Pemorvaiic; atc,
Bellefonte, Pa., April 7. 1905.
LE AS SE Ant,
MAKE THIS A DAY.
Make this a day. There is no gain
In brooding over days to come ;
The message of today is plain,
The future’s lips are ever dumb.
The work of yesterday is gone—
For good or ill, let come what may ;
But now we face another dawn.
Make this a day.
Though yesterday we failed to see
The urging hand and earnest face
That men call Opportunity.
We failed to know the time or place
For some great deed, what need to fret ?
The dawn comes up a silvery gray,
And golden moments must be met.
Make this a day.
This day is yours ; your work is yours ;
The odds are not who pays your hire.
The thing accomplished—that end ures,
If it be what the days require.
He who takes up his daily round,
As one new armored for the fray,
Tomorrow steps on solid ground.
Make this a day.
The day is this ; the time is now ;
No better hour was ever here—
Who waits upon the when and how
Remains forever in the rear.
Though yesterday were wasted stuff,
Your feet may still seek out the way,
Tomorrow is not soon enough—
Make this a day.
—W. D. N., in Chicago Tribune.
LIBBY, THE UNLOVED.
Libby Anderson hung the dishcloth on
its accustomed nail, and stood there sur-
veying it. It was plain, from the way she
looked, that she was determined to speak.
© Ma,’ she asked of the woman who was
sitting before the little round stove, ‘‘what
were those papers Dave put in his pocket
as I came in ?”’
“Some things he was showin’ me.’
“‘Ma,” she asked, quiveringly, ‘‘you
didn’t sign anything, did you ?”’
“I didn’t sign your name to anything.”
And the needles clashed again.
She knew her mother too well to press
farther.
‘I just conuldn’t understand Dave com-
ing here this time of year,’ she ventured ;
“and I thought he acted queer.”
The old woman was folding her knit-
ting.
“I’m going to bed, and you'd better
come along, too,’’ was her reply.
A week went by, and although Libby
had twice forgotten to feed the chickens,
and had several times let the kettle burn
dry, she was beginning to feel more settled
in her mind.
She did up her work one morning and
went to town.
Her first call was at the solicitor’s, and
there she heard the worst. Ma had as-
signed their home to Dave. She did not
make any fuss ; she was too old-fashioned
for hysterics.
It was not until the old place came in
sight that she broke down.
“Is not fair,’’ she cried out, ‘‘when I've
stayed here and worked—it’s not fair!”
And, for the first time in many years, she
was arying—passionately crying.
It was a feeling of outraged justice that
made her speak, for she was just a woman
—the daughter of pa.
“‘Ma,”’ she said, ‘‘do you think pa would
like to think of your assigning the place to
Dave, when I’ve stayed here and kept it
up the best I could for twenty years?’
The old woman put down her knitting.
‘La, vow, Libby,” she said, not un-
kindly, ‘don’t take on. You'll never
want for nothing !’’
Libby stood there looking at her.
“I think you don’t realize what you've
done,”’ she said ; and turned to the bed-
room to take off her things.
It was not until the next month, the
blustering month of March, that all was
made clear. It was early in the afternoon
when Libby looked from the window and
saw a man coming in at the big gate.
“That friend of Dave’s from the city is
coming, ma,’’ she said.
*‘Gracious !"’ exclaimed Mrs. Anderson,
‘‘and such a day as tis !”’
The stranger warmed his hands, and dis-
bursed a number of pleasantries.
*‘Well, Mrs. Anderson,” he said finally,
‘‘your son wants me to make a little prop-
osition to you.”’
Mrs. Anderson looked pleasantly ex-
pectant. .
‘“‘Dave’s always making propositions,’’
she ehuokled.
“He's been a good deal worried about
you this winter—afraid you were not just
comfortable out liere—you two, all alone.”
““Dave’s always thinking of his mother’s
comfort,’ she asserted ; and looked tri-
umphantly over to Libby.
“Well,” he resumed, turning back to
the older woman, *‘it worries Dave to think
of your being oot bere alone now that
you’re getting along in years, so he’s rented
a nice little place in town, and he feels
sare it would be better all around if you’d
just go in and take is.”
“If that ain’t for all the world like
Dave !—always some new idea in his
head. Bat you just tell him, Mr. Murray,
not to be bothering. We don’t want to
move to town—do we, Libby ?”’
‘‘Not if we can help it,’ she replied.
