Temorric, atc
Bellefonte Pa.. February 24, 1905.
wim
COLD STORAGE ROMANCE.
She wrote her name upon an egg;
A simple country girl was she,
“Go, little egg, go forth,’ she said,
*‘And bring a sweetheart back to me.”
Into the wide, wide world it went,
Upon its shell the message plain.
The maiden waited, waited on,
With throbbing heart—but hope was vain.
The days, the weeks, the months, flew past,
A year, another year rolled by.
Alas! no lover ventured near
To dry the teardrops in her eye.
Sad at her casement in the night
She wondered where the egg could be.
“Oh voiceless moon, dost thou behold,
Somewhere, my true affinity ?”’
Somewhere, indeed, there was a man
Whom fate had made for her to own ;
Somewhere, and waiting for the egg,
He led his loveless life alone.
The years sped on till gray and bent
She looked adown the road one day,
And trembling, saw an aged man
Approaching slowly on the way.
His locks were white, his shoulders bow ed,
He feebly leaned upon a cane.
She looked—and in her faded cheeks
The blush of roses glowed again,
Twas he, her lover, come at last!
‘Are you Miss Mary Jones, I pray ?
I found your name upon an egg
I bought in market yesterday.”
Cheated of youthful life and love,
Kept parted to the journey’s end,
The evening of their wasted day
Together now they sadly spend.
0, Egg Trust cold, how many crimes
Are done in thy disgraceful name?
Gaze, gaze upon thy cruel work
And hide thy hydra head in shame.
Newark News.
THE OLD MAJOR.
About our house there was a garden,
with round beds of blooming plants, and a
shady apple tree or two tc break the glare
of the summer sun. In one corner the hol-
lyhocks grew, and along the path to the
gate purple flags appeared each spring in
uneven rows, like isolated bands of soldiers
marching on a common enemy. There
were dandelions in the grass, and a lilac
bush by the front door. Here used to
play, in a bright pink sunbonnet, and lit-
the black slippers which buttoned with a
band about my ankle. Secretly I consider-
ed myself rather beautiful, and as for my
conquests, they stretehed down the street
and around the block. There was the gro-
cer’s boy and the elderly lady from over
the way, who wore one kind of hair in the
morning and another kind in the afternoon,
and ordinary strangers passing through the
town, and last of all, but first in my esti-
mation was the old major.
Every day at the same hour he passed
the house, leaning on a cane. When the
sun was bright he stepped along quickly
with an alert carriage of the head, but
there were cloudy days when his step was
slow and feeble, and ever his smile lost
some of its usual charm.
‘Hello, little girl,”’ he said in a ponder-
ous fashion, the first time he saw me perch-
ed on the gate. ‘‘Hello! Hello! Hello!’
The helios reached a long distance, and
grew very gruff at the end, but there was
a twinkle in his eye, and he bad a beanti-
ful bright star on bis watch-chain, with
which I longed to play.
I gravely put outa small hand to him.
“My name is Rhoda,’”” I said in a
burst of confidence. ‘‘I live here in this
house. I was six years old yesterday.”
“Were you?'’ he replied, evidently very
much impressed. ‘‘That’s very old, very
old.”
He went slowly down the bleck, but
when he turned on his way back, he stop-
ped again at the gate to discuss my age.
“Six, was it? Well! Perhaps you can
tell me what time it is.”’
I shook my head, with a fascinated look
at the gleaming star. .
“I haven’t a watch.”
‘‘But you don’t need a watch,”’ he an-
swered. ‘‘See here.”’
He stooped down painfully, grasping the
fence for support, and picked the snowy
seed-ball of a dandelion plant. Then he
straightened up slowly, and blew at the
feathery toy.
‘‘Ope, two, tbtree, four, five! Five
o’clock. Time for the old major to go in
out of the damp.’
Then he turned away from me and went
up the street, his cane digging little holes
in the path, and be himself forgetting all
about the child whom he had left still
perched on her gate. I had not entirely
passed from Lis memory, however, for
when he came to his own gate far in the
distance, he took off his hat and gallantly
waved it to me before he went in out of the
damp.
‘‘Mother, I love the old major!” I said
one day.
‘What major?”’ my mother asked, look-
ing up from her work with a smile.
She was making small ruffled skirts and
aprons with pockets. She could make the
most beautiful things, all out of her own
head.
‘What major? Why, ny major. Moth-
er, has the old major any little girls or
boys that I could play with? Oh, I should
so like to play with his little girls and
boys!”
