Demo id Bellefonte, Pa., April 21, 1905. EE —— —————————————— A SPRING CHORUS. Oh, such a commotion under the ground ‘When March called, “Ho, there ! ho I” Buch spreading of rootlets far und wide, Such whispering to and fro | And, “Are you ready 7” the Snow-drop asked; “Tis time to start, you know.” “Almost, my dear,” the Willow replied, “I'll follow as soon as you go.” Then, “Ha! ha! ha!” a chorus came Of laughter soft and low, From the millions of flowers under the ground— . Yes, millions, beginning to grow. “I'll promise my blossoms,” the Crocus said, “When I hear the bluebirds sing.” “And straight thereafter,” Narcissus cried, “My silver and gold I'll bring.” 3 *‘And ere they are dulled,” another spoke, “My Hyacinth bells shall ring.” And the Violet only murmured “I'm here,” And sweet grew the air of spring. Then, “Ha! ha! ba!” a chorus came, Of laughter soft and low, From the millions of flowers under the ground— “Yes, millions, beginning to grow. Oh, the pretty, brave things! through the coldest days, Imprisoned in walls of brown, They never lost heart, though the blast shrieked loud, And the sleet and the hail came down ; But patiently each wrought her beautiful dress Or fashioned her beautiful crown, And now they are coming to brighten the world, Still shadowed by winter's frown ; And well may they cheerily laugh, “Ha ! ha!” In a chorus soft and low, The millions of flowers hid under the ground, Yes, millions, beginning to grow. — Harper's Young People. EASTER EGGS. A little chicken, seven weeks old, Looking at eggs in crimson and gold, Painted with flowers on either side, And 1n golden letters, “Easter-tide.” “Ah,” said the chicken, “when I am old, 1 shall lay eggs in’crimson and gold.” One glad spring morning the church bells rang, And happy carols the children sang ; But by her nest in a ioft, alone, Stood the little chicken, now full grown. “Alas I” she cackled, in great dismay, “I have laid white eggs on Easter day.” A dainty maiden—so I am told— : Sat painting eggs in crimson and gold ; She painted flowers on either side, And in golden letters, “Easter tide.” “Oh,” said the hen, ‘now I understand— Easter eggs must be finished by hand.” — Harper's. FATHER’S SWEETHEART. When Miss Morrell came to look at the house next to ours she seemed quite nice. - She smiled very pleasantly when she asked for the key; and while she was down in the garden she picked some apples and threw them over to Bob and Tommy. They were not her apples really, because she had not taken the house; but I thought it was kind of her. So I called when she moved in, Mother is dead, so I'have to call. Father is Frank Marchant, she celebrated anthor,and Tam Molly. I was fifteen in June, and Miss Morrell was thirty-one, she said. She must have meant forty-one, because she and father were boy and girl togesher, she told me; and he is forty-three. ‘He was such a pice boy,’ she said. ‘‘He’d have done well if he badn’t been so clever, poor fellow !”’ ‘If he wasn’t clever, he couldn’t write his stories,’’ I pointed out. ‘*What'’s the good of writing stories, if you can’s sell them ? Clever men have no sense ?*’ Iam afraid that is true, but of course I would not say so, and I got up to go. **Father is more than clever,’ I told her. “‘He is the best man that ever was, and the kindest. I will not listen to anything against him; and I think perbaps it would be better if yon did not call.” I know it was not polite to say thas, bat even mother was not polite if anyone spoke against father. Mies Morrell only laughed and took hold of my arm. ‘ **Tat—tus, child ! I think well enough of your father. I fancy he bas a very good little daughter, too. Now zit down and have another tea cake.’’ They were very nice tea cakes, and she made them herself. She gave me the recipe, but mine did nos torn ous the sane. She was watering her flowers when fath- er walked down the garden after tea. He did vot notice her, because he was worried about 4 plot. He had found a way of get- ting the hero and heroine off a precipice, but he could not think how to ges them on ! She came and watched him over the wall. She bad the waterpot in one hand and some weeds in the other, and she wore an old hat like a black basin. ‘Still up in the clouds, Frank 2’ she called at last. He started and sarned around. Then he held out his hand aud laughed. ‘‘Mary ! Well I never !