‘‘Dave’s been away from the place so
long that he don’t see just how ’tis,”’ ma
explained. ‘Libby and me wouldn’t feel
at home no place else.”
“I's too bad you feel that way,’’ he
went on persuasively, ‘‘for Dave was so
sure you’d like the idea that he’s gone
ahead and made all arrangements, and I'm
afraid there might be a little trouble about
unmaking them.”’
He turned to Libby.
‘‘How soon do you think you could
move? By the 1st of May ?"’
‘I suppose 80,’ she answered, in a dull
voice.
April came, and for the fiftieth time the
old woman watched the white give way to
the green on the bills that curved in and
out around her old home.
As long as she could, Libby let her have
her dream. Her heart was not hard to-
ward ma now. Ma had not understood.
And Libby was glad she could have those
few spring days before she was torn from
the old home.
*‘Ma,’’ she began one morning, ‘I think
I will have to be packing up this week.”
“Packing up what ?’’ :
“Why, don’t you remember, ma ; we're
going to town the 1st of May ?’’
“Oh, la, Libby. I've give that up long
ago ! I’m going to die on the old place.”
“But you know, ma, the arrangements
bave all been made. I'm afraid we’ll have
to go.” ?
She turned to her clossly. i
““There’s no nse to argue wi’ me, Libby
Anderson. I ain’t going !"’
“Bus what about Dave ?”’
‘You can jest write Dave, and say his
mother don’t want to leave the place.
Dave won’t have nothing further to say.”’
She looked off at the meadowland as if
it were all settled. Libby would have to
tell ber.
“Ma,” she said, ‘‘it’s no use to write to
Dave.’
“Why not ?”’ she demanded, in a half-
frightened, balf-aggreesive voice.
‘‘He’s sold the place, ma !”’
‘‘What’s that yousay ? Something about
Dave selling my place ? Are you gone crazy,
Libby ?”?
‘You know you deeded it to him, ma.
It was his after you did tbat. And he’s
sold it, and we’ll have to move out.”’
Hearing no answer, she turned around,
and it was then she coveted Dave's gilt of
saying things smoothly. The old woman
was crouched low in her chair, and her face
was quivering, and looked sunken and
gray.
“J didn’s think he’d do that,’’ she fal-
tered.
‘Never mind, ma,’”’ Libby said awk-
wardly. ‘Poor ma !”’
It was the nearest to a caress that bad
passed between them since Libby was a lit-
tle girl. .
Nothing more was said until after ma
bad gone to bed. Libby supposed she was
asleep, when she called quaveringly to her.
¢‘Libby,’”’ she said, ‘‘you mustn’s be
thinking hard of Dave. He must have
thought it for the bess.’’
Libby was used to caring for ma, and
she needed care now.
“Yes, ma,’’ she answered ; ‘‘I’m sure he
must.”
It was not until the morning of the
fourth day that the silence between them
was broken. Libby got up to take down
the clock, when she heard a strange noise
behind her, and,turning, she saw that ma’s
head was down low in her hands, and she
was rocking passionately back and forward,
and crying as though her old heart bad
broken.
She put down the clock, and again she
wished for a little of Dave's silkiness of
speech. But she did not bave it, and the
best she could do was to pull ma’s chair
out from the barren room into the sun-
shine of the porch. The hills, she thought,
would still look like home.
Ma did not get up at all next day. Per-
bapa she was ill, or perhaps it was only
that she did not want to go out in the sit-
ting rcom and see how unlike home it look-
ed. But the next day she did not get up
either, and then Libby went to town for
the doctor. He said the excitement had
weakened her, and did not seem very cer-
tain she would ever get up again. That
night Libby wrote a letter to Dave, asking
him again to let his mother die on the old
place. A week passed, and an answer had
not come, and still ma had not left her
bed. The packing was all done, it was the
1st of May, and she was just waiting—she
did not know for what.
Her whole soul rose up against moving
ma from the old place now, when her days
were 80 surely nombered ; and so she sent
a telegram to Dave, telling him his mother
was ill, and asking leave to stay a little
longer. There came a reply from his part-
ner, saying that Dave was away,and would
not be home for two weeks,
That night the old woman raised herself
and sobbed ont the truth.
“It’s Dave that’s killing me! It’s to
think Dave sold the place, and turned me
out to die !”’
And then the way opened before Libby,
and she saw her path.
The disinherited child wrote a letter that
night, and to it she signed ber brother’s
pame. Oat in the world they might have
applied to it an ugly word, but Libby was
only caring for ma. She was a long time
about it, for it was bard to put things in
Dave’s round, bold hand, and it was hard
to say them in his silky way.
