MIDNIGHT.
Lat saldalghi la I he eravevard:
ssase41 of damp grass was In my BoetrUs;
I my heart throb in the awful silence.
Jm a headlong direr, plnntclnir In the oceun.
dimly glimmering through the green
aaritneaa
swinging nurifen pulsating above him:
the slimy keels of diliirent venae la.
ith babbling wake of ghostly foam in fur
rows. a dull shine of sails swollen by tempests;
I tidies eyed monsters leering .past him,
1 wrecks and drowned men constantly
inking. .
White the muffled knell of the surf is tolling:
as I heard the sad lapse of the mill stream.
Si, down, quickly my spirit descended
TW the residence of dead men and women. '
k Mm unearthly sepulchral twilight
' firmament was visible
necked, with white clouds of motion law
daisies; i
craggy roots of the headstones protruded
BsKioni fortabiy from the low ceilings of the
Trtaous obscure damp cavern.
Baddenly from ten thousand eyeless sockets
A mild but awful glare of light glowed bluely.
lighting the streets of that benevolent city.
AfMspitabiecity. whose gates were always
open: v
With low priced tenements for God's poor
, people; ..
-V cheap renort for desolate age in winter.
Vfcsaeigbborhood was orderly and quiet,
A from each oofflo window a skull was grin
ning a isUe mockery at life's foolish satire.
was a wouderful sameness in oostums
by rich ladies and their poor servants.
BS bills presented to embarrassed bus-
bands,
Si by side lay the spendthrift and the
miser,
TVs maid and her rejected lover,
Ts prodigal and his unrelenting father.
WsiiiLu there were of feet In sad procession,
.tad gleams of eyes with curious sadness,
Peering Into the dark they soon or late must
tenant.
My soal. moved by an irresistible Impulse,
bate the thistledown before the east wind.
Went through many anonymous avenues.
1 heard a sound of deep perpetual thunder.
Lake life's flood tide throbbing in monotonous
pulses,
Wsjus the shore that has no road or harbor.
-Waa.it a reality, or was It a vision merely
4 eaw underground as my spirit descended
into
land of the mole and the gopherT
a James Ingalhtin Minneapolis Journal.
ELEANOR IN LOVE.
held in her hand the letter. Should
AT
he send it? That moment was one of
those wistfully critical epochs of exis
tence upon which may swing,' as upon a
wage, the door of destiny. .
Eleanor Armstrong stood in doubt.
"Wtoy? It. was a little thing, just a friend
ly letter to Jack Renehaw out in Texas.
What matter? Why should she hesitate?
BfeanoV. could not tell. Still she lin
aWwl, dimly prescient of that swinging
stow of destiny.
She had written his name across the
ssirelope: should she complete the ad
taess and let it got Hers was a quick,
TdtiTe nature, given to the obedience
T impulse. It was vexing to be so paz
akd over so slight a thing.
. An accident, if such, it was, decided
the question. A caller was announced.
She descended to the drawing room, and"
tfce letter went to the box, gathered up
with the rest of her mail by the hand of
the maid. ......
"It was destiny," said Eleanor to her
aetf iif an afterthought. .......
After all nothing could come of it.
Sbe was under no obligation to .Jack
Ken&haw, nor to any other man, in fact.
Then she1 wondered : idlvr if she ever
should care for' any of them one more
than another for Eleanor Armstrong,
while no beauty, had grace and sparkle,
ad a subtle personal magnetism which
strew about her plenty of admirers.
Sbe favored them all - by turns. Last
summer it was Lew Hunter. She went
heating with hiip up in lovely.Chocorua,"
where they summered, played tennis and
climbed counts? roads and hills.
"He was so strong and good natured,
aad made such a good al pen -stock," she.
coolly explained to her aunt, Miss Jane
Hears, who was her careful chaperon.
This year, last past, it was Jack Ren
chaw, at the same place, Chocorna
"dear old dreamy town," Eleanor said,
"I could never tire of it." Jack did not
lance, cared nothing for tennis, and had
"no experience with oars: but he read
jwetry beautifully, and could tell her
charming old idyls as they walked by
M the river.
He interested her in a way that others
tid not: and yet he had such a dreadfully
intense earnestness : about him that he
-positively frightened her sometimes, she
aid. i
Now the summer was gone,' Jack was
in Texas, and Eleanor was in' her city
s home with only Aunt Jane and memory.
Yes, there was always Fred Kensel. He
Jrrediiin, a handsome house up in the
square, with a stylish mother and sisters.
He was the oldest friend of all, and was
always at hand, sometimes more than
Eleanor wished; For iir Jthe last year
. their frank, unrestrained good fellow-.-.
ahip had in some way taken on a color
too strong for j ordinary friendship,' and
Jflearlor often.-found herself uncomforta
ble and ill at ease when Fred was near.
She would declare the air was closed-she
Bust have the window open fxd where
' was Aunt Jane? ' Or if they were on the
Unit she complained of bis pace; why
Ud he Jatf so?'- Couldn't he walk up like
-any other man? Poor Fred "unwittingly
felt the :. smart, of many thorns that
winter.
But ! about 'Jack Renahaw; Eleanor
wared nothing for him she knew she
sfidnt.--.He-was- a - pleasant - summer
friend, nothing .more. Ha. had- light
n she wouldn't marry a. blonde; . any-
Then" he wsf too serious, too
"preachy." She wasn't going tov marry'
gtridoboard. Besides, he was all of ten
re older than mlht awell :
be-t
iddTther;-' -NoJ -Jack
v-sayuaag pacsvrneaa, waotit or ma
mm i f 1 T fn h T.kfa'f?nfnAv waa mi ' V. A-J
mind, and Gecretiy to herself, she owned!
that Mr. Jerome Arthur, the tenor at St.
AaFs was nsuvr trt hftr LaaLS tK 1
either. Bat Mr. Jerome Arthur, yasja. 1
3- ooly. vague possibility. " 8b-iaf
j met him casually a'doaeh times or so.
i Thus 'she feaBohedV '' '
do the days wefit by, and the letter
and Jack went 'almost out of "mind. Oc
casionally a : remark or tone of voice, or
a marked passage in some favorite book
they had read, would recall- him. Then
memory would 'stir,' and she would idly
wonder if he got her letter, and when
and how he would write. But the spec
ulation whs one of indifference. It
troubled her not. The issue was all too
vague as yet.
Lew Hunter was around occasionally:
she began to meet and sing duets with
Jerome Arthur at the houses of friends,
while Fred Kensel was ' in constant
attendance for , lectures, concerts j arid
drives. Therefore, if ' Miss Eleanor's
" time did. not fly, it at least did not drag:
and she spent very few hours either in
ennui or in serious reflection: . .
MiHB.JaneJMears was sometimes anx
ious for the future of her niece, and took
occasion to remind br of the ultimate
necessity of a choice and a judicious set
tlement in life. Whereupon the spirited
girl, with laughing audacity, averred
that Aunt Jane herself was to be con
gratulated, upon her own merciful preser
vation, frorq such a climax 1 That good
lady' received the lively, sallies cif her
niece with the good humored toleration
of a mother cat under the attack of a
frolicsome kitten.:
"But, Eleanor, my dear." she wonld
purr, "you know yon cannot always go
on in this way; yon really must make a
choice." . v. ;
' "Make a. choice: how shall I do it,
auntie? Advertise, for sealed. , proposals
and award the contract to the highest
bidder, or put the candidates in a bag
and raffle for them?" .
"Don't be absurd, child," responded
Miss Jane: "yon know what I mean, of
course. I am afraid you will go through
the entire pasture and then take up with
a crooked stick."
"Well, 1 haven't seen any quite
straight enough, to suit me yet." '
"Well, well, my dear, I only talk to
you for your own good. I have been
afraid you misased it when you didn't
take up with Josiah Hawkins."
." 'Josiah Hawkins' and 'missed it,"
indeed!" retorted Eleanor. "What did 1
miss but an' antiquated old pig with
dyspepsia and squeaky shoes. I trust I
am not reduced to quite so low an ebb."
"No. no, child; don't fly in a passion
so; it isn't ladylike. I ant only afraid
you will never do any better, that is all."
" 'Do any better!' I should think I
could hardly, do worse than marry a
man for whom 1 hadn't a spark of
love!" and the girl's eyes flashed.
"Well, there, there," soothed the se
rene maternal cat. "don't let's talk any
more about it."
"No, but you mustn't begin it, and
please don't scold me any more, dear,"
succumbed Eleanor, with a -kittenish
embrace. And so the dialogue would
end. And the autumn days went by.
November came on. and no letter from
Jack. Eleanor began to think about it.