‘‘Major Daniel Clark hasn’t any little
girls or boys. He lost them all, dear. He
is a very lonely man.”
‘‘Didn’t be ever find them again, moth-
er?’
‘‘No, dear. Never again.” .
Now, I was very good at finding things.
I found grandmother’s spectacles ten times
a day. even when they were only lost in
her soft, white hair. And once I found
mother’s thimble when little brosher Dick
had it in his mouth, and it was just going
down red lane. Norah said I had a pair of
bright eyes, and my father, when he want-
ed his slippers, could think of no one so
trustworthy to send as I. To find little
girls and boys would be quite easy, for
they were much larger things. I had only
to ask all the girls and boys who came past
my gate if they belonged to the major,
and, when the right ones came, we would
run, band in band. up to that distant door
and go in. He would be so pleased, and
never lonely again. And, perhaps, juss
suppose that he would he my friend for-
ever and ever!
I was waiting on my gate next day when
he came by.
‘Oh, Major!”’ I cried excitedly, nodding
my head at him. “I’m going to find your
little girls and boys for you!”
“My little girls and boys?’ he asked,
perplexed.
**Yes. The ones you lost so long ago.”
He turned quite suddenly on his way,
’
so quickly that I thought he was angry, but
when he came back be stopped at the gate
again. He took my face softly between
his bands and looked down deep into my
eyes, into the little circles where there were
pictures.
‘“When you grow up, always remember
that the old major loved you,’”’ he said
hurriedly, and then went back toward the
house from which he had come out go short-
ly before.
We were great friends after that. We
held long conversations over the gate,
about my dolls, and the hobby-horse which
had lately come to live in the hall. We
discussed the best way to raise children,
and how convenient it would be if aprons
could only be made to button in front.
We both had original ideas on things, and
often differed, but none of my new clothes
ever seemed quite real to me until the ma-
jor had admired them, and pinched my
cheek with that air of gallantry which
showed that I was a woman. He brought
me presents, very wonderfal things; bright
pebbles which he picked up on the street,
willow whistles, and a tiny basket carved
from a peach-stone, which I hung on a rib-
bon about my neck. I gave him flowers,
and once, when no one was looking, I let
him kiss me in the shadow of the pink sun-
bonnet.
If the major and I met thus on the sunny
days, when it rained there came a blank in
my life. Then he conld not go out at all,
but must stay shut up in his house until the
weather cleared again. There was some-
thing the matter with the major which
made this necessary. In some unaccount-
able way be was different from other peo-
ple, and to be different from other people
was sad, and was, moreover, a thing which
never happened in our family.
Now, grandmother had a little red brick
house that stood on her mantlepiece which
aided me a great deal in stormy times. A
little man and woman lived in this house
who were never of the same mind, and
carried their lack of sympathy to such an
alarming extent that tbey used separate
doors, and as far asI could see had never
met in the course of their lives. For, as
sareas the man with the umbrella came
out of one door, the little lady with the
roses in her bonnet gathered up her skirts
and scurried in as if she were afraid to meet
him. With her went the sunshine and the
blue look to the sky, and the rain came
down heavy and fast. But if the old man
went into his house, the old lady sprang
out, with a smile on her face, and the rain
stopped falling and the sun came ont.
Then, by and by, the major would walk
down the street, and stop to chat awhile.
I used to run to grandmother’s room
every morning to look at that house.
‘‘Grandma,’’ I cried eagerly, ‘‘has the
little lady come ous to-day.’’
Then I took my stand soberly in front of
the mantelpiece, and regarded the two fig-
ures with much attention.
‘‘Grandma,’’ I said once, ‘‘do you think
they can be relations?’’
Grandmother took up a stitch in her
knitting without replying.
‘‘Because, if they are,’’ I went on indig-
nantly, I think they ought to be ashamed !’’
‘‘Ashamed of what, Rhoda?’’
‘Why, of the way that they act. They
don’t even look at each other! And, grand-
ma, I think he’s the worst. He goes in
with such a click when she comes out. He’s
so afraid she’ll speak to him.’’
Grandmother looked up over her spec-
tacles.
‘‘Now that I come to think of it,”’ she
said, ‘‘they’ve acted that way for forty
years.”’
“I wonder why he don’t like her?” I
went on, musingly, ‘‘Is it because she’s
got flowers in her bonnet and he hasn’t?