The doctor said next morning that it was
a matter of but a few days at most, for ma
was much worse.
**It ain’ that I’m going to die,”’ she
said, when Libby came in and found her
crying ; “but I was thinking of Dave. I
keep thinking and thinking of him when
he was a little boy, and how he used to run
about the place, and how pretty he used to
look ; and then, just as I begin to takea
little comfort in rememberin’ some of the
smaré things be said, I have to think of
what he bas done, and it does seem like he
might have waited till—’’ But the
words were too bitter to be spoken, and,
with a hard, scraping sound in her throat,
she turned her face to the wall.
Libby pat her hand to something in her
pocket, and thought of last night's work
with thankfulness.
About 11 o'clock she entered the room
with the sheets of a letter in her hand.
*‘Ma,’’ she said, tremulously, ‘‘bere’s a
letter just come from Dave.’ |
*‘I knew it’] come—I knew it!’ And
tie old voice filled the room with its
trinmphans ring. Then there crept into
ber face an anxious look. ‘‘What does he
say 2’
‘‘He’s sorry abont selling the place, ma.
He really thought you’d like it better in
town. But he’s fixed it up for us to stay.
He says you’ll never have to leave the
place.”
“I knowed it—I knowed it well enough !
You don’t know Dave like I do. But read
me the letter.”
- She did read it, and the old woman
listened with tears—glad tears now—fall-
ing over her withered cheeks.
‘You can just unpack our things,’”’ she
cried, when it was finished, ‘‘and get this
place straightened out. The idea of your
packing up, and think we was going to
move to town ! Nice mess yon’ve made of
us leaving the place. I always knowed
you’d never ’preciated Dave.’’
Before morning broke ma was dead.
Happy, because she had back her old faith
in Dave—the blind, beautiful faith of the
mother in the son. And Libby—the home-
less and unloved Libby—was happy, too,
for she had finished well her work of car
ing for ma.— London Answer.
For a Fixed Easter.
The awkwardness of a movable Easter
has frequently attracted attention on the
continent, and the discussion of the ques-
tion has again been revived io Berlin, says
the New York Journal. Professor Forster,
director of the Berlin observatory, recently
suggested that the pope should take in
hand the settlement of the question. He
also communicated with Signor Tondini
and with the astronomers of the Vatican
observatory. Their common propesal was
to fix Easter on the third Sunday after the
equinox—that is to say, after the 21st day
of March, the moon no longer influencing
the date. The festival would then only
vary between April 4th and 11th instead
of between March 22nd and April 25th, as
now. -
Proof Positive.
~ The Heiress—Don’t you think he is a
sensible young man? Her Father—Ob,
yes; he wants ‘to marry a nice girl whose
father has lots of money.
The Robin.
BY CHARLES M’ILVAINE.
Of all birds the robin is the cheeriest.
If a vote were taken upon which among
our outdoor birds is the favorite, the robin
could get a big majority. He makes him-
self a watter-of-conise near-by neighbor
of the family, and everyone is glad. He
helps himself to the ripest cherries and
choicest raspberries without saying ‘By
your leave,” but he very much more than
pays for them in eating the insects which
injure them and others of our eatables.
Everything pretty has been written about
this brave, strong, helpfal, industrious
songster. Ishall be satisfied in telling
about his, likewise Mrs. Robin’s life and
habits. though I would very much like to
say the pretty things I could of them.
The American robin belongs to the
thrush family; so does the bluebird. Al-
together there are eight members of the
thrash family which have from time to time
been found in Pennsylvania. The robin
is a great settler. It raises its young and
has its homes from the Gull of Mexico to
the Arctic coast; from the Atlantic Ocean
to New Mexico, Alaska, and the eastern
slopeof the Rocky Mountains. It does not
bave to wait for turnpikes and railroads
to carry it to far-off regions. It says,
“I am going,’’ and it goes. And what is
remarkable about itis that it goes and
Comes every year.
When autumn comes robins gather into
flocks. In the evenings they leave their
feeding places and seek low-lying thickets
or swamps where the alder grows, or thick-
ly wooded creek banks, and there roost
with the purple blackbirds, cowbirds, and
others. As the weather grows colder, and
food becomes scarce, they go farther to the
south where it is warm and there is more
to eat. In the woods, swamps, fields of
the Southern states they stay and feed
until spring comes, then back they fly to
their summer homes all over the land.
A few strong, bardy birds stay in the
north during the winter. These love
cedar groves and low sheltered places
where the green briar grows and bushes
are thick. Every countiy boy knows
where to find the robin in winter, and
knows how quietly it will slip out of
sight.
With the first peep of spring the robin’s
merry song is heard. It seems to fairly
bounce on the air. It carries joy with is.
The sight of the first spring robin startea
new period of time. One thinks of plant-
ing seeds and putting out the plants that
have been housed all winter, and hunting
up straw hate’ seeking for the precious ar-
butus.
Later this song grows richer and more
frequent, as the bird calls his lady-love
or challenges all rivals. The males have
angry fights, but they do not hurt each
other. The object appears to be to find
out which can chase the other longess.
Guineas quarrel in this way. One will
chase the other at full speed for half an
hour. Suddenly the chaser will stop,
turn, and be chased. The one lasting
longest is the best guinea. Su it is with
the robins.
After much singing by Mr. Robin and a
great deal of shyness by Mrs. Robin the
pair conclude to build a nest. Some pairs
select the crotches of trees, others build on
the branches, afew select bushes, occa-
sionally they build directly on the ground.
Often a joist under a porch or shed is
chosen. I once knew a pair to build in
the tin rain spout that caught the water
from a porch roof. The nest was washed
away three times before they gave up the
situation,
An apple tree is a favorite place. Both
robins carry twigs, dead grass, strings, al-
most everything they can get, and build a
rough framework, twining the materials
together so that they will hold. They
carry mouthfuls of mad and fill the frame-
work as it rises. This they add to by mix-
ing grass, strings, and bair with mud un-
til they have a structure which often
weighs a pound. In the center is a bowl-
nest, smoothly covered on the inside with
mud. Here the female lays four or five
bluish-green eggs a little over an inch
long. In due time the eggs hatch, and
four or five as ugly, bare, wabbly, big-
mouthed youngsters appear as ever were
geen come ont of shells. Now the real
work of the parents begin. Nothing is
hungrier, or eats more for its size, than
a young robin. Until it is almost ready
to fly it eats ite own weight of food each
day! Think of the enormous number of
insects and worms it takes tofeed four
robins until they are grown. Several
times I have had good chances to watch
the feeding from daylight to sundown. I
bave counted the number of visits the
parents made to the nest, and noted what
was fed each time.
The parents carefully prepared the food.
An eastworm is nipped and paralyzed by
their beaks, hidden in some shaded moist
place near by, and fed in small pieces
about an hour. A cherry is stored in the
same way, and fed nip by nip. Grass-
hoppers and beetles have their legs and
wings removed because they are too hard
todigess. Caterpillars are rolled on gravel
walks or other rough places until every
hair disappears and they are as smooth as
alate pencils. I have never seen more
than two cherries apiece given to each young
robin in one day.
They are fed by turns. The old robin
cautiously hops to the side of the nest.
Three open months are held up. Into one
of them the food is placed. The fourth
bird appears to be asleep. The old bird
waits a moment. It raises its head, passes
up its throat and into its beak the food
which is not digestible. This lozenge-shap-
ed pellet the old bird takes in her beak
and drops as she flies away.
1 am afraid to tell how often each robin
is fed each day. Find a nest, sit quiet,
have opera-glasses, keep count for your-
self. It is very interesting. You will be
much surprised. I saw one foundling
robin, about a week before it became ready
to fly, which I hung out in a cage, fed two
hundred and dighty times in one day. The
nest had been blown down in a storm, and
all the young birds drowned hut one. '
Robins are the farmers’ good friends.
We should not begrudge the robins the few
cherries they eat.— [Sunday School Times.
Beating of Dead Hearts.
Hearts of cold-blooded animals will
beat for a comparatively long time after
death or removal from the body (if kept
cool apd moist), because of powerful in-
ternal coliections of nerves, known as
ganglia, whose automatic impulses cause
the regular contractions of the musoles.
Similar ganglia exist in man and other
warm-blooded animals, but their action is
less prolonged. Scientists bave ascer-
tained that a turtle’s heart will heat after
removal, if put on a piece of glass, kept
cool and moist, and covered with a bell-
jar. I believe it bas been known to beat
thirty-six or even forty-eight hours;
twelve or fourteen hours is a common rec-
ord.—From Nature and Science in April St.
Nicholas.
A Romance of Philanthropy.
In some respects the most remarkable
public benefactor of modern times was Mrs.