Sometimes she watched, half uncon
sciously, for. the postman, with a little
sting of . disappointment when he went
by. Yet her intimacy with Mr. Jerome
Arthur grew apace, and she was quite
fascinated, by his tender tones and dark,
passionate eyes.
December no letter. Eleanor's feel
ing of mere question of the cause passed
into the stage of positive pique. .Her
pride was touched. Not even to. write
to her, to leave any letter of. hers unan
swered, when any other man would have
written two.. Well, if Jack Renshaw
had a remote idea of her wearing the wil
low for him, he had not read his p's and
q's correctly, that was all-7 ,,
So she sang more and sweeter duets
with Jerome Arthur, smiled more gra
ciously on Lew Hunter, and completely
dazzled poor Fred Kensel with her affa
bility. On the. whole she was rather
glad he did not write so ' she solilo
quized for inasmuch as she cared noth
ing for Jack, and never could, a corre
spondence would be stupid and only lead
to trouble:'
. Of course he cared for her that is,
well, of course he did! Then, in proof
of that fact, her mind reverted to the
night last summer when they parted at
the gate of the old farmhouse where she
stopped. They had taken their last walk
by the river. They had then sought the
top of the "ledges" to watch the sun set.
Finally, in the twilight they had wan
dered back to say goodby at the gate.
Jack was going - tomorrow and she a '
week later. Their conversation was
broken and ' intermittent as they came
down the grassy road.
. . ".Perhaps" this may. be our .last walk
forever.T' spoke his low, earnest voice.
"Should you care if it were, Eleanor?"
; J'Ohdon't be so solemn," exclaimed
she. ', "Of course we shall have more
dozens next summer." ,
He detained her gently by the arm.
"But would you care if we never did.
I asked you'"
"Jack Renshaw' facing him audaci
ously, "did you ever see an - owl? You
positively make me think of one some
times." His face paled a little. His mouth had
a firmer look as he walked in silence by
her side to the gate. ,' Hesitating a mo
ment while she coquetted with her para
sol and shifted soine -wild flowers un
easily -from one 'band into the eerier:
' ."Goodby, Eleanor' very gravely.
"Goodby, Jack,", vivaciously, 5 r
, "lathat all can yoasay nothing else?"
"Why", what should I say?" she laugh-
e'i ' ' ,. ' -.- V . V
"Say that you care a little for our
sum tner ended if you. do."; taking ! her
hand. '
- "Bat what if -I doa'V withdrawing
that member. '
He looked at her challenging' face a
momdnt? seriously -
j 'Goodby ," he said, and turned and
walked
ed away. Eleanor tripped lightly
over therthreahpld up throomflung
offTher r(haft immediately sat do wV and
V-yes, tMf W S8 inexpHdaBl contra
She remembered it now with a smile,
half of, incredulity, half of Bblf eoni
iMrfrVfc' WT5" rtirl -hi r-rvf
True again
the, inexplicabihties of girlhood she
414 know.'
Three weeks after the parting scene
she had' received a letter from Jack in,
Texas, purely friendly, but the closing
paragraph of which was this, "May I ex
pect an answer, and may I hope that yon
do regret, just a littie, the ending of our
summer idyll" . - So Eleanor had written
her reply warily eschewing the subject
of 'fregret, however, and that was the
letter to which she had received no re-
ply-
The winter days wore on.. Froin, in
difference to curiosity, from curiosity to
pique, and now from pique to anxiety
and fitful depression her feeling had
passed. From .a careless dream of . se
curity in his regard she had awakened
to doubt and uneasy question. ' Had he
never cared himself for their snmmer
idyl? Of course she didn't, she stoutly
maintained to herself, but someway the
growing conviction of his indifference
was extremely unwelcome to her. '
, If the truth must be told, her anxiety
wore on : Miss- Eleanor, and , she, even
moped a little, dismally sometimes, at
twilight in her room, and pretended she
had a headache when Fred called. She
dropped by degrees out of the duets-and
petulantly declared it bored her to sing.
' Her friends and Mr. Jerome Arthur im
plored, but she was obdurate. Neither
passionate ..glances nor tender tones had
power to move -her more.' cThen she
snubbed Lew Hunter and privately voted
him stupid. ... : ,
, Miss . Mesrs noticed capneioosnesa of
appetite, and was. . anxiously solicitous.