Look, grandma, she’s coming out very
quietly. She’s going to catch him this
time. Oh, he’s gone in with a click! And
he never said a word.”’
‘We'll have fair weather now, Rhoda.”
‘‘And my major will come out, grand-
ma.’’
‘‘He’s my major!”’ little Dick cried.
‘‘He’s my major,”’ Beatrice asserted.
‘‘No such thing!’ I said, turning on
them angrily. ‘‘He belongs to me. Don’t
he, grandma.’’
Grandmother did not answer, but I knew
that he did. When the twins came, band-
in hand, down the path to see him, he
would pat their fat arms through the
spokes of the gate, but it was always I to
whom he wished to talk, for I was more of
his own age, and not a baby like them.
*‘Baby yourself?”’ Dick said, when I
mentioned this, and slapped me, but it
made no difference.
Sometimes the lady from across the way
would come over tu walk with the major.
They were old friends, and had a great deal
to talk about. I remember seeing her
shake her finger at him when she found
him leaning on my gate.
*‘So you’re trying to turn another wom-
an’s head!’’ she cried gaily.
He wheeled upon her with that sudden
straightening of his shoulders that would
come so unexpectedly.
“Did I ever turn vour’s, Kitty?’’ he ask-
ed, with a mischievious smile.
“*Dozens of times,’’ she cried.
of times!”’
Then she took his arm, and they went
up and down in the bright sunshine, up
and down, while the major would thamp
his cane upon the ground with that gruff
laugh that always seemed merrier than
other people's. His white hair was smooth-
ly brushed, and his black bat was set on
jaunsily, and his kind eyes shown as if he
were young again. I noticed that the lady
from over the way always wore a black silk
dress and her best, curly, brown hair when-
ever she came to walk with the major, and
also, a hattered silver bracelet which look-
ed as if it had been chewed. The major
would glance at it and laugh.
‘I took castor-oil to buy that bracelet,”’
he said once, with his twinkle.
It sounded funny, but I knew just what
he meant. I had made dollars and dollars
myself taking castor-oil, except that time
when Auntie May mixed if so cunningly
with lemonade that it went down and down
to the very dregs, and I never discovered
until then how I bad been cheated out of
my just dues. .
‘‘So that was it!’’ the lady from over the
way exclaimed, patting the bracelet. ‘I
always knew that there was something
curious ahout it.”’
‘It was harder than leading a regimens
of soldiers into action,” the major an-
swered soberly, and then broke into a glee-
ful langh. ‘‘I wouldn't do it for you now!’’
be cried. :
First she threatened him with the brace-
Jet. Then she took his arm again, and they
went on walking in the sunshine, talking
of all the many people they had known in
their lives. Her touch on his arm was very
light, guiding and sustaining, rather than
dependent, but the old major thought that
she leant upon him.
I was not jealous of the lady from over
the way. I felt that we shared the major
between us, and then it was always at my
gate that he stopped first. It was here that
he told me about a trip he was intending
to make.
“Dozens
put on the white dress with
“I am going off to the city for a week,”’
be said.
‘Are you, Major?’ I questioned sorrow-
fally, for a week had seven days in it, and
even aday was a long, long time. No
wonder that my eyes were full of tears.
“There, there,’’ he said. ‘‘Bear it like a
woman.’?
I was not a woman, but sometimes the
major need to forget. I thought it was be-
cause I loookd so tall when I stood heside
the gate.
He put out his kind old band,
smoothed my bair.
‘‘What shall I bring you from the city?’
he asked. ‘‘A new doll? What would you
like best of all, Rhoda.”’
I considered the question. There were
a great many things that the major might
bring from the city. There were little doll-
babies, or pioture-books, or cups and sau-
cers, or hooples with bells. Then I had an
inspiration. I leaned forward ina glow of
excitement.
*‘I should like—-Ob, Major! Will you
really give it to me? I should like the lit-
tlest watch in the world. With a star!
With a star just like yours!”
“You shall have it,”” he answered
promptly, as if there were nothing unusual
in such a grand request. ‘‘Now, remem-
ber, if all gces well, I'll be at the gate a
week from to-day. And I'll have the watch
right here in my pocket.’’
*‘And I’ll bring flowers!’’ I cried joyfully.
‘“All the flowers that you love best, Maj-
or.”
“‘Good-bye,”’ he said, with a sudden
touch of emotion.
*‘Good-hye,”’ I answered rather teaifally,
for even the watch could not reconcile me
to his absence.
He turned to go, and came back again.
“Pray for the old major,” he said in a
husky whieper.
Through my tears I saw him go up the
block, a little slower than usual, as if he
did not want to go. At the gate he stopped
and waved his hat to me, as he had done
on that first day, and squared his gallant
old shoulders before he passed into the
house. I always wished tbat I had kissed
him before he went.
It was not hard to pray for the major, for
I believed in the efficacy of prayer. When
tho elastic bands became loosened in the
black doll, Topsy, and she lost her wool
and her legs at the same time, I went down
solemnly on my knees on the floor, and
prayed for them to grow together again.
And they did, in the night. And the time
I lost my little front tooth, I prayed to
God and he sent me a new one! So it was
not hard to pray for the major. Bat some-
how or other I did not like todo it before
my mother. Is seemed such a secret sort of
a prayer. I waited until I was safe under
the covers, and she bad taken away the
light. Then I climbed out of bed, in the
big darkness, and went down on the floor.
I prayed to God to bless the old major, and
bring him back safely to me. I said it over
twice so that God would not forget.
‘So the old major has gone to the city,”’
my father said at the breakfast table. ‘‘I
can remember him when he was in the
pride of his strength, a magnificent figure
on horseback. He never rose as high in
the service as be should. He made power-
ful enemies, and slipped into the hack-
ground.”’
“It’s twenty years since his wife died,”
my mother’s soft voice added. ‘‘He has
lived alone in that big house ever since.
Think of it, Robert!”
‘‘Such is the heart’s fidelity,’’ father
apswered, with his face turned towards
hers.
‘When he comes back we must make
more of him,’”’ mother said.
It was a very long week, but even long
weeks have a way of slipping by at lass. I
played about the house and the garden
with the twins, but I never went near the
gate, not until the day dawned which was
seven times from last Friday, and
was Friday again, bright and clear, the
very day for the major’s home-coming.
There were so many flowers in the garden
and
| that morning, such especially large ones.
They knew, toe, that the major was coming
home, and had put on their prettiest dress-
es in his honor.
It was quite a puzzle to me what 1 should
put on. I had a closet full of dresses.
There was a beautiful blue silk one, too
good for anything but church, which
matched a little blue parasol.” And then
there was a lovely white one with a lace
flounce, which went with my scalloped
petticoat. My third best dress had roses
and buttons on it, and the fourth best was
covered with brown spots, like cough drops.
I loved my little dresses, and it was so
hard to tell which dress should come out,
and whioh must stay shut up in the closes
with nobody to admire them.
*‘Shall is be the cough drop dress, moth-
e1?’’ I asked uncertainly.
*‘It’s such a wonderful day, and the sun
shines so bright, that I think you might
the lace
flonnce,”’ my mother said, with that smile
which meant that she wae laughing with
me and not at me.
‘*And my little black slippers?’’
‘And your little black slippers.’
‘‘And, mother, you remember the time
that I was your little flower girl? And you
put roses in my hair soit looked like a
crown? I'd like to be the major’s little
flower girl.”
My mother lent herself to the pretty idea.
She crowned my head with roses. There
were roses at my throat, and a big, float-
ing pink sash swept down my back, and
there were roses in my hand for the major,
one bunch to give him with a kiss when he
came, and another to give him with my
love when he went.
Grandmother shook her wise head when
she saw the toilet.
‘If she were my child,”’ she said, *‘I
should dress her in a brown gingham down
to her heels, and tie her hair with shoe-
laces.’
I gasped and mother laughed.
*‘She’s vain,’’ grandmother went on se-
verely. Suppose she should giow up a pop-
pet!”’
I carried that awful mame out with me
as I climbed upon the gate, and stared out
bashfully at the street. I was afraid to
think bow beautiful I might be.
The grocer’s boy came by, my own par-
ticular grocer’s boy. Stricken with sudden
admiration for my charms, he put down
his basket and expressed his sentiments.
“Say, you are a daisy!” he said.
‘‘Go away, Jakie,”’ I answered with em-
barrassmens.
you now. Go away! I'm busy.”
He was quite crushed by my new baught-
iness, and lingered about, thinking thas I
would relent, but all my smiles and flowers
were waiting for that bent figure which I
loved #0 well.
An hour slipped by, but still the major
did not come. My crown grew heavy on
my head, and the flowers wilted in my hot
hands. The lady from over the way came
to ask me questions. She had on her ugliest
hair, and there were tears in her eyes.