Jane Lathrop Stanford, who died as Hono-
Inlu on March 1st, poisoned by some im-
placable enemy. She gave more money for
public purposes than any other philan-
thropist except Mr. Carnegie and Baron de
Hirsch ; she gave it herself during ber life-
time, without leaving it to be paid at the
expense of her beirs, and, going beyond
even the lavish givers just named, she be-
stowed practically her entire fortune, tak-
ing literally the injunction about not dying
rich whichas yes Mr. Carnegie bas pus
forth only as a theory.
In the early eighties Leland Stanford
and his associates, Crocker, Huntington,
and Hopkins, were classed together in the
public mind of California as ‘‘soulless
plutocrats’” and tyrants. Stanford was
nominated by the Governor as Regent of
the State University. The Senate, con-
trolled by the anti-monopoly Democracy,
rejected the nomination. It is generally
believed that but for this action there would
have been no Stanford University, and
eventually a great part, if not all, of the
Stanford millions would bave gone to the
University of California.
The Stanfords had a son whom they
idolized. He seems to have been really a
remarkable boy, one of those fine souls op-
pressed by the burden of the world. He
wove plans for the benefit of other boys and
girls, and on his deathbed be begged his
parents to carry them out. He died in
1884 at sixteen, leaving his father and
mother crushed by a loss whose magnitude
almost unsettled their minds. The world
was a blank to them; wealth had lost its
savor, and they had no thought but to
devote themselves and their fortune to the
realization of their boy’s wishes and to the
immortalization of his name. They canon-
ized his memory, and when the Rev. Dr.
Newman in his foneral sermon compared
the dead boy to Christ among the doctors,
the parallel which scandalized reverent
strangers seemed to the bereaved parents
only a just appreciation of his merits.
THE MEMORIAL UNIVERSITY.
The next year the Leland Stanford, Jr.,
University was born. Its queer name was
a touching reminder of its real founder. In
its museum, as in a shrine, were displayed
odd little relics of the worshipped boy—his
clothes, his intimate personal belongings—
incongruous little things that made casual
visitors laugh. The whole university was
his monument. Its welfare became the ab-
sorbing passion of the Stanfords’ life. A
substantial endowment was deeded to it
at the start, but for the bulk of its support
it depended upon the continued generosity
of its founders. Leland Stanford was elect-
ed to the Senate and in 1893 he died. Al-
though it had been understood that his
fortune would ultimately go to the wuni-
versity, the greater part of it was left un-
reservedly to his widow. This marked no
change in the original plans. The two bad
worked out their ideas together, their de-
sires wereone, and Stanford knew that
there was no way in which their execution
could beso thoroughly assured as by leav-
ing everything in Mrs. Stanford’s uncheck-
ed control. There had been a Board of
Trustees from the beginning, but its funec-
tions had been purely ornamental. As
long as a Stanford remained alive there
would be no other governing body.
The Central Pacific railroad owed the
government over $60,000,000. For many
years the corporation, under the guidance
of Collis P. Huntington, attempted to evade
the payment of that debs. While this con-
test was going on, it occurred to the gov-
ernment that an advantage might be gained
by bringing suit against the personal estates
of the men who had incurred the debt, and
by an inspiration of genius the estate se-
lected for the test case was the particular
one that had been devoted to public pur-
poses. A suit for $15,000,000 was brought
against the Stanford estate, the whole prop-
erty was tied up in the courts, and Mis.
Stanford was left to bear the entire expense
of defending an action in which Hunting-
ton and his partners were the chief parties
in interest.
The court allowed Mrs. Stanford $10,000
a month for her personal expenses. She
told President Jordan that she could live
on $100 a month, as she had done before,
and that the university conld have all the
rest. She shut up her great houses, dis-
charged most of her servants, and lived in
one wing of her Palo Alto home. The
professors were asked to wait for part of
their salariesand did so. They were still
getting more than: the woman who fur-
nished their money. The university scrap-
ed along. Mrs. Stanford sold some per-
sonal effects of her own to meet its deficit,
and prepared to sell her valuable jewels
and works of art. As last the suit was
decided in her favor and times became
easier.
A FORTUNE RENOUNCED.