Did Eleanor sleep well nights?- Had she a
pain in her side? A dizzy head? Was. her
tongue coated? . And: wouldn't she have
on a porous plaster or wouldn't she take
same tonic bitters? To all of which her
niece objected with laughing contempt.
"What do you think about going to
Chocerua again this summer?" inquired
Miss Mears of her niece one morning the
following June. They were sitting at
breakfast, and Eleanor was dallying with
her coffee spoon.
"Oh, that stupid little town, no. Any
place but there," was the quick response.
. I' Why," said her aunt, in " mild sur
prise, "I thopght you liked it so much
last year. I am sure the farm house was
cool, the vegetables fresh, and yon know
you thought the river scenery was de
lightful." At mention of the river scenery Elea
nor was conscious of a pang at her heart
like pain; but she answered carelessly:
"One tires of things sometimes. I should
like a change."
That evening as she took down her
long hair in her aunt's room, before - re
tiring, she said suddenly, and with a
little nervous flutter, "Yes, let's go ; to
Chocorna, auntie; you. know you like it,
and the Kensels are . going, and it's as
good as any place, after all." ;
, Miss Jane Mears received. the' proposi
tion without surprise; having had twen
ty years' experience with the fluctuating
inclinations of her niece. So it was ar
ranged. . J -
A month later found them settled.
There were numerous gay young peo
ple, Fred Kensel; his sister and Jerome
Arthur among . the rest, and Eleanor
walked and drove and sought out her
old haunts by the river." But there was
a lack, a haunting, memory, and a wist
ful pain, which her heart sought in vain
to ignore. .... . . ... ..
. One night a merry half dozen of them,
were playing tennis in the field near the
farm house which- was. the - temporary
borne of their choice, when a carriage
passing, the driver raised his' hat . and
drew up; ": ..
" Jack;'; Renshaw.!". exclaimed two or
three, recognizing .and running toward
him,, racket 8 in hand. . '
, Eleanor felt as if stunned, but,' being
possessed of too much tact and pride to
allow herself "to seem disconcerted, she
approached with the others and offered
her hand. He leaned from the carriage
in greeting them all. and Eleanor felt,
when he took her hand, that his eyes
were seeking her own. . But she could
scarcely look up. . Her old fearless con
fidence .was gone, and . she blushed half
angrily at her disadvantage. . -. , .
Jack Renshaw : recognized, too,-,: the
difference, and a something intuitive di-"
rected. his reply to the -general impor
tunity whether he would not be with
them before the season was over.
"Yes, certainly, I . think I shall," was
His reply as he drew his reins and drove
on. - '
He had told them -that a telegram
brought him from Texas a month ago to
the bedside of his mother, who was crit- -ically
ill, and whose only son he was.
Her home was in an adjoining town.
She was now con valescent, and he was
to return south in September.'
That night Eleanor pleaded weariness
and retired early to her room. But she
could not sleep. ; She did not try. With
out a light, and in her flowing wrapper,
she sat long, dreaming in the wide west
window: dreaming of all things, of last
summer and of the dull, gray fnture.
But through every vision there moved 1
one central figure. ., All else revolved
about that. One face haunted her mem
ory, one voice thrilled her heart. ;
She rose at last and nervously paced
the floor. Why should she think of Jack
Renshaw? Why could she not shut him
out of .' mind? ; She Eleanor Armstrong
who always had Bailed on the crest of
the wave, to find herself . now chopping
dismally in the trough... It w&s too -exasperating.
: . i . .
, Yet again ' and again the Same vision
haunted her memory, and ever and ever,
against her Jwilir' the -same questions
forced, anlanswer.. . Why .could; she not
forget him? How well he looked t". Why
had she never noticed his tine expression?
What ease 'and'.slf -possession were his!
Why had she been so blind before?" And
8d,nand 8 she 'Vexed herself as the night
hours wore away. . ' " ' '' ' '' ;
Within aweekat wiaback at Choj
coma, a guest at "The Elms', ' the village
mn' Eleanor'; jwhimf'cdnstl.'waii
pbhged, :f ' 'jbf w enerl
favorite, although not given i$ gairies.
His atUtadia-toward her .was perplex
lnjt.v;i.PpUtelyt' jndifferenV he neithe
ahnnned nor -Bcraghaher. Eleanor jwaa
a, always gy.x. Bnt her gayety .was .t
fnl; now bordering on extravagaaeeaai
when ehds0 -artera hay oart.with
hbew relspairig' alxoost to sobrtetyi
as when-she eouiht the kite lien to assort
rags ita.iua, Annt isamce.,,, v
. One afternoon following the arrival of
the daily stage she and the Kensel girls
proposed walking up to the village post
office for letters. They were joined on
the way by Fred, and at The Elms by
re-enforcements, including Mr. Jerome,
Arthur and Jack. . At the poetofEce de
livery Kitty, Kensel volunteered to call
for letters for the company.
"Mr. Jerome Arthur, one; Miss Grace
E. Morris, two three! more than your,
share, Grace Morris; Miss Persis G. A.
Pratt, two and a card; Miss Catharine
Kensel that's me one; Miss Eleanor
Armstrong, card and letter oh, see!
and a dead. letter, too!" .
"A 'dead letter? Oh, let's seer cried
all the girls, huddling together. . .
Jack Renshaw stood at Eleanor's right,
looking quietly on.
Behold her rosy cheek doth pale! .
- iAnd palsied grow her lily hands;
. She dare not .rend the mystic veil
pan on the giddy girl who had delivered
the letter. ,rj , ,
. Eleanor flushed and wrenched the en
velope in laughing contempt.
"See if 1 dare not!" she exclaimed. .,
, The inclosed letter fell to the floor,
with the -addressed. .side .conspicuously
uppermost. Jack , stooped and restored
it to her. inevitably reading the super
scription sis he did so. Eleanor at that
moment read it also.
"J. H. Renshaw" nothing less, noth
ing more. ' In amazement and confusion
she- raised her. eyes to his, which' were
eagerly regarding her - The lightning of
recognition flashed between them. . .
. There it was, her own .letter of year
ago sent to the dead letter, office' on ac
count of an unfinished address. She re
membered it alL She had written his
name, nothing more, that day when she
was hesitating to send the letter. A call
er had interrupted and made her forget.
Then tho maid had mailed it as it was.
So Jack had, never heard from her.
and she had never heard from Jack
again... , . ,.'. ,... . r
. Eleanor hastily thrust the letter in her
pocket and hurried from the office, fol
lowed by the chattering company , whose
attention was already caught by another
matter.
Jack soon, took his place by her side
on the homeward way. Neither spoke
until they came to , where the old -path
led ont from the main road and through
the meadow along the river.
The shadows were long and cool, and
the golden sunset light swept down the
depths of the quiet water like a reflected
sky.
, ."Eleanor," Baid Jack, pausing at the
turn,, "I think I see how it all was; I
think I understand. , Do I not?"
Her. heart beat .thick : and fast. She
wonld . not trust herself to speak; she
only looked away to the sky.
"Shall we walk- by the river tonight?"
he continued, "and would you care now,
as I would,. not a. little, but with all my
soul and for all my life, if we never had
walked together again?" .
Eleanor ; lifted her eyes to his with a
look which answered his fondest hope,
as they turned and went down the river
path. ' :-
But really, Jack, you do make me
think of an owl sometimes yon look so
very solemn and wise!" she said, with a
flash of : her old audacity,, as , they came
again, fn the twilight down to the farm
house gate. Elmira Telegram.
Woman and Her Foot Vtw,
"Please try the Jeft shoe on." said the
-lady who sat next me in a shoe store. .
., "Vfhy: was that?" I asked the man who
had served her, when she departed. - "'
"Hole, in her stockingj .OW yes; you
would hardly, believe how many ' ladies
have holes in their stockings.,., We al
ways know it. It's 'try the right shoe
on,' or the left,' 'never, mind the other.
Some of them say: Txa afraid I have a
little break in my stocking. I didn't ex
pect to get my shoes tried today. And
often the little break horrifies them, hav
ing grown to a big break during the day.
Oh, yes; little breaks come sometimes,
and the. lady herself does not know it, till
the shoe is removed. In those cases she
usually says nothing, but just blushes.
"The hole is always a genuine case of ac
cident when a woman takes it that way.
Sometimes they gasp, so that we shall
see how , surprised . they : are; but then
some women pretend that.. We can usu
ally, tell the Teal thing.. a successful
shoe salesman needs ? peculiar, gifts, of
tact and the genius of patience," this one
continued.' f ' ' '"
"When a woman ' has' a really large
foot it's best to bring a shoe slightly too
small; and then appear surprised that it
does not fit. 'Some feet look smaller
than a really smaller foot' is a good ex
planation, of. your, error. Bring to. the
woman who has a genuinely tiny foot, a
shoe too big aiid then fit down to her.