‘What are you doing, Rhoda?’ she ask-
ed, with an anxious look. Then she seem-
ed to divine. “You are not watching for
the major!’’ she exclaimed. x
“I haven’t time to play with |
““Yes,”” I answered wearily.
*‘Doesn’t your mother know, child?’ she
cried. ‘‘But then, he never told any one.
They found that there must be an opera-
tion, and he was not strong. There was
no one whom he loved there at the end.
He died as he lived, all alone. Oh, poor
old man! Poor old man! Let me go by,
child! Let me go by!”’
Sne thrust herself in the little gate,
wheeling me back against the fence and
went up the path to our house.
Then, in hardly a moment, Norah came
out and led me in, and proceeded to take
off all my pretty things, and put on a com-
mon dress, quite an old one, with a darn
on the sleeve.
“I don’t want that dress, Norah,”’ I
protested. ‘‘I want my white dress. I want
to he his little flower girl.”
I went in where my mother sat, with the
lady from over the way, and explained the
situation through my tears. Mother was
very tender with me. Somehow I felt that
she herself was sorry about something, for
she dropped a tear on the wilted roses
which I still held in my hand. Together
we went into the garden. Together we
gathered all the flowers that there were—
the big ones and the littie ones—and form-
ed them into a great bunch. It was for the
major. I danced with sheer delight, know-
ing too well how the kind old face would
light up when he saw all the flowers which
he had admired so often made a present to
bim. I added buttercups, and dandelions,
and bits of feathery grass, while mother
watched me with a sad smile, and said
never a word.
The lady from over the way cried very
bard ou our front steps, but afterwards she
dried her eyes and took my flowers to the
major.
He did not come the next day, or the
next, though I watched at the gate, and
then something strange bappened. I was
told not to go into the garden.
‘Not this morning, Rboda,’’ my mother
said. ‘‘Grandma and I are going out, and
you must stay in the house. When we
come back you may go out.”
She dressed herself very quietly that
day, all in dark things, and she and grand-
mother did not look joyful, as they always
did when they went out together.
“I'd like to go, too,”’ I said wistfully.
Then Norah coaxed me.
‘¢ ‘Ah, stay and play with your Norah,”’
she cried. ‘* ‘Sure you’ll not he after leav-
ing your Norah alone in this big hounse!”’
I always liked to play with Norah when
her work was done, and she had time to be
sociable. That day we played blindman’s
buff together—she and I and the twins.
Norah was the blind man, and she was the
longest time catching us, and when she did
she could never tell who it might be. She
would ‘guess quite impossible people—the
grocer’s boy, and the lady from over the
way, and her very own mother in Ireland,
and she never once, by any chance, thought
that it was Rhoda, or little Dick, or Trixie.
“Sure, your too big for Trixie,”’ she
cried when we told her who it was.
That day, when the blind man was out
of breath, and his feet were sore from walk-
ing hundreds of miles, I climbed up on the
the window sili and watched the people
going along the street. There were a great
many of them, more than usual. Suddenly
there was the sound of a fife and drum in
the distance, and a long line of carriages
came into sight, and one was filled with
beautiful flowers and one was draped with
a torn old flag.
*‘Come, quick, Norah !”’ I cried eagerly.
“It’s a procession !”’
“It’s the old major’s,”’ Norah said, com-
ing, with the twins in her arms, to look
over my shoulder.
I had known, somehow, that is was the
major’s, for everything nice belonged to
him. I was so proud to think that my
major should have all that big procession,
with the lovely flowers and the music in
front. I looked for him in every carriage,
that I might wave as he went by. He was
not there, but other people were, my moth-
er and my grandmother, and the lady from
over the way, and men with gold braid on
their coat: come to arace the major’s pro-
cession.
“Is it all his, Norah 2’? I asked.
“‘Sure, dear.’’
“I am so glad,” I cried. ‘‘Oh, I'm so
glad !”?
I clapped my hands in wy delight, and
was quite angry with Norah when shg
dragged me hurriedly away from the win-
dow.
That night my mother took me in her
lap, and told me that the old major bad
gone to heaven. I had heard of heaven
before. It was where I came from, and the
twins.away back in the early days. Heaven
was a nice place, and now, as the major’s
home, it acquired a new charm. But there
was one drawback.
‘‘Sha’n’t I ever see him again, mother ?"’
I asked.
‘‘Never again, Rhoda.”’
‘‘But, mother, it’s a children’s place,”’ I
urged anxiously. ‘‘And the major is old.
quite old. He won’t like it there, mother.”’