—It's good to look at you again !” I did not want to listen, of course; and Dick was whistling as the front gate, so I went ous with him. (He is Dick Carson, and we are chums. He is nos silly like other boys. ) : *‘I don’s care for that woman,’ I told him; but he only laughed and said I needn’t be jealous. He is an impudent boy. We wens round by the lane and came home: across the brook. It was quite dark when we got in. . Father was still talking to Miss Morrell over the wall, and hadn’s made the boys do their home lessons; and they were watching out of the window. ‘Father's got a sweetheart, Molly,” Tommy said. - I do not often lose my temper with the boys, bus I boxed his ears quite bard. I was sorry directly, bas I could nos say so, for fear I should ory. So I went up-stairs to take of my hat. When I came down, Dick had Tommy on his knee, doing his last sum. There were white smears on his face where he had oried, and I wiped him ny andkerehiel, is ick’s given me a penny, Molly,” he said, and grioned at me. He isa kind listle boy and never bears malice. Dick didn’t look at me, and I thought he was cross, I did not get up to go to the door with him, ‘but be tilted me ous of my chair, so I had to go. “I wish I *‘Oh,. Dick I”? I told him. badn’s.” outs “*Noneense,’’ he said. “‘Is will do him good, the little wretoh. You didn’s hurt m. the symphony softly. and father plays go beautifully. I thought of mother, and took a deep breath, and answers in the major. comforting, the way that mother sang it; and when I am worried abons things, I try to fancy thas I hear her. draw herself up for the last verse. Noo but he was mother’s baby, and I think I suould bave cried, bus Dick was 80 nice to me, and said I was good to the boys. I gave them four chocolates each, and read a chapter out of Swiss Fam- ily Robinson to them, when they were in bed ;and Tommy said he hardly fels is, and only cried to frighten me. I doun’s think I did is very bard. When I came down stairs father was sit- ting at his desk, but he was not writing. He did not speak till he canght me looking at bim. Then he sighed. *‘It has brought back the old times,’ he said. ‘‘We were boy and girl together— some day you will look back $o the simes when you and Dick were boy and girl to- gether.’ I did not say anything, but went into the drawing room. If is bad not been fath- er, I should bave told him not to compare that woman with me. At supper he talked about ber again. She was always brighs, he said, and very pretty when she was a girl. ‘‘People alter a good deal as they grow older,’”’ I remarked. ‘‘I don’t know if you noticed her hat ?”’ Father laughed. . ‘That hat is not fascinating, certainly,” he agreed. I thought he laid too much emphasis on “‘hat.”’ The next evening they talked over the wall again. The evening after he went to see her. He took a bundle of Mss. He never shows his Mss. except to literary people or people he likes very much. The next day she sent us a dozen tea cakes. Fatherate two, and the hoys the rest. I offered Jane some, bus she would no$ touch them. ‘Not, if I was starvin’ and a bite would save me !”’ she said. ‘I've got eyes in my head, Miss Molly—she’ll never do by ’em as youn’ve done.”’ Jane forgets and breaks things, but she is a good girl really. The next afternoon Miss Morrell asked me to take the boys in to tea. I told her I was t00 busy; but the boys wanted to go, so I let them. They are not old enough to know better. She gave them three sorts of cake for tea, they said, and sixpence each. She helped them with their lessons, too; but I found a mistake in one of Bob's sums. ‘‘Ah !"’ father said, when I showed it to bim. ‘‘She never was good at arithmetic; bat she has a wonderful head for business.’ ‘I'd rather be good than good at busi- ness,’”’ I told him. Father smoked his pipe for two or three minutes. Then he laid it down. ‘‘She is good, too, Molly,’’ he said. ‘I could tell you something—I will tell you, because I want you to like her. She was in love with a man once—they were only boy and girl, really—and he was in love with her. There was a misunderstanding, and he went away,and got engaged to some one else. Ome day he came back—and found out what a foolish mistake he had made. He would have broken the engage- ment off, but she wonldn't let him. So he married—the other woman,”’ I could have screamed to hear him speak of mother like that; but I bit my lip in- stead. “If I had been the—the other woman, I wouldn’t have wanted him, if he hadn’s wanted me.”’ : “She didn’t know, dear. She never knew, right up to the time that she died.” “You—he pretended he liked her all the time ?”’ “He did like her. She was a nice wom- an—a very nice woman, only—jyoun will understand, dear, when vou are older.” “I understand now,’’ Tsaid. *‘My—his wife is dead. So he will marry Miss Mor- rell.”? “I don’t know.” Father filled his pipe slowly. *‘‘I hope so. If he does —"’ “Is will serve him right,”’ I declared. Then I went down in the shrubbery and cried. ‘‘If ever you like some one else better, Dick,’ I said, when I told him, ‘‘you’re to tell me. I wounldn’é marry you for any- thing, if you didn’t want to. Promise me —No, no! It'sno use saying you never will, because you can’t be sure—promise me.” Diok looked very serious and whistled to himself fora long time. He does that when be is thinking. *I believe you're right, kiddie,” he said at last. ‘‘I promise.” *‘On your honor ?"’ He threw his head back a little. “All my promises are on honor,’’ he said. I do like to hear him speak like thas. I did not say any more to father about Mies Morrell; bus I made what we called “mother’s cake’’ for tea, and pus all her photos about the rooms to remind him of her. He took up the one where she is holding some music, and looked at it for a long Sime. ‘‘She used tosing a great deal at the Morrells’, ”* he said. ‘‘Mary used to ac- company her. We must ask ber in. She will like to hear yon sing some of the old songs.”’ ‘I don’t want to sing mother’s old songs to anyone bus you, daddy,” I said. *‘Come and play for me, avd I'll sing ‘Afterwards.’ You can put it down a note and think it is mother singing.’’ People say that my deep notes are like mother’s, but of course I do not sing as well as she did. ‘You can’t ring that just like your mother, dear. Thank Heaven ! You can’s feel it quite like she did.—Ah 1”? “I'll try to feel it as much as I can. No, in E flas, dear.” He nodded and played Isis likea dream, began : “Beyond the bound of land and sea, Beyond the touch of hand ; Beyond the memory of me 1 1 shall look down, dear love, and see Your tears ; and understand.” She issapposed to he dying. The first part is what he says to her, and the sec ond par is what she says to him. Mother ueed to smile when she came to “‘noder- stand,”” and father ured to look over his shoulder and smile at her. “Light of my life, if I shovld miss The path your faith has shown ? My heart was heartened by your kiss; But now—Dear love, be sure of this You will not walk alone.” He is in the minor, of course, and she Is always sounded Then she used to “I shall look down, my dear—my dear ! ‘Look down and smile on you. Only he true and have no fear. Only be true; and Heaven is near | God jodge me as I'm true.” I tried to steady myself and make my voice like mother’s, and I seemed to see her standing there with her hand on father’s shoulder, and putting out ber other hand to hold mine, when I was little and clung to ber skirts. I took the low note in the lass line quite full, and then something seemed to clutch at my throat; and the big photo of mother thas I had put on the piano slipped right down on father’s hands; and I shrieked and shrieked and laughed and cried, and father couldn’s stop me any- how. I suppose you would cali it hysterics. I was better next morning, but Jane made me have breakfast in bed. Father was very worried becanse he was going away to Scotland to do some descriptive articles for the Daily Lyre. He began to write out a telegram to say that he counldn’s go; but I told him I was quite well, really, aud Jane promised to look after me ‘‘like a mother.”” So he went. ‘When he said good-by,he gave me a note for Miss Morrell. ‘Ask her to wire ‘yes’ or ‘no’; then Ishall know what to do,” be said. “Good-by, dear old girl. Be, sure to telegraph if you want me back.’’ It is a dreadful thing to say, but I felt as if I never wanted father back again. If I hadn’s loved him so, I believe 1 should have bated him. You woald understand if you had no mother. I told Jane about the letter, and she said anyone could tell it was a proposal; and if she was I, she would barn it. I was a good mind to, but when I asked Dick, be said ‘‘it wouldn’s be straight.” So I gave it to him to do what he liked with it; and he took isin to Miss Morrell. She asked him to take a telegram to send off to fath- er, but be told her that he would rather not have anything to do with it. Hesaw her write it; and it was ‘‘yes!”’ He wouldn’s look at me when be told ‘me, hut he said a lot of nice things about me and how good I was to father and the boys, and Ishouldn’t have to live with her very long, because he was growing np. I think anybody would like Dick. He isso kind. Jane was very kind, toc, and didn’t even gramble at Bob when he knocked over a pail of water. “I'd have liked to hox his ears!’ she said, *‘bus I thought of yon, you poor dear —more’n a mother you've been to them; and ’e ought to be ashamed of hisself, the master ooghs.”’ In the afternoon I sat down in the gar- den darning the boys’ socks, and Mies Mor- 1ell came and stared at me over the wail. ‘You don’t look well, child,” she eaid. *'I am quite well, thank you,” I told her. She put up her eye glasses and looked at me. ‘‘You’re too young to look after a house,’’ she said abruptly. “Anyhow,” I said, *‘I have looked after it. I don’s sup- pose I have done very well,but I have done my best. No doubt yoncould do better; but yon’d find it vory different to having only yourself.”” Ithought I would let her see that I nnderstood. “I dare say I should.”” She sighed; but she did not seem cross. ‘‘Do you kuow, Molly, sometimes I wish I had others to work for. Don’t you think I could help you ?”’ “I don’t want any help,” Isaid; ‘‘and if I did, I'd rather not have it. You see, I promised mother. She wouldn’s wans anybody else to do things for father and the boys—only me.’”’ . I looked straight at ber, and she shook her bead. ; “We were children together,’”’ she said, ‘‘she and your father and I. I don’t think she wnuld mind me.” I gathered up the socks and angola to- gether and got up. “I think,’ I said, ‘‘she would mind you very muoch.”’ Miss Morrell looked surprised and hurt. “Youn don’t like me, Molly ?”’ she asked. “No,” I told her; “I don’t. You have sent the telegram to father, I suppose ?’ *‘Yes—your father has told you ?”’ ‘‘He has told me.’”” It was not true; but I could not let her think that father did not trust me. ‘‘Good afternoon.”’ I went indoors and gave the boys their tea. After tea I gave them two pennies each to spend. I thought I should not bave the housekeeping money for Jong; and the would not do things for them like mother used to, and like I tried to do. Father came home on Sunday nights. He had only just taken his bat off and sat down in the armchair when she came in. He jumped up and held out both hands; and she trembled and half laughed and balf cried. She looked quite young and almost pretty ; and I hated ber. “I am so glad, Mary,”’ father said. *‘So glad, dear old Mary. God blese you “God bles you, Frank—kind old Frank!” she said. Then she hegan crying softly; and he hent down and kissed her. I was in the dark corner hy the ecreen and they did nos seem to notice me. I felt my hears thump and my breath come and go; and I looked at them, and looked at she big photo of mother on the inantelpiece. Is was just beside them, as if she was watch. ing them; and I ruvhed between them and snatched it away. ‘Mother !’’ I otied. ‘‘Oh, mother!” Then I seemed dizzy and tripped over eomething: and Miss Morrell caught me, and I didn’t remember anything more till -I found her bathing my forehead with ean de cologne, and I was t00 weak to push her away. ‘‘My poor child.” she sobhed. *‘‘My poor child !’’ Her tears fell all over me,she was erying so. ‘We ought to have under- stood. Is isn’t your father, darling. It's my old lover that he hus found for me in Scotland. That wus what I telegraphed ahout. Now, we'll see if yon can’t like me a little—No, no ! You mustn’s move yes.’’ But I satup somehow and held out my arme to father; and he picked me up and nursed me like a haby. “I’ve only twosweethearts, darling,” he said,and he wiped his band across his eyes; ‘your mother—and youn.”’ I shall never gnite forgive myself for thinking of him lke I did, but it was only because I was wo fond of mother.—By Owen Oliver, in the Delineator. The Spirit of Easter. Easter is the promise of the Lord that all the hest and noblest in man shall be re- newed even as growth and bloom and ripening shall not cease. The bars of win- ter are broken, and the iron bands of death are riven. The bird is on the wing, and the flight of the roul shall know no weariness. ‘The lilies lifs their holy white grails,brim- | med sunshine of God's love, for has not the Lord manifested his love in flowers and in the upspringing of green things? They are aweet interpreters of large certainties. Each year the winter outs them down, and each spring they put forth again. Every spring is a new page in the book of revelation, wherein we read that life is an eternal genesis and its end is vos, for it endureth forever.—Helen Keller in Youth’s Cum- panion. ——Housekeeper—I'll give you a good meal if you'll light the fire in the stove for me. Weary Willie—All right, lady. “Very well. Here’s a hatchet. chop some of that wood out there—?’ “Oh, see here, lady, I thought it was a Juss gas stove yon had! for Easter. EASTER LILY MOST POPULAR. The Easter lily will be the most popular lant this season; the price is to range ront 20 to 25 cents per bloom for potted plants, though a few of the choicer speci- mens, whose flowers have attained an unn- usnal size, will bring premiom figures. Florists reserve a number of such plants for their regular customers or any one who is willing to pay the extra price. AZALEAS SECOND CHOICE. Next in favor to the Easter lily is the azalea. Small azaleas, it is said, will be sold this year for $1.00, but these are only the scrub plants. The lowess est figure at which a really fine plant can be purchased is twice that sum, and above this you may go as high as you please. Large specimens, such as are exhibited at the flower shows, containing a thounrand or more blooms, bring $25 when in perfect condition. HINTS FOR DECORATING. For decorating the house during Easter week there are a dozen or more varieties of plants not so expensive and which are very effective when stood about in pots. The cineraria is one of them; it is a tall plans, flowering profusely, like a small daisy in shape, aud gives the room an ex- quisite perfume. Acacias, too, with their mass of green leaves and myriads of little yellow flowers, are very pretty. DAFFODOWNDILLIES. Oatside of lilies and azaleas a window display looks bess with daffodils, tulips or hyacinths. In the potted plants the daffo- dils for Eastertide are going to sell for 50 and 75 cents; the two last-named will bring from 25 to 50 cents a plant. Any one of these three plants, cut, will look well ina window. Hyacinths are always better when preserved in the peculiarly-shaped glass jars that the florists use; daffodils and tulips should be placed in tall vases or pitchers. THE CUTE SIDE OF IT. A numerous family is that which is as- sembling for the Easter holiday. It is composed of ducks, geese, chickens, 1ab- bits and pigs. Some members of this col- lection are clever imitations o? the original; others are merely cotton, cradely fashioned buat none the less fascinating, while still auother branch represents the comio side— the clowns of the Easter animal circuns, as it were. , Flowers Of the latter the ducks and ducklings are the funniest. One ludicrous duck rakishly wears a high bat and seemingly proclaims his importance with wide open bill. He is a cotton affair, nicely tinted with water color. Contrasting with him is the demure little stuffed duckling which fell into the taxidermist’s hands ‘before it got to the stage of uttering a single quack. Stuffed chicks, also real, there are in pletty, and, as companions to them, flnffy white chicks of cotton, like balls of down. Quite realistio is the caricature in colored cotton of the chick’s fist attempt to crow. Ssorks are beginning to be recognized as an Easter necessity along with the con- ventional rabbits and chickens. They come in all sizes, some as tall as swo fees, beaun- tifully painted. The nicest, however, are the smaller ones, standing upon a single leg, alongside of a ness. The ness is filled with tiny eggs and placed at the plate of the child on Easter morning. The plan of filling a dich with eggs is now considered hehind the times. To make the sur prise more of a feature it is necessary that the Easter breakfast table should present the appearance of a miniature menagerie, All sorts of surprises are in store for the youngster. -He opens a pretty basket and out pop three funny heads, a rabbit and two chicks; underneath the pad- ding of cotton are the candy eggs. A beart- shaped box with a rabbit and a chicken on the lid is an appropriate Easter remem- brance from a little boy to a giil, or vice versa, Bunny sitting in a tub is another of the surprises, for when youn lifs it out a whole nestful of small eggs is disclos- ed. EASTER MAILING CARDS. Mailing cards and Easter postal cards are the latest. Those intended for the children contain a pretty sentiment or some mysterious wording to arouse juve- nile curiosity, The promises made in print by the Easter rabbit are always caloalated to excite the awe of the youngest, Cards intended to mail in an envelope are deo- orated with the smallest of small cotton chicks, generally three in a row, or in lien of chicks, rabbite or ducklings. The regn- lar postal cards are mailed hy affixing a one-cent stamp in the usual manner. A Plea for the Easter Bunny. