on Thanksgivia’ day !
anything like it!”
Bellefonte, Pa., Dec. |, 1893.
RETROSPECT.
The roses were not just so sweet perhaps,
As we thonght they would surely be.
And the blossoms are not so pearly white
As of yore, on the orchard tree;
But the summer has gone forall of that,
And with sad reluctant heart
We stand at rich autumn’s open door
And wateh its form depart.
The skies were not just so blue, perhaps,
As we hoped they would surely be,
And the waters were rough that washed our
at,
‘Instead of the ld calm sea 3
But the summer has gone for all of that,
And the golden-rod is here ;
We can see the gleam of its golden sheen
In the hand of the aging year.
The rest was not quite so real, perhaps,
As we hoped it might prove to be,
For instead of leisure came work sometimes,
And the days dragged wearily ; :
But the summer has gone for all of that,
The holiday time i- o'er,
And busy hands«dn the harvest field
Have garnered their golden store.
The summer was not such a dream, perhsps,
Of bliss as we theught 'twould be.
And the beautiful things we planned to do
Wentamiss.-for ycuand me;
‘Yet still it has gone for all of that,
‘And we lift our wistful eyes
To the land where beyond the winter snows
Aunether summer lies. .
Kathleen R. Wheeler in Lippinegtl’s.
A TARDY THANKSGIVING.
MARY E. WILKINS.
“1 g'pose you air goin’ down to Han-
pah’s to spend Thankegivin’, Mis’
Muzzy.?”
The old lady who asked the question
was seated in Mrs. Muzzy’s best hair-
cloth rocking-chair, which had been
brought out of the parlor for the occa-
sion. ‘She had a mild, tiny-featured
old face, wore a false front of auburn
hair and a black lace cap decorated
with purple ribbons, and was knitting
—putting new beels into some blue
yarn stockings. .
The answer she got to her question,
delivered in her prim, purring, com-
pany tone, made her jump nervously.
“No; iI ain't goin’ a step—not if I | her tone a little.
know what I’m about |”
dun-colored hair.
features and would have been pretty if
it had vot been for a pitiful droop at
the corners of her mouth, the dullness
of her eyes and the dark rings under
her cold, exquisitely neat kitchen and
kindled a fire in the cooking stove and
made herself a cup of tea. Though she
was living alone, every meal was pre-
pared and eaten with religigious exacti-
tude. She spread a white cloth over the
table, put on some slices of bread, a
little dish of quince sauce and
custard pie. Thea she sat down with a
sort of defiant appetite.
some
She had finished her bread and
sauce and begun on her pie, when the
kitchen door, which led directly out-
doors, opened, and agirl of twenty or
so walked in.
“How d’ye do , Lizzie 2” said Mrs.
Muzzy.
“Pretty well, Aunt Jane,” replied
the girl, listlessly, and she sank down
in the nearest chair.
She was a tall, slender girl, with
She had delicate
them. :
‘‘Hev some custard pie?"
“No, thank you; I am not hun-
’
gry.
“Hev you eat any supper ?”
“I den’t know—yes, I think so—
some bread and butter,”
“I saw young Allen go by here "bout
3 o'clock, ridin’ with that Hammond
girl,” remarked Mrs. Muzzy, eyeing
niece sharply. .
She only looked at her aunt in the
same way as she had done before, with
an expression of misery too helpless
and settled to be augmented.
“Yes,” she replied, “I saw them.”
“She's a pretty-looking gal. Fer
cheeks air as red as roses, an’ she had
on a handsome bunnit.”
“Ves?
“It’s quite a Jong time since he's
been to see you 2”
4Yes.”
“Never was such complete uuresis-
tance to a tormeator, if tormentot she
meant to be.
“Well, 1 wouldn't mind anyhow, ef
I was you.” said Mrs. Muzzy, looking
at the girl's weary face and changing
“Let him go ef he
wants to. Jest show him you don’t
The words shot out of Mrs. Muzzy’s {Zeer ”
mouth as it each one had had a
charge of powder in ite rear, and the
speaker went on jerking the stout
thread through the seam she was sew-.
ing.
"he was squarely built woman,
compactly fleshy. There was a bright-
The girl woke up a little at that
“Show him I dod’t care!" she cried,
passionately. “He knows I care. Tt
would be a disgrace to me if I didn’t
| care after I've been going with him for
three years; and he leaving me for a
new face. It's no use pretending I
red color-en each of her firm, round | don’t, I don’t see why folks tell me to.
cheeks ; there was not a vague line in | My heart ought to be broken, and it
ber whole face; her mouth opened | is.”
and shut unhesitatingly end fairly;
and she looked out of her small
brown eyes directly, with ne circumlo-
cation.
“Mehbe you air goir’ wpto your
brother Andrew's then 277 ventured the
old lady feebly.
“No Mig’ Field, I aio’t agoin’ to
Andrew's outher. I ata’t agoin’
newheres,
“Bat,” parred the old lady, “ain't
you afeared you’ll be awiul lonesome?
Lor’, I don’c know what I should doef
it ware’t forSarah an’ her children an’
on a Thanksgivin’ Day. Toe be sure,
you ain’t got any children an’ grand.
children to go to, but thar’s your sister
Haunah an’ here, an’ Andrew an’ his,
and dt kinderseems as if brothers aa’
sisters come next.
“Thar aint no use talkin',” said
r
ute look l:ke another girl.
Jane, why ? I never heard of such a
“I’d hev more sperrit.”
“Would you? Well, I'm made dif-
ferent, I suppose;” said the girl, and
her face took on its listless expression
ag: in,
Her aunt finished her second cup of
tea, and began to ciear away the ta-
ble.
‘“Are you coming over to our house
Thanksgiving or Uncle Andrews ?”
asked Lizzie, after awhile, with some
faint appearance of interest.
“I ain't a-going nowheres; I'm
a goin’ to stay to hum an’ do my pig-
work."
“Pig-work ?”
“Yes, I'in a-goin’ to hev ’em killed
Tuesday.”
Her surprise made Lizzie for a min-
Bat, Aunt
Mrs. Muzzy, in a loud clear-cut voiee. | thing! Pig-work on Thanksgiving
“I .ain’t a-going to Hannah's to | Day!”
Thaoksgivia’, an’ I aint a-goin’ Mre. Muzzy braced herself up de
to Andrew's to
I ain't a-goin’ to hev any Thanksgivin’
to hum.
thanks fur, as I see oun.
could go to meet’in Tharksgivin’
mornin’ an’ hear the sermon, an’ then
get down to turkey and pluw-puddin?,
an’ be a-thankin’ the Lord in my heart
for lettin’ my husband fall off the
scaffoldiin the barn an’ git killed last
summer, an’ for lettin’ my daughter
Charlotte die of a quick consumption
last spring an’ my eon John two years
this fall, I might keep Thanksgivin’ as
well as other folks. But I can’t, an’ I
I ¢'pose ef I |]
Thaunksgivia’, au’ | fiantly.
' quoth she, “you think you're down as
I ain’ got nothin’ to give | fur as anybody kin be because you've
husband,
year, an’ that was more than any
bean, an’ I've lost my daughter, both
of em this year, an’ two yearsago this
fall my eon John, an’ [I don't see as
I’ve got anything to be thankful for.
I ain’c a-going 10 keep Thanksgivin’
Day an’ eat tarkey an’ plum puddin’.
I feel enough sight more like doin’ pig-
work, an I’m a-goin’ too.”
*Look a here Lizzie Munroe,”
ost your beau. Well, I've lost my
that I'd lived with forty
The girl's dull eyes seemed to catch
ain’ta-goin to purtend I do. Thar’s one | a gleam from her aunt’s. For a minute
thing about it—I ain’t a hypocrite, an’
never was.”
“What air you a-goin’ to do, Mis’ |
Muzzy 2? b
“Dot” Mrs. Muzzy sniffed. “Do!
I'm a-goin’ito stay to hum, an’—do | ¢t
my pig-work.”