*‘The major bas gone to heaven to be a
little child again,”’ my mother said, with
a sob. :
Then she put a blue velves box in my
band. Inside there was the littlest watch
in the world, and on the back of the watch
there was a star in blue stones. It was the
last thing which the old major bought be-
fore he went to heaven.—By Florence
Tinsley Cox, in McClure’s Magazine.
A New Creed.
I believe in cleanliness of body, mind
and soul.
I believe in kindness to man, woman,
child and animals.
I believe in truth because it makes me
free.
I believe in the charity that begins at
bome, but does not end there.
I believe in mercy as I hope for meroy.
I believe in moral courage hecanse I am
more than a brute.
I believe in righteousness because it is
the shortest and best line between two
eternities.
I believe in patience because it is the
swiftest way to secure results.
I believe in that kind of industry thas
takes an occasional vacation.
I believe in that sort of economy that
spends money for a good purpose.
I believe in honesty, not for policy’s
sake, but for principle’s sake.
I helieve in liospitality because it puts a
roof over every man’s head.
I believe in obedience because itis the
only way: to learn how to command.
I believe in self control because I want
to influence others.
I believe in suffering because it chastens
and purifies.
I believe in justice becanse I believe in
God.— Omaha News.
——Smith—1 wonder why it is that not
a single one of our numerous laws for pro-
hibiting the sale of liquor bas ever worked
satisfactorily.
Jones—Simply because not one of them
! prohibited thirst.
Spring is Coming Karly this Year.
Candlemas day, the 20d of February, is
usually considered to be nid-winter day in
the Province of Quebec. They ray that if
the weather is bright the heaviest part
of the winter has still to be looked forward
to. If it is overcast and stormy, as it was
this year, then the worst of the cold weath-
er has gone.
Hunters and tiappers are also accustom-
ed at this season to for. cast the coming of
spring. The logic of their reasoning is not
always easily followed. but they argue
shrewdly enough from such signs as their
woodland experiences bave shown to be
reiiable.
The swelling of the buds on some of the
hardwood. or deciduous leafed trees, the
tightness of the bark to the wood, the
loosening of the needles of the pine, the
beginning of the springing of sap in the
birch, the brightness of the wild sareapar-
illa routs—all these standard sigos are de-
rived from an ancient belief that spring
begins underground.
According to this idea, the warmth of
the interior of the earth, in obedience to
some gieat law, advances toward the sor-
face from winter to summer and recedes in
a similar manner toward winter. Believ-
ers in the notion usually refer to the fall
of the moon upon the water of the earth, as
seen in the tides, to illustrate the influence
exercised by the sun upon the latent heat
of the earth.
The roots and sap of trees are therefore
more to be relied on as giving an inkling of
the real advance of the seasons than are
things directly influenced by prevalent
winds and frosts. Springs of water are
supposed to be especially susceptible to the
action of the approaching heat, and when
chopping water holes or fishing places in
the lakes from this time of year on the
woodsman bas a keen eye for signs of wear
and incipient honeycombing on the under
side from the warmth of the water.
Red squirrels are of assistance to the
seers who adopt the internal heat theory.
Whep one of these restless little creatures
is seen lying flat along a slender branch,
with his nose close to the bark, the observer
judges that its sharp teeth bave made a cut
into the sapwood of the tree, and that it is
sucking out the slightly sweet sap which
has sprung up from the roots. It is not
improbable that the aborigines learned that
the maple sap contained sugar from this
rodent habit.
The same sharp-eyed foresters may be
trusted also to detect the symptoms of the
swelling of the terminal buds before any
one else, and the fragments scattered by
them on the snow, as they seek out the
embryonic vegetable life just developing,
are joyfully noted by the men who are
anxious to see the last of the winter.
Birch partridges are also very clever in
noticing the beginning of the quickening
of the twigs. One of the first of the reli-
able signals of the approach of the warm
season is the big bird swinging up aloft,
plucking the buds of the white birch tree.
The trapper can usually give one a good
idea of the probable length of winter, tak-
ing his information from the hair upon his
pelts. If the inside of the skin is pimply
and rough to the touch, showing that the
roots of the hair are almost protruding
through the bide, warm weather is near,
and he will soon have to take up his traps.
The presence of the beavers and muskrats
upon the mounds of their houses, or play-
ing about nearby in the daytime, is in-
dicative also of an early spring.