Nothing pleases her so much. A sales
man influences the buyer tremendously.
I believe a woman - would rather have
her. foot . praised than be told, she it
clever. , Always humor a woman with- a
big foot. ,'You can wear a much smaller
shoe. than . this,. of course,, but you want
this for really comfortable ,wear.' That
makes her want to hug you." NeW York
Sun. ' - ' -
- Wooden Idtee. , -. ... (
Lace making in America is btill an in
fant industry, though the .continent can
claim .the only Jace ttjeeyet discovered.1
It is the lazzette, or lace tree of Jamaica,'
whose inner bark can be separated into
layer8;6f Wry prefyTmeshi - Qaeen1 1 Vic-j
tori has had dress f itpreeotedrby
the people of ; thats ;loyls..coloBy, HiV
.Majesty iCnufflea U. jiad .only a craya, , , ,
History does not record if he wore it.'
It does tell, though, of , .wqQden lace
cravat $hat must, have, been; mucb' more
desirable'. It was carved by-the" famous
Grinling Gibbons in Jmitation 'of 'point
lace, and was, so flexible that it could be
tied or'folded without injury ' ,
' The Duke pfyDeTornaiire vraa'Uts first
PV&ff QiJM i iW1 M'mnpVn
the fmjfTet6atof phAtsworth, puj Mnwg-
'Sfife I.tt. er5I',it eajnet.into
the hands of Horace e.Walpote, who.' de
lighted taw8ar.it whenha. had special
guests of bonoxaf Strawberry Hill '
New York Herald.
Ttie
is here and has come, to stay. It hopes
to win its way to public favor by ener
gy, industry and merit; and to this end
we ask that you gve it a fair trial, and
if satisfied With its course a generous
support.
The
four pages of six columns each, will be
issued every evening, except Sunday,
and will be delivered in the city, or sent
by mail for the moderate sum of fiftj
cents a month.
Its
will be to advertise the resources of the
city, and adjacent country, to assist in
developing; our industries, in extending
and opening up new channels for our
trade, in securing an open river, and in
helping THE DALLES to take her prop
er position as the
Leading City of Eastern Oregon.
The paper; both daily and weekly, will
be independent in politics, and in its
criticism of political matters, as in its
handling of local affairs, it will be
JUST .FAIR AND IMPARTIAL
We will endeavor to give all the lo
cal news, and we ask that your criticism
of our object and course be formed 'from
the contents of tlie paper, and! not from
rash assertions of outside parties- x
sent to any address for $1.50 pei year.
It will contain from four to six eignt
column pages, and we shall- endeavor
to make it the equal of the best: Ask
your Postmaster for a copy, or address.
TH& CHRONICLE
Office, N. W. Cor. Washington and Second Sts.
THE
The Grate City of the Inland Empire is situated at
the head of navigation on the Middle Columbia, and
is a thriving; prosperous city.
ITS TERRITORY.
It is the supply city for an extensive and rich agri
cultural an . grazing country, its trade reaching as
far south as Summer Lake, a distance of over twe
hundred miles. . . : , .
' THE LARGEST WOOL MARKET.
The rich grazing country1 along : the ' eastern slope
of the the Cascades furnishes pasture for thousands,
of sheep, the wool from which finds market here. .. , -
Thef; Dalles is the largest original -wool shipping
point .in , America; about 5,000,000 pounds being
shipped last year: .
; ' 'its products.1 . .....
5 Thersalmoh,! fisheries aTe the finest on the Columbia,
yielrthiear;a4reven which' can
and7will.be more, than doubled il theiiear future?' !,
. The. products of -the beautifuXiKMckatal - yalley find
market here, and: the countryK.south and east has this
yearfilled'thrwahottses and all. available storage
places' t6"'overflowinguwith-stheir-products.' -
:rrs'' wETfi;; ' .
t city. of-itS' Siza onithe
It is the richest city,
moaiey isscattered over- andJis beinga-xtsed to develops
m6re farming cotintrythatfis
citEsrn-0reoS:;' 'a- ' 'C'l '"1-
fall j Its possibilities' incalculable! Itrcsource 'un
limited! - Andon these- corner stones he-stands.-
Ginonieie
t
I n TT.il H -,l t "e
Daily
Obieets
BALLES
of-it& siza on ithe ;oast,-an.d ,ite