Tae old lady’s small-featured coun-
tenance, from its very mechanism was
incapable of expressing any very
strong emotion, but it took on now a
look of gentle horror.
her knitting work, and her dim blue
eyes seemed to take up the whole of | |
her spectacles.
“Lor’ sakes,, Mis’ Muzzy! Pig-work
1 never heerd
“I don’t keer.
got to be done, an’ I might jest as well
do it Thavksgivin’ day as avy other. I
feel enough sight more like it than eat-
in’ turkey an’ plumpaddin’, with all
I’ve been through.
she looked strangely like her.
Muzzy’s passionate, defiant
Aired
don’t wouder you teel so.
don’t care about eating turkey and
plum pudding either—I’ll come over
and help you.”
She dropped | minute.
flected in another looked differently to
Mrs.
nature
ber niece’s more unresisting,
1opeless one. ;
“Well, Aunt Jane,” she said, in a
one like an echo of her aunt's, “I
And—I
Mrs. Muzzy looked startled for a
Perhaps her own spirit re-
jer,
“Well, Lizzie, jest as you like,” she
eaid then, “I'll be glad.of your help :
It’s considerable to do pig-work all
| alone, an’ 1've never been used to it" —
The pig-work has | with a sigh.
“Well, I'll come, Aunt Jane.”
There was a long silence; then the
girl took her ead face out of the door,
and her aunt, having set away the last
of her tea things,” went back into her
“Ain’t you a-goin’ to meetin’?
“No.”
“Lor’ sakes!”
The old lady fell to koiiting again in
a mild daze. Mrs. Muzzy would have
been too much for her in her best ||
days ; now she almost reduced her to | f
lunacy.
neighbor, living about a quarter ora [8
mile distant, felt for her the attraction |s
which weak natures often feel for the
strong. She was very fond of ‘drop-
ping ia of an afternoon with her knit-
Still this old lady, who was a | had two immense
face looked sadder this morning.
warm sitting-room. The kitchen fire
was going out, and it was growing
cold. :
Thanksgiving morning, a week later,
was gray and cloudy, and the air felt
ike snow. Mrs. Muzzy’s kitchen was
ull of steaming, glowing heat. She
iron kettles on her
tove, and wae busily cutting pork into
mall bits to fry oat.
Lizzie was there helping, too, She
had come over early. Her sad young
The
ting work There was not so much | cold gray light brought out all the pit-
difference in their ages as one might | tiful,
She had probably been weeping in-
thick at first, either, although Mrs,
Muzzy wasso much younger looking. |
drooping lines more ' plainly.
tead of sleeping the night before, Her
Her daughter, who had died the spring | dun colored hair was put bazk plainly
before, had been a schoolmate of Mrs.
Field's Sarah.
The old lady often accepted the in- |s
vitation tostay and take a cup of tea, | z
but to-day she shortened her call a
ittle. g
ing day rankled ia ber mind, and she
wanted to go bome and tell her daugh- |'n
ter Sarah. :
hair crimped.
The *“pig-work” on Thanksgiv- | over her slender shoulders trimly, and
she wore a little ‘white rufile
aud neatly ; grief did not with her
manifest itself in uuvtidiness, thongh
he never criniped her hair now, Liz
ie looked like another girl with her
Her dark print fitted
in the
eck, , She was cutting pork, too ; her
wrists, though small, were tusculan,
After she had gone Mrs. Muzzy | and she worked steadily and effectively,
went from the warn sitting. room into
though with a pathetic indifference.
Mrs. Muzzy’s firmly set face betrayed
little of it, but she really eyed her
niece from time to time with furtive
uneasiness.
She had an inner consciousness, ever
present to herself, that ber state of
wind was highly culpable, but she un-
dertook the responsibility for herself
with sullen defiance. It was another
thing, however, to be responsible for a
similar et:te in avother. Lizzie
standing there, with her dull
hopeless face, indefatigably cutting
pork, seemed to her like the visible
fruit of her own rebellious nature,
“Hev you seen Jenny Bostwick
lately 7” asked she, with a desperate
determination to alter her niece's ex-
expression.
“No,” replied Lizzie, slowly, “Joe
hasn’t left ber. They're always to-
gether. I can’t bear to go there.”
“I know,” said Mrs, Muzzy, with
quick, sympathetic recogaition of the
feeling. “I felt that way alter John
died. 1 couldn’t bear to go into Mis’
Mann's, because there was her Ed-
ward—she’d had him spared, an’ my
boy’d been taken.”
There was something startling in the
frankness, almost shamelessness, of
the girl’s avowal of envious misery, and
her aunt’s instantaneous sympathy
with it. It was as if their two natures
were growing more and more into an
evil accord.
About 10 o'clock the tront door-bell
rang. “You go to the door, Lizzie,"
said Mrs. Muzzy ; “you look better’'n
1.2
Lizzie took off her apron and went
obediently. Time was when the tinkle
of a door-bell conld make her tremble
all over, but she was calm enough
now. It was six months since ‘George
Allen had been to eee her and she
bad given up all hope of his ever
coming again.
Mrs. Muzzy heard the door open
and shat, then a murmur of voices in
the sitting-room. One of the voices
was unquestionably a man’s, low pitch-
ed and earnest. Lizzie’s seemed to
break into sobs now and then and
once she laughed. Mrs. Muzzy start-
ed when she heard that; she had al-
most forgotten how Lizzie’'s laugh
sounded.
“Who on earth has Lizzie got in
there ?”’ she muttered to herself ; but
she was a woman who could keep her
curiosity in check. She went steadily
on with her work till the sitting-rocm
door opened and Lizzie came out. :
But was it Lizzie—the girl with
those pink cheeks and radiant eves
and that dimpling mouth 2 Mrs.
Muzzy laid her knife down and stared
at her.
“It’s George! George!” said Lizzie
in a happy, trembling whisper that
seemed at ready to break outinto
a scream o! joy. ‘‘He’s come to—to
take me up to his house to dinner.
I'm going home to change my dress
and get ready.” She was trembling so
she could hardly move, but she began
pinning on her shawl in joyful haste.
“Lizzie Munroe,” said her aunt
sternly, “you don’t meau to say. you're
goin’ on with that tellow after all that’s
happened ?”
“Yes, I am; he come for me. Great
tears of pure delight rolled down her
cheeks. She had her hood on now
and turned impatiently towards the
sitting room door.
“Come for you! I s’'pose ef he'd got
married to that Hammoud girl an’
come for you you’d gone jest the
eame |!" cried her aunt with coarse
sarcasm.
“Yes, I would,” cried Lizzie reckless
ly, her hand on the door knob.
“I don’t b’lieve but what that Ham-
mond girl's given him the mitten, else
he wouldn’t a’ come I wouldn't play
second fiddle tor any feller.”
“I would for him!” cried Lizzie, as
shameless in her happiness as she had
been in her misery. She opened the
door a-crack and peeped in. Then she
turned to her aunt, her eyes like stars,
her cheeks fairly ablaze,
“Good-by, Aunt Jane,” she said.
“I’m sorry to leave you alone with the
pig-work. You'd better change vour
wind an’ go over to mother’s for din:
ner.”
Mrs. Muzzy vouchsafed no reply,
and Lizzie went into the eitting-room
and shat the door.
Pretty soon her aunt watched her
and her truant sweetheart hanging
down the street. Lizzie was actually
hanging oa to his arm, in broad day-
light.
i) don’t see where she took such a
disposition,” muttered Mrs. Muzzy.
“Not trom my side. 1’d never have
made such a fool of myself over a
feller.”
Then she went on with her pig
work, righteous indignation and ecorn
against Lizzie mingling in her bosom
with rebellion against the will of the
Lord.
It had always been her boast that
she wasn’t one of the kind of woman
who are forever dropping things and
getting burned and scalded and cuiting
their fingers. She thought there was
no kind of need of it, if anybody had |
her wits about her and didn’t fly about
like a hen with her head cut off.
She was to prove, however, to-day
that ber boasting, for one occasion at
leart, was vain, )
She had lifted the first kettle of boil:
ing lard off the stove in safety and de:
posited itin the sink. The second—
how she did it she never knew, whether
the sudden weakening of a muscle or
the slipping of a finger occasioned it—
she dropped bodily as she was lifting it
from the fire.
Nove ot the hot fat went on the stove
or there would have been a worse com-
plication of disasters. It landed on
the floor and Mrs. Muzzy’s right foot.
She lost none of her resolute coolness
with the sudden shock and agony.
The kettle was scorching the floor; you
could emell the burning paint. She
lifted it on to the stove hearth and cast
a distrustful and indignant glance at
the molten grease spreading over the
floor. j ;
Then she had, luckily, a pair of 4
ecissors within reach. She sat down |
and cut off, with convulsive shivers of
| ing birds, and the prices have fallen
pain but grim determination, her shoe
and stocking. The toot was shocking: |
y . 8 oT lips tien |,
ly burned. She set her Jips hard when | issued, gives the reals vian experiment
she saw it.
“A halt winter's job,” said she.
“Well I”
She dragged herseltiu her chair with |
one foot, hitching herselt along into.
the buttery, to the flour barrel. She
powdered the wounded footthickly with |
flour and hitched back. |
“I'nere,”’ said she, that’s all I can!
do. There ought to be oil and band- |
ages and things, but I've got to sit still. |
I wish somebody would come. |
Then she eat there in silent endur- |
ance, io the midst of the grease, which
bad ccoled, and formed a white coat-
ng over the kitchen floor. Her foot
was amass of torture. She did not
have long to wait for help, however.
She had not been sitting there half an
hour wien she heard quick steps on
the frozen ground outside.
“Open the door, Jane,” called her
sister, Hannah, Lizzie’s mother. “I've
gol my bands tall.”
“I can’t," responded Mrs. Muzzy,
“you'll have to do it yourself.”
The door opened atter a second. The
caller who had a large plate in each
hand, stopped short in utter dismay as |
she took in the aspect of things—her |
sister with her floury foot and pale |
fac: and the lard on the floor.
“Why, what have you done, Jane,”
she cried.
Mrs. Mazzy looked up, and actually
smiled, the first time her sister had
seen her for many a day. “What hev
you got there, Hannah 2? asked she.
“Why, I brought you over some
Thanksgivin’ dinver, but I guess you
won't feel like eatin’ any now.”
“Yes I do. Bring it here.”
“But you want somethin’ done more
for your foot. Did you tip the bot
lard right on to it? Don’t it ache?
Hadn’t you better wait an’ eat your
dinner after the foot's been seen to?”
“No, Hannzh, I want it now. I
want to eat some turkey an’ plum-pud-
din’ afore I'am an hour older, an’ keep
Thank-givin’. I said I wouldn’t, but
the Lord got ahead of me an’ I'm
glad he has. Bring it here an’ I'll eat
my dinner, an’ then, maybe I kin hev
somethin’ more done for my foot.”
Her sister gave in then, and Mrs.
Muzzy, her forehead wrinkled with
pain, sat there and eat her Thanksgiv-
ing dinver to the very last mouthful.
“Lizzie's feelin’ happier,” she re
marked once. :
“Yes; George came to take her to
his folks’ to dinner.”
“Well, I'm glad of it ef she’s goin’
to feel any better.”
“Yon would be ef you was her moth-
er,” said her sister simply. —Harper's
Magazine.
What Shall “Touch”.
Hercis a Brand New Game For Little Chil-
dren.
In this game the first player is placed
it the centre of the room and blindfold-
ed. But before he is blindfolded ke is
told to look about him and notice all
things in the room.
After the handkerchief is tied over his
eyes he is told to turn around once and
then say aloud what he expects to touch
by walking straight forward with his
hands outstretched. Of course, it is
great fun to ses him go and touch the
table after he said he expected to touch
the rocking chair.
He may ‘look’ and then be blind-
folded again : he may try three times (0
touch objects, turning around, of course
each time.
Kuch little player in has three “tries.”
Afuer all have tried, if it isa party,
there is generally a tray of little cakes
brought in, and those players who have
touched the objects are expected to have
all frosted cakes full of plams ; the
others have little plain cakes.
Most grown people would get little
plain cakes.—New York Press.
A Thanksgiving Prayer.
Our thanks go up to God at this
thanksgiving season, not for the extra-
ordinary mercies, but for the ordinary
goodness of hi: hand. There has been no
peace after war, no respite after pesti-
lence, no escape from a great danger.
Blessed is that people which has no ex-
traordinary experiences, but which
develops in peace and prosperity and
abundance the course of its own un-
eventful history.—New York Indepen-
dent.
OYSTERS WITH BacoN.—Select large,
firm oysters, and drain them for half an
hour in a colander. In the meanwhile
cut thin, or shave, as many slices of
breakfast bacon as you have oysters.
Fold the bacon around each oyster, and
fasten with an ordinary wooden pin, |
such as are made for toothpicks. Lay
them in rows in a large pan, and put
them in a very hot oven for about sev- |
en minutes. Serve hot, on toast. If
the ovsters are not very large two can
be put in cach piece of bacon.
BUCKLEN’S ARNI1CA SALVE.-—The best
salve in the world for Cuts, Bruises
Sores. {Jlcers, Salt Rheum, Fever Sores,
Tetter, Chapped Hands, Chilblain,
Corns, and ail Skin Eruptions, and pos-
itively cures Piles, or no pay required.
It is guaranteed to give perfect satisfac-
tion, or money refunded. Price 25
cents per box, For sale by C. M
Parrish.
—— Connecticut farms raised so many
turkeys that the marketsin that State
have been glutted with the Thanksgiv-
proportionately.
—— For a sore throat there is nothing
better than a fiannel bandage dam pened
with Chamberlain's Pain Balm. It will
nearly al ways effect a cure in one night’s
time. This remedy is also a favorite for
rheumatism and has cured many very
severe cases. 50 cent bottles for sale by
* F. Potts Green.
‘The turkey was tender and all in place ;
I did the carving and she said grace. |
Kissed her, too—and she did not grieve . |
“Lord make us thankfu! for what we re-
ceive!”
| the original amount. Throughout the
Sree of charge, on application.
pondence on agriculiural subjects is de- |
sired. Address
Experiment Station Notes.
Bulletin No. 24 of the Station, just
by Professors Waters and Caldwell and
Mr. Weld upon the question of the most
profitable amount of food for a milch
cow.
In these experiments, ten cows were
fed a ration beginning with 8 lbs; of
grain and 12 lbs. of hay and gradually
increasing up to as bigh as 19 lbs. of
grain and 27 lbs of bay per day and
bead, and then gradually decreasing to
experiment, accurate notesswere taken
of the amount and cost of the food, the
amount of milk produced by each ani-
mal and its butter value as determined
by the Babcock test.
Perhaps the most striking lesson of |
the experiment is the demonstration it |
gives or the profit there is in liberal
feeding. The cheapest ration used cost |
18.8 cts. per day and produced butter |
valued at 26.5 cts. making a net profit
of 7.7 cts. per day per cow. An increase '
of 2.9 cts per day per cow in the cost of
this ration made the daily value of the
butter 31 cts. and the net profit 9.3 cts.
per day or a difference of 1.6 cts. per |
dey per cow in favor of the more costly
ration, In other words, the farmer who
attempted to economize by feeding the
cheaper ration would, with a herd of 25
cows, save $217.50 per year on his feed
bills, but would lose $337.50 worth of
butter that he might have produced with
the mcre costly ration, sv that his ill-
judged attempt at economy would result
in a net loss of $120.00.
The cheaper ration, moreover, is what
would ordinarily be considered a good
ration, and the majority of dairymen
would be likely to feed less rather than
more, yet the results of this bulletin
show conclusively that with such cows
as these, the more expensive ration was
really the more economical,
A further increase of the cost of the
ration, however, to 251 cts. per day
gave no further iucreasein the butter
product, and the net profit was thereby
cut down to 5.9 cts. per day or 1.8 cts,
less than with the cheapest ration of the
three. In other words, the experiments
indicate that there is a certain medium
ration for each cow which will give the
greatest net profit and that any altempt
to economize by feeding less than this
will result in a loss, while, on the other
hand, it is possible to feed a cow too
much as well as too little. Generally,
however, there is more danger of feeding
too little than too much.
The experiment also brings out in a
striking light the greatindividual differ-
ences in cows and the great importance
of a careful study by the dairyman of
each individual of his herd, both as re-
gards the amount of milk and butter
produced and the co-t of feed consumed.
The net profit yielded by each one of the
ten cows used in this experiment was
the greatest on the medium ration, but
it varied in amount from 2.2 cts. per
day to 24 cts. per day, equivalent, for a
milking period of 300 days, to $6.60 and
$72.00 respectively.
The increased profit coming from the
better feeding, too, varied greatly with
different animals, some responding
promptly andfreely to the increase, while
on others it produced but little effect
The figures of the bulletin show
likewise what great differences in profit
there may be between cows producing
very pearly the same total amount of
milk and butter per year. For ex-
ample, the records show that last year.
Marguerite produced, 6,512 Ibs. of milk and
296 lbs. of butter.
Ramona produced, 5,459 lbs. of milk and 279
Ibs. of butter:
By the customary standard of compari-
sen, Marguerite would have been regard-
ed as the superior animal, barring dif-
ference in breeding, ete., and would
bave commanded the higher price. On
comparing the daily net prcfit returned
by these animals, however, we find a re-
markable difference not indicated or sug-
gested by the butter and milk records.
Assuming that they remain fresh for
800 days and taking the average net
profit per day of all periods, we havea
yearly profit for
Marguerite of... ........ : $31 50
Ramona of..... 5
On this basis, at the end of six years,
which, for this case, we assume to be the
productive life of a cow, and disregard-
ing the offspring, they would have made
a total vet return ot
I
£189 00
.. 369 00
This means that Marguerite would
have yielded ten per cent. compound in-
terest on a purchase price of $106, while
Ramona would have paid the same divi-
dend on a purchase price of $208.
Again, in the case of Bianca produc:
ing 5,656 pounds of milk and 232 pounds
of butter lust year, we have the follow.
ing exhibit: ;
Avérage daily net profit forall periods 4.9cts.
Total net profit for one year,........ .§14 70
Total net profit for six years,......... 88 20 |
The reader may regard these as ex-!
treme cases, and yet thev were selected |
from the ten animals used in this experi- |
ment and there is no reason to doubt |
that as great differences might be found |
in any ordinary herd.
{
The annual reports and quarterly
bulletins of the Station will be sent, !
Corres- |
H. I. ArMeBY, Director, Pd
: State College,
Centre Co., Pa.
| 8
For and About Women.
Miss Sareh Freeman Clark has donat-
ed to Marietta, Georgia, a library build-
ing, mn addition to 4,000 volupies. The
building is a miniature reproduction of
the great circula ing hbrary building of
the British museum.
If women with red bair would only
study how to use it becomingly they
would he proud of the distinction of
having it, instead of dissatisfied with
their fate. There seems to be a general
impression among women with red hair
that almost any shade of blue can be
worn by them, because as an general
thing, they have fair and delicate com-
plexions. But, as a matter of fact blue
1s the color above all others that they
ought toavoid. The contrast 18 too
violent, and the combination is not
harmonicus. The shades mosy suitable
to be worn with red bair are bright,
sunpy browns, and all autumun-leaf
tints. After these may be selected pale:
or very dark green—but never a bright,
green—pale yeilow, and black unmixed
with any other color. Solid eolors are
more becoming to red-haired pe-ple
than mixed colors, the mixed colors
nearly always giviog a more or less
dowdy appearance. In fact, red hair is.
usually so brilliant and decided that it
must be met on its own ground, and no
vague, undecided sort of things should
be worn with it. :
pr—
Singularly becoming to the foot that
hasn’s a high instep is a dancing slipper
of bronze kid, crossed with a trio of
gold-spangled straps, the space between
each strap being filled in with a puff of
old gold satin.
It is as well to take notice that the
long boa is apparently shelved. Not
that itis to be fcund in the market, but
what to do with its dangling ends over
all these godets ? Decidedly, the long
boas do not go.
But what does go, on the contrary, is.
thie short tippet, the little marten with
head, feet and tail, that reaches round
and caresses the throat, and makes a
centre or hub, as it were, from which
all the godets ray out. It 1s delicious.
There should be a muff with it, all
tailed like a row of scalps hung to dry,
and a tcque edged with the same fur
and having a pompon of tails. i
This little outfit needn’t cost: much,
and makes elegant accessories to any
toilette at any time of day.
A waist of velvet with skirt of cloth
of another color is in great favor this
season, as geen in a beautiful gown at
the horse show, with a full gathered
corsage and basque of green velvet worn
with a skirt and over-skirt of tan-color-
ed wool. A large round hat of green
velvet completed this tillette, and the
gloves of very pale yellow dressed kid
were stitched with white.
—
Mrs. Anne E. Brown, whose will was
admitted to probate at Quincy, Ii,
recently bequeathed $300,000 to: public
charities. To her father and other near
relatives she left $1,000 each.
Among black dresses worn in the
afternoon few are all black, bits of ealor
—turquoise, emerald green, or cerise—
appearing somewhere in most of them.
The gown of black already noted, with
& round waist striped lengthwise with
openpatterned braid, lined with a color,
and falling in four tabs in front, is in
such favor that it is being copied in
black peau de soie with silk braid or jet
galloon over cerise or torquoise-blue
ribbon. Worth makes beautiful gowns
with an over-skirt of black cloth simply
bound with velvet, but showing facings
of cerise satin falling low on a black
satin petticoat broadly striped with
cords and pointille with cerise. The
round waist is double breasted, with
revers that extend up as a collarette
across the back, the front filled in with
a plastron of cerise satin covered with
black pussementerte in very open
meshes. The white satin collar has a
stock and cravat of white lace. Hang-
ing Russian sleeves of eloth turned back
with satin like that of the petticoat tall
almost to the wrist on cloth sleeves of
the same pointille satin. To complete
this unique gown is a belt of black
Liberty satin knotted in front, with two
long sash ends falling straight to the
foot, lined throughout with the glowing
cerise satin. This sash is 10 or 12 in-
ches wide, and is tacked to the skirt at
intervals, that it may move with it
gracefully as the wearer changes posi-
tion.
With the immense sleeves and revers
that are now worn no woman’s ward-
robe is complete without a cape. A
most becoming one was of dark green
broadcloth, with a yoke and deep rufile
of dark green velvet. The cloth was
trimmed with two bands of silk cord
lace insertion. The velvet ruffle was
edged with a ruffle of lace akout two
inches deep and over it was a full roffle
of the same almost as deep as the velvet
itself. The high collar was bordered
with black ostrich feather trimming,
making the ensemble elegant. chic and
delightfully uncommon.
Another one likewise seen on a living
model was of black velvet cut into two
full capes, the upper one falling in a
jabet effect over the shoulders. Each
of the capes was edged with ten rows of
the narrowest and finest jet I have ever
seen, while the collar was formed of a
thick ruching of black satin edged with
tiny jets. A thick rosette was set in
front, while long ends of ribbon finished
with jet spikes fell to the bottom of the
gown. The whole thing was lined
with rich purple satin brocaded in tiny
figures of black.
The University of Chicage put wo-
men on the same basis as men, whether
students or teachers. Its History and
Political Science Club has two or three
young women on its list of officers.
The ultra fashionable hostess has the
loaf of bread brought to the table on a
large carved wooden board, accompan-
ied by a good sized knife, also with a
carved wooden handle, and slices are
cut as they are called for. Individual
butter plates are used, which the maids-
in-waiting pass to her when a fresh sup-
ple of bread and butter is needed.