But all woodsmen put most confidence
in the ‘‘saw whet’’ as the harbinger of a
change of season. To the majority it con-
sists of a sound, and nothing more. Heard
in the evening, it is a dcleful reiterated
combination of two unmelodions notes.
One note corresponds to the npward thrust,
the other to the downward pul! of a big
file across a tooth of a crosscut saw. The
saw whetting goes on for hours at a time,
with maddening persistency.
Many old hunters persist in believing
that it is the song of some particular hare.
Others think it is the tickling of a gigantic
beetle. Very few are to be met who ever
taw the sound produced, soit is perbaps
not to be wondered at thas superstition has
laid hold upon it and declared it to bring
bad luck upon any one rash enough to at-
tempt to probe the mystery.
The fact is that it is a tiny owl, a pretty
little thing not as big as a man’s fist, that
thus lets it be known to all within reach of
his unmelodious voice that winter is pass-
ingand the warm weather near.
There is a widespread belief that spring
keeps company with Eastertide, that when
Easter is late we shall have a late breaking
up of winter. This accounts, it is most
hkely, for the prophecies already had of a
late spring this year. Easter Sunday comes
very nearly at as late a date as possible,
that is on April 23rd.
But the prophets bave failed to notice
that the Easter moon, upon which, of
course, the question of the weather is likely
to turn, comes earlier this year. There is
a full moon on March 21st. The rule is
that Easter is the Sunday next after the
full moon falling on or after March 21st.
Astronomically, however, the moon will
be full a few hours before March 21st comes
in, which throws the celebration a month
later. This is the regular Easter moon of
the year, which sometimes falls two or three
weeks later. So that no one need anticipate
a late spring on that account this year.
On the contrary, the men of the North
Woods, who bave an intense interest in the
matter, declare that we shall have (unless
all signs fail) a stormy Febroary and an
early break-up in March. But an early
spring does not necessarily mean an enjoy-
able spring, it ought to be noticed.
It will be remembered, perhaps, that the
predictions of the woodsmen last fall, re-
garding the present winter, as reported in
the New York Sun last November, were
fulfilled minutely. The same authority
now says that we have only a little more
than a month of cold weather to look for-
ward to, and then—spring.
Housckeeping at the White House.
President and Mrs. Roosevelt are decid-
edly the most lavish entertainers who bave
ever resided at the Executive Mansion in
Washington. They give each year four
large state dinners to the members of the
Cabinet and their wives, to the Diplomatic
corps, the Judges of the Supreme Court
and the members of congress at each of
which from ninety to one hundred persons
are present. At these dinners both the
menu and decorations are very elaborate.
Then there are in addition, perbaps two
dozen semi-state dinners in honor of dis-
tinguished persons, and at each of which
from twenty to forty guests are present.
However, this represents but a small por-
tion of the Roosevelt hospitality, for Mrs.
Roosevelt serves refreshments at all her
teas and musicales and the President never
gits down to a meal—morning, noon or
night—withous having as guests any where
from one to six of his close personal and
political friends.
Under the present regime the great state
banquets are prepared and served by pro-
fessional caterers who, however, use the
White House kitchens. The smaller din-
ners are entrusted to the White House
culinary staff which is made up of half a
dozen colored cooks and helpers. T he
President must pay the wages of all these
kitchen workers, but Uncle Sam provides
him with a steward whom the government
pays a salary of $1,800 a year, and who
makes all purchases of provisions for the
Presidential table, looks after the White
House china, cut glass and plate and, in
short, exercises general supervision over
the kitchens.
The White House kitchens are situated
in the basement directly beneath the pri-
vate dining-room of the President. They
have recently been reconstructed and en-
tirely refitted with everything pertaining to
the culinary department. Being the kitch-
ens of the ‘First Lady in the Land’’ and
the place where all the family and formal
dinners of the President are prepared they
are naturally of great interest to every
housewife in the United States. There
are two of these kitchens, the larger is a
hig room, forty feet in length and twenty-
five feet wide and is fitted with a great
hooded range where the various delectable
dishes served at the state dinners are pre-
pared. Then besides this there is a family
kitchen of about half the size. Both these
kitchens are tiled and are kept exquisitely
clean and neat. An electrically operated
dumb waiter connects them with the large
butler’s pantry on the floor above, where
the White House dining-rooms are situat-
ed.
