Buried
Within Its Walls.
Although since the reformation
no protestant archbishop of Canter
bury was buried in his metropoli
tan cathedral until leave was ob
tained for the interment of Arch
bishop Benson in 1895, the dust cf
many famous prelates lies within
these ancient precincts, says the
London Chronicle. Cuthbert, the
elevnth archbishop of Canterbury,
powerfully affected the fortunes of
the cathedral by obtaining permis
sion from Pope Gregory, nearly 12
centuries ago, that henceforth all
the archbishops might be buried
within the walls of their own
cathedral. Accordingly, from Cuth
bert to Cardinal Pole, in 1559, the
earthly remains of all the bishops
lie there at rest, including those of
t. Odo, t. Dunstan, t. Alphege, t.
Anselm, St. Thomas a Beeket, Hu
bert, Walter, Stephen Langton,
Archbishops Peckham, Winehelsey,
Bradwardine, I si ip, Simon de Sud
bury, Courtenay, Arundel, Chicbley,
Baurehier, Morton, War ham and
other saints and statesmen, famous
in history for their high services to
church and commonwealth.
The interior of Canterbury
cathedral is so carefully preserved
that it gives one the impression
of extreme newness. Yet the whole
choir and east end of the cathedral,
as it now stands, is mainly the work
of William of Sens and William the
Englishman, Avho flourished toAvard
the end of the tAvelfth century. But
the cathedral and the many build
ings in its precinct are a perfect
museum of medieval architecture.
Next, -to the transitional style,
which is represented in the choir,
comes the first pointed or early En
glish style, Avhich came about half
a century later. To this period be
longs the far-famed “archbishop's
ehair." usually called the “chair of
St. Augustine,” on Avhich the arch
bishops are enthroned, and which
was naturally the object of much
interest at. the funeral of recent
date. It is elaborately carved, and
is made of three pieces of Purbeek
marble. From the style of its de
coration it is believed to have n
first, placed in the cathedral in
1220, at the superb ceremony of the
translation of Bceket’s remains
from the crypt to his priceless
shrine.
M. THIERS AT HOME.
The Peculiar Habits of the Histo
rian’s Daily Life.
The daily life of Thier- was very
peculiar. He rose always, says t’orn
hill Magazine, at a very early hour,
about five o’clock in the morning, sel
dom later. After a cup of coffee and
a light repast lie would work steadily
for many hours. Then he usually
took a Avalk, or Avould perhaps play a
game of tennis, before breakfast,
which meal Avas served at the usual
French hour. Then he would speak
to his friends and go out for a drive,
sometimes pay visits, and return a lit
tle after four, when heAvent regularly
to bed and slept until it was time to
get ready for dinner. For some ex
traordinary reason his dinner hour
was 7:50, and he was always punctual.
After dinner he always slept for
minutes or half an hour and then
would remain up chatting and talk
ing to a late hour, lib brightest mo
ment was always subsequent to bis
after-dinner sleep. No one could be
more agreeable in conversation, more
easy or natural, or more ready to im
part information without being pro
lix. lie was a true Provencal in all
his tastes and habits. He loved the
bright sun of his native Provence.
He thoroughly appreciated the pe
culiar charm of the coast near Mar
seilles, the beauty of the gray olive
groves and the smiles of the Medit
erranean. Ho preferred the dishes
of Provence to almost any others. He
used to mix oil liberally with his food,
and 1 remember at a dinner at the
Duehese (Jalliera's a fair-sized bottle
of oil was specially placed next his
plate and he consumed it all!
On Canvas.
A Parisian artist is said to have dis
covered a method by which he can re
produce any subject by photography
on painters’canvas, reducing to the
minimum the difficult art of painting
reproductions. Xo one has been able
to do it hitherto, because the canvas is
coated with white lead and fatty sub
stances. By using a protograph of the
picture on canvas the necessity of
spending weeks, perhaps months, in
work on the original outline is obviat
ed, as the shading is faithfully repro
duced by the camera at the same time
as the outline, and only the colors
have to be filled in.
r -v
•> I__
W. Lindley Pres. L. T. Slayden Vies Pres. E. V. Holt Cashier.
bank of tugkerman,
CAPITAL STOCK $20,000.00 _
We are open to the public for all business which constitutes safe and re
liable Banking.
COLLECTIONS A SPECIALTY.
Your Patronage Is Solicited.
TUCKERHAN - - ARKANSAS.
_—-—- --— t
4 Good Route
to Try
It traverses a territory rich in
undeveloped resources; a territory
containing unlimited possibilities for
agriculture, horticulture, stock rais
ing, mining and manufacturing. And
last, but not le#st, it is
The Scenic Route
for Tourists.
The Frisco System now offers the
traveling public excellent service and
fast time—
Between St. Louis and Kansas
City and points in Missouri, Kansas,
Arkansas, Oklahoma, Indian Terri
tory, Texas and the Southwest.
Between Kansas City and points
in Tennessee, Alabama, Mississippi,
Georgia, Florida and the Southeast.
Between Birmingham and Mem
phis and points in Kansas, Arkansas,
Oklahoma, Indian Territory, Texas
and the West and Southwest.
Full information as to route and
rates cheerfully furnished upon appli
cation to any representative of the
Company, or to
Passenger Traffic Department,
Commercial Building,
Saint Louis.
— . «*»
JACK HERRON.' *
Back again in Newport and
Prepared to do all kinds of
i Brick Work.
Repair Work Promptly
Attended To.
When buying illuminating
oil insist on having Eupion, the
family safety. This is a double
distilled process oil that is
odorless and absolutely safe.
If you will use clean burners
and wicks and Eupion Oil you
will have best light obtainable. ~
The only merchants in Newport
that sell this high-grade oil are
Wolff-Goldman Merc. Co., W.
B. Chastain, Wilmans Bros.,R.
D. Wilmans, Heiliger’s Union
Market Co., Martin Bros., Har
ris & Daugherty L. G. DaVaul
and O. M. Bowen.
I
Waters-Pierce Oil Comp’y
I
THE BANK OF NEWPORT
OFFICERS AND DIRECTORS.
G.W. Decker, President. A. D. Bailey, Vice-President.
R. M. Johnson, Cashier. T. D. Kinman, Ass’t. Cashier.
V. Y Cook, Tiios. J. Graham, A. E. Siioffner.
Jno. T. Flynn, J. W. Grubbs, Jos. M. Stayton.
This Bank has an authorized
CAPITAL of $100,000.00.
Ah authorized and subscribed Capital is a convenient thing—
good thing for advertising purposes, but to be perfectly honest,
and tell our patrons the truth, it really counts for little. We
could have had, just as easily, a Subscribed Capital of
$500,000. It would not have cost us one cent more.
What our patrons are really interested in knowing is, this
Bank has invested'in its‘business, of ITS OWN MONEY,
$58,000.00 OF CASH] PAID IN CAPITAL and undivided
profits. That is the reason this Bank is prepared to take good
care of your business. And we assure you that MORE CAPI
TAL WILL BE PAID IN as soon as we believe it can be safely
and profitably invested.
' V" >
■ ——*
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