Through all this period of stress and
pinching economy it was necessary for the
university to lay aside thousands of dol-
lars a year to pay taxes levied on it by the
State. Eventually its friends succeeded in
securing the adoption of a constitutional
amendment exempting it from this bur-
den. In 1901 Mrs. Stanford formally trans-
ferred to the university almoss all the prop-
erty still remaining in her bands. This
included interest-bearing bonds and stocks
valued at $18,000,000, a hundred thousand
acres of land, worth $12,000.000, and the
Stanford residences in San Francisco and
Palo Alto. Mrs. Stanford retained only a
comparatively small income for life.
Thus one of the richest women in the
world voluntarily reduced herself to the
position of a person of modest means. But
in doing so she won a distinction all ber
own. There are plenty of rich women,
but there is none, nor any man either, who
has deliberately given to others a fortune
comparable with that sacrificed by Mis.
Stanford.
Of course, Mrs. Stanford’s peculiar rela-
tious to the university furnished material
for criticism. Cherishing it nexs her heart,
as she did, she could not be indifferent to
its management. Notwithstanding her
confidencein President David Starr Jordan,
who ordinarily exercised the powers of a
dictator, she could not occasionally help
interfering. The idea of a great university
“‘run’’ by a woman, and not a highly edu-
cated woman at that, was naturally dis-
tastefal to the scholastic mind. The Ross
case, in which a professor was removed be-
cause his views on economic subjects were
regarded as a reflection upon the methods
by which Senator Stanford had gained his
fortune, angered the friends of ‘‘academio
freedom.” But these annoyances were
only temporary. While the critics were
complaining, Mrs. Stanford was laying
deep and firm the foundations of the most
amply endowed university in America,
and she was giving it, along with her
wealth, the inspiring memory of a sell-
sacrificing devotion and a warmth of per-
sonal affection to which the arid infancy of
public institutions in general offers no
patallel.— Colliers.
——Subseribe for the WATCHMAN.
TRL
Burbank and His Work.
Carnegie Institute's @ist Will Benefit Science
of Horticulture.
In scientific circles much interest at-
taches to the splendid gift made by the
Carnegie Institute to Luther Burbank,
the noted horticulturist, to enable him to
continue his work.
Prot. Wm. A. Setchell, head of the de-
partment of botany of the University of
California, has made no intimate study of
the work done by Luther Burbank, bus he
has followed his experiments enough to
realize their tremendous bearing on the
science of botany and the still broader
field of biology. He has particularly in-
terested himself in the experiments of Hugo
de Vries, the famous Dutch scientist,
whose work has been along the same lines
as that of Burbank. During his recent
European trip Professor Setchell studied
the work of De Vries at Amsterdam, and
was able to grasp the nature of the problems
which he was attacking. Professor Setchell
bas the following to say concerning the
recent donation given Burbank by the
Carnegie Institute:
‘Luther Burbank bas shown himself to
be a wonderfully successful practical plant
breeder—one man out of thousands. To
the botanist his methods are of intense
interest because they offer some data to-
ward solving the baffling problem of how
ancestral traits can be combined and
ochanged—really transmuted — into new
traits. The work he is doing has a bear-
ing more particularly on the problem of
heredity rather than on the wider problem
of evolution. Burbank’s results can give
invaluable suggestions for future work
along similar lines, and they can give sug-
gestions of the principles that underlie
such notable botanical work at that of Prof.
Hugo de Vries.
NOTHING SHORT OF MARVELOUS.
‘‘Burbank’s results are nothing short of
marvelous, bus, after all, they are valu-
able principally because of their sugges-
tiveness. He possesses extraordinary skill
in detecting points in breeding and their
value. His peculiar genius is his insight.
He is able to select out of thousands of
seedings, all apparently alike, those
which have the potentialities for breeding
new varieties. This instinct is something
that the majority of gardeners donot ha
at all. They are utterly unable to pi
out subtle differences in plants until they
have reached a certain stage of maturity,
but Burbank can note these fine oddities
in his plants and select those which will
do the work he is after. His is a marvel-
ously successful power of forecasting a
result. It is something which I doubt
that he can teach or transmit. He sees
something in a plant that others cannot
see, and the correctness of this insight is
demonstrated in his results. He seems to
know the very nature of a plant, and this
knowledge has not come through study;
but throught experimentation and close
observation.
‘‘Now that Burbank has demonstrated
this pronounced ability, he should goon.
The Caivegie Institute, by its .generous
donation, has made it possible for him to
devote his entire time to the pursuit of
these plant-breeding problems. Many of
these investigations are unprofitable from
a commercial standpoint, although of ex-
treme value from a scientific standpoint.
He can now follow out, untrammeled, cer-
tain lines of crossing that are at present
yielding astonishing resnlts. While these
results are not necessarily of immediate
value, they may ultimately prove of the
greatest importance, for, by many exam-
ples, we may get the underlying principles
of plant breeding, of breeding in its widest
sense, and in this way the very origin of
species.
DARING AND SUCCESSFUL CREATOR.
‘Although science knows little about
the details as yet, she knows that there
are some general principles governing the
production of new varieties. Darwin's
idea was that species cbanged through a
long series of modifications, each too small
to be distinguished. De Viies, in a later
date, has found that there are many species
that have arizen by sudden jumps. Now
there is nothing inconsistent in these two
theories, for the recent hypothesis is mere-
ly an extension of the other. Burbank
fits into the general scheme as a daring and
successful creator. He stimulates plants
to produce variations by leaps and bounds
instead of by a steady and uniform in-
crease. As to the laws underlying his
results, he isas much in the dark as the
rest of the scientific world. Breeding is
something of which we know very little
theoretically. In plant breeding we have
worked by rule of thumb, relying on such
little experience as bas heen gathered.
Herein lies the true importance of Bar-
bank’s experiments, for he will furnish
abundant data in his investigations on
which trained botanists and scientific
thinkers can study in their search for the
great governing principles at present un-
known.”
The Czar’s Day of Judgment.
That the welfare of millions should hang
upon the will, whim and word of a single
individual-——and this individual walled
away from all real knowledge of the
people’s condition and natural wishes—is
an anarchronism of tragic proportiong—an
anarohronism which leads to deplcrable as
sassination on the one side, and on the
other to such hideous massacres of the con-
fiding innocent as took place in St. Peters-
burg on Sunday, the 22nd of January ,1905.
In all the history of man no more preg-
pant opportunity was ever offered toa
sovereign than that offered to the Czar
Nicholas when his people came to him,
pot with swords and guns, but bearing a
petition, carrying the sacred icons, and
pictures of the Czar, and following a cross.
The humblest Turk is protected in pre-
senting a petition to his Sultan; but the
White Czar, the beloved Little Father, al-
lows his petitioning.subjects to be slanghs-
ered like mad dogs!
The psychologist and the philosopher
can find a score of explanations of the con-
duct of the troubled, perplexed and
wrongly advised Czar on that day of judg-
ment for him and for the exploded system
of government which he represents. Yes
it remains true that, strive as he may to
undo the awful effects of his action ou that
220d of January, the doom of the Russian
oligarchy was sealed. Through whatever
slow or rapid processes, by means ‘of what-
ever wise concessions or hysterical con-
vulsions, Russia from now on will advance
painfully, perbaps with pitiful reactions,
toward some modern and rational form of
government. The pew government may
or may not retain imperial forms, asin
Japan. The danger is that the blind,
brutal, stupid measures of repression, the
grinding system of imperial uniformity,
may so inflame the people that fearful
reprisals and chimerical schemes of reform
will take the place of wise and orderly
measures, and that the “man on horse-
back’’ may, for a time, stand in the path
of progress. — From an Editorial in the April
Century.
April Court Trial List.
Jacob Test vs Geo. R, Mock, Adm's.
appeal.
J. H. Weber vs Geo Gentzel, appeal.
Thos, E. Rickets & Son va T M. Mey-
ers, appeal.
Arthur C. Norris ys Henry Swank,
appeal.
L. W. Kimport vs Linden Hall Lum-
ber Co., appeal.
Morris Frank vs John G. Platt, appeal.
John Harper ve vt *
Peter Stont, vs 4 “ “
Hugh Best vs xs “ *
Charles Stover o ot *
Isaac Brown se .“ os
Frank Stover bi ‘“ ul
SECOND WEEK.
Peter Smith ys Mary Slacks, Adm’s.,
appeal.
Nellie Zeigler vs Barney Mendleman,
slander. ;
Mary J. Gates, et al, v8 Minnie G.
Rowan, ejectment.
Mary J. Gates, et al, v8 Daniel Mey-
er, ejectment.
College Hardware Co., vs T. D. Boal,
assumpsit,
B. F. Harris vs Huston Twp, as-
sumpsit.
David Moore vs Nora Moore, divorce.
Mary A. Davidson, et al, vs Orvis
Peters, assumpsit.
Emma Swartz vs Annie K. Riddle,
assumpsit.
Dr. D. G. Woods vs B. F, Harris, as-
sumpsit,
Wilson Eoutz ys B. F. Harris, as-
sumpsit. .