The larger kitoben is fitted with im-
mense closets or cupboards for crockery
and tinware and in these are also big bins
for flour, sugar and other household sup-
plies. This kitchen also serves as a dining-
room for the various kitchen workers and
the half a dozen colored cooks and helpers
employed by the President.
There is besides a large laundry connect-
ed with the White House where six ex-
perienced colored laundresses are constant-
ly at work. These women are also served
their meals at the table in the big kitchen
so that sometimes almost as large a party
sits down below stairs as in the State
Dining-room above.
Everything pertaining to the culinary
department of the White Honse usually
runs like clockwork. It is systematized
down to the minutest detail, for this is the
only practicai way that housekeeping can
be managed on a large scale.
The steward employd by the govern-
ment exercises a very strict supervision
over it all.
Passing of Yellow Peril.
In 50 years, perhaps less than 50, if the
present laws remain in effect and are rigid-
ly executed—the Chinese population of the
United States will become practically ex-
tinct, says World's Work. From 1890 to
1900 they fell away from 126,788 to 119,-
050, a decrease of uvearly 8,000, or more
than 6 per cent. In the fiscal year ending
June 30th, 1903, more than 4,000 volun-
tarily left the port of San Francisco for the
land of their birth, the total deported and
returning voluntarily being 5,020. A very
large majority of these Chinamen were ad-
vanced in years and went Lome to die.
A generation ago there were in San
Francisco from 30,000 to 40,000 Chinamen.
The Chinese Consul General says that,
counting men, women and children, there
are now not 10,000. The same propor-
tionate decrease is seen in other places. It
should be borne in mind that the total
number of Chinese now in the United
States includes 26,767 in Hawaii and 3,116
in Alaska, so that at the beginning of this
decennial period there were living in the
United States proper only 89,000. A gen-
eration ago there were at least 150,000.
According to the most liberal estimate
there are not more than 150 legal Chinese
wives in San Francisco. But the number
of Chinese women is estimated at between
1,000 and 2,000. Of such female children
as are born to the lowest class, a large pro-
portion are sold for immoral purposes by
their parents, thus still further reducing
the possibilities of an increased popula-
tion. ie
The main adult population is male, is
onmarried, or, at least, wifeless, in Amer-
ica, and is rapidly approaching old age.
Thus by 1930 or 1940 the main Chinese
life in America will have become extinct.
For Frostbites.
In this season of frost and snow frosted
members are sometimes the cause of much
suffering to those who are much exposed to
the weather. Full-blooded people, who
are usually noticeable for baving red bands
and faces in cold weather, are said to be
especially susceptible to chilblains, al-
though poor circulation or lack of exercise
are the primal causes.
When once acquired chilblains are aps to
reappear every winter, so that the main
cure is to prevent the evil in the first place.
To do this, always walk briskly when out
of doors, and if cold when entering the
house never try to mend matters by warm-
ing the bands and feet at the heater or fire.
Instead remove the coverings, and after
rubbing the numbed members briskly until
circulation is restored put on fresh warm
coverings. Tight shoes, gloves and collars
should be avoided, so that good circulation
may be kept up, and if insoles to the shoes
are not obtainable a couple of layers of
newspaper placed in the sole of the shoe
add considerable warmth.
Bat if frosted feet or hands really oceur,
if they are not cracked or broken, the best
thing to be done is to plunge the affected
parts into as hot water as can be borne, to
open the pores, and then rub well with
tarpentine. This is efficacious if conscien-
tiously undertaken. When the members
begin to grow warm and the chill is over,
an intense itching is apt to ensue, and to
relieve this they should be fairly parboiled
in very bot water, and the softening effect
is instant.
If the bands or feet are cracked, the
wounds should be kept very clean and free
from exposure to cold, and a piece of lint
spread with zinc ointment will be found
both soothing and healing.
A Record Breaker.
Among the army of London carriage
drivers isan Irishman noted for his native
wit. It stood him in poor stead one day,
however. Pat was engaged by a gentle-
man to drive to a hydropathic establisn-
mens.
On arrival at the gate the fare inquired,
‘‘What's your fare, driver?’
‘*Well, sir,”’ said Pat, ‘‘the manest jin-
tleman I ever drove here gave me 2 shill-
ings.”
“Is that so?’ exclaimed the gentleman,
who was a bit of a wag. ‘‘Well, here's a
shilling for you, my man. I like tbe idea
of breaking records.”
In Africa.
Fist Native—They say that new citizen
from America is a great athlete.
Second Native— What's his record ?
**He jumped a $10,000 bail.”’