Radio and television mirror (Nov 1939-Apr 1940)

COUGHS Piso's PLUS-ACTION Explodes Theory That Cough Medicine Only Soothes Your Throat I DUE TO COLDS Here's help that Soothes Throat and then . . . Wakes Up Nature's "Protector Secretions" Starts Fluids Flowing on Irritated Membranes Liquefies, Loosens clogging Phlegm The immediate soothing action of Piso's, as it clings to your dry, irritated throat membranes, is only the first step in relieving your cough due to a cold. For you also get an important PLUS-ACTION in this modern formula Piso's. That's because Piso's works internally — actually stimulates your system to produce more protective secretions — in throat and upper bronchial passages where phlegm has collected from irritation. Gradually these normal fluids thin out and liquefy the thick, clogging phlegm — it's more easily flushed away — your cough is "loosened"! Depend on Piso's (Pie-so's) — not for its local "throat-soothing" action alone — but for its more i mportant insidework ing systemic effect. 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Chicago GIVE YOUR LAZY LIVER THIS GENTLE "NUDGE" Follow Noted Ohio Doctor's Advice To Feel "Tip-Top" In Morning! If liver bile doesn't flow freely every day into your intestines — constipation with its headaches and that "half-alive" feeling often result So step up that liver bile and see how much better you should feel! Just try Dr. Edwards' Olive Tablets used so successfully for years by I Jr. P. M. Edwards for his patients with constipation and sluggish liver bile. Olive Tablets being purely vegetable, are wonderful! They not only stimulate bile flow to help digest fatty foods but also help elimination. Get a box TODAY. 16^ 30^ and 60yf. 72 businesslike. "And you'd better call me Aunt Mary. I think we'll suppose that you've married my nephew; I haven't any, but that's neither here nor there. You won't see many people, and those you do see won't be curious. What j'you tell your mother?" "That I was going to Hollywood, and perhaps to New York. That I'd write her." "That's all right, then. One more thing. I'll say it now, and then we won't have to say it again. I'd put my hand in the fire for Emily Rogers. She did something for me once — well, that doesn't matter now. She telephoned me and asked me to look out for you, for a while; it isn't exactly in my line, but I was glad to say yes. You'll be bored to death here, but you'll be safe. Nobody'll see you, and I'll be glad of your company. Lee Wing here is taking the truck in later, and he'll get your bag, and I think Hong fixed you a room. That's about all we've got to say, I guess." Mrs. Hutton returned to her gardening, the hose began to splash once more, and Tarn turned and went slowly to the open door of the house. Escorted by a small Chinese boy in white coolie clothes, Tam went upstairs and found herself located in a wide airy bedroom, shabby but infinitely welcoming and comfortable. STEADILY, with something of the expression that had been on her face when she had first come home two years ago, the girl unpacked. It was a serious expression, a little bewildered— patient with the patience of betrayed youth. Tam took possession of the bureau, hung her hat and coat in the closet. The house was very still with a beautiful, restful stillness. The jangling of an old-fashioned dinner bell aroused her a few hours later, from a light waking sleep; she brushed her hair quickly and went downstairs. It was just six o'clock; there was still daylight in the garden, the tops of the oaks were varnished with gold, and bees were tearing by like bullets above the motionless flowers. She and her hostess were alone at the meal; everything was put on the table at once by the little Chinese boy; there was no further service. Cold ham and a bowl of salad, muffins and honey, baked sweet potatoes in their plain brown-paper jackets, part of a rather stale chocolate cake. It was all so artificial, her being here in this strange woman's house, her awkward and reluctant acceptance of hospitality perhaps as reluctantly and certainly as awkwardly offered. Her face burned, and when Mrs. Hutton spoke to her she found it difficult to answer. The night had turned chilly and the big house seemed bleak and forlorn in the silent summer night. Fog had come down in a blanket over the hills. The Chinese boys had disappeared. There seemed to be no one left in the world but Tarn's own weary and intensely depressed self and her squarely built, blunt, grayheaded hostess. "I go to bed early," Mrs. Hutton said, after dinner. "I'm tired after gardening all day. You'll find all sorts of books in the library; help yourself." "I'd like to tell you," Tam began suddenly, "how grateful I am to you for — I know of course that you're doing it for Mother Laurence — " She stopped; it sounded so flat. Mrs. Hutton looked at her thoughtfully as she stopped in confusion. "There isn't much I wouldn't do for Emily Rogers," she said in her blunt and unsympathetic way. "You know that I haven't any money at all?" Tam went on, clearing her throat. "You may have some day," the other woman said briefly, after consideration. "You can pay me back if you like." Tears came to Tamara's eyes, and her lips trembled. "I will!" she said. "Your twenty-first year isn't all your life," Mrs. Hutton observed, as if thinking aloud. But Tamara heard the first note of encouragement, of interest in her voice, and her chilled and despairing heart was warmed. "You wish you could go back!" she said in a trembling burst. "Yes," the other woman said dispassionately. "You wish to go back. No one can ever go back, and the dead don't come back. They never come back! My husband — my son." She stood staring into space for a moment. Tamara did not speak. Then Mrs. Hutton said: "Well — good night." "Good night." This was July. December was five long months away; five endless months of days filled with today's strange sense of solitariness and shame and helplessness. Tamara thought of the girl who had so lightheartedly thrown away honor and girlhood in a mood of careless confidence and high spirits only a few months ago, and for a long while she lay awake in the unfamiliar room, the unfamiliar bed, staring into space thinking — thinking. Thinking what a strange world it was, when joy and love and daring could end in the long pull of humiliation, tears, ill health, loneliness, dependence. "Twenty-one! Almost twenty-one," Tam said half aloud, in the deathlike silence of the great spare room in the Hutton house, hidden in the Belmont hills. "I wonder if by the time I am fifty-two I can sleep again, breathe again!" MARY HUTTON had had a husband and a son and a daughter, Tam learned as the summer gave way to autumn; the little girl had died as a child, and some ten years ago she had lost the husband and had married a second time. It was something connected with this second marriage, and with the boy, that had broken the woman's heart and ended her life as a normal being. "You've made a bad start," she said to Tam. "I did a lot worse than you did. We were poor. Sometimes I used to think that my little Mary might have lived if I hadn't been afraid of telephoning the doctor for nothing. I don't know. My husband died when my son was only twelve. Bunny — that's what we always called the boy, although his real name was George Alan — was so proud of being left to take care of his mother; I think we might have managed it some way. But I'd never worked, I'd never earned money, and when Clifford Hutton came along and asked me to marry him I could only see the money. I don't know that I ever asked myself if I loved him, or if he ever did. He hated my son. Poor little boy — his dream of having his mother all to himself was over! We put him in school, and it wasn't a RADIO AND TELEVISION MIRROR