Jonathan Harter vs A. F. Harter,
debt.
Jonathan Harter, vs A. F. Harter,
debt.
Osceo'a Lumber Co., v8 Mary Barrett
debt.
F. Hirsch vs Rush Twp., debt.
Christian Reese vs Henry & William
‘Woomer, ejectment.
Jas. C. Gilliland vs J. H. Ross. et al,
trespass.
38RD WFEK SPECIAL TERM.
Jane Herron, et al, va C. C. Loose, et
al, trespass.
The Farmer's Nursery Co.. ys H H
Harshberger, appeal.
Chas. F Schad. vs Milesburg Boro,
trespass.
Wm. E. Shope’s Adm’rs. va Jas. N.
Shope, ejectment.
Cyrus Brungart vs Mary Thomas, et
al, debt.
Clyde E Shuey vs Bellefonte Furnace
trespass.
Martin Daley, Sr., vs German Ameri-
can Insurance Co., assumpsit.
Geo. T. Brew, v8 W H Marcy, et al,
trespass.
E. S. Bennitt vs Frank McCoy, as-
sumpsit.
N H Yearick vs McNitt Bros. & Co.,
trespass.
‘Wm. D Rider vs Bellefonte Window
Glass Co., assumpsit.
Chas. Guisewhite, vs Bellefonte Win-
dow Glass Co . assumpsit.
J. D. Hunter Adm’rs. vs Bellefonte
Window Glass Co., assumpsit.
Wm. G Frant vs Rush Twp., appeal.
H. B. Wright vs Joseph Diehl, *
Kemp & Burpee Mfgz.,, Co.,, vs J. I
Thompson, assumpsit.
‘Wilson G Frant vs Robt. Kelly, ap-
peal.
Com. of Pa., vs Ellen E. Bower et al,
assumpsit.
Com. of Pa vs Ellen E. Bower et al,
assumpsit.
W. H. Williams, Admrs. vs Ellen E.
Bower, assumpsit.
( hristian Dale, Exe’rs. vs Clement
Dale, assumpsit.
W. Harrison Walker, guard, vs EIl-
len E Bower, et al, assumpsit.
A. Blanche Hoy’s, vs Ulement Dale
assumpsit.
Trend of American Forestry.
One of the most vital of modern problems
concerns itself with forests and waters,
with the maintenance of our forests as
sources of revenue and protectors of vas
irrigation systems, and more especially
with the duties of the National government
toward American forestry. Fifteen years
ago there was little interest felt in the
subject, excepting among a few scientists
and the workers of the Division of Forestry,
who seemed to be entirely out of touch
with the practical side of the problem. We
had no foresters, no forest schools, no pub-
lio leaders developing a new forest system,
no young men full of strenuous and trained
enthusiasm making themselves indispens-
able, because of their knowledge, to great
railroad aud lnmbering interests.
Now all this has changed, and so swiftly
that while the stupid are still plodding
along with academic disonssions about
European foreste, and appeals to ‘‘preserve
all the forests’’ (as if they should be bot-
tled up in formalin!) the vast interests
whose life depends on a continnal supply
of all the forest products have really orient-
ed themselves along a new axis; they have
faced the rising sun of American forestry.
One brave, unselfish, and single-hearted
man, Gifford Pinchot, has mainly done
this; has come up year after year, step by
step, with splendid and lovable persistence,
uniting all the fighsing elements to use
American forests intelligently, appealing to
enlightened selfishness, writing admirable
books, delivering trenchant addresses, ef-
feotively organizing forest work in State
after State, developing a moribund Division
of Forestry into a Burean whose activities
now reach into every part of America, and
are modifying forestry principles in other
countries also.
And now he and all the American forest-
ers stand at the turning of the tides. Hither-
to they have had no actual power to shape
nd to develop forestry here. They have
had the priceless knowledge—but no forests.
The National Parks and Reserves, some
sixty in number, some 80,000,000 acres in
area, have been wholly controlled by the
ancient and honorable Land Office of the
Department of the Interior. A few rangers
patrol these wide areas, a little lumber has
been sold, and much has been given to set-
tlers. Bus there has not been nor can there
be any true and systematio forestry or any
intelligent utilization of the forestal re-
sources of these Reserves until the Bureau
of Forestry receives absolute control of
them. This change has heen supported by
irrigation conventions, lumbhermen’s asso-
ciations, and all sorts of public hodies, and
as last has been sanctioned by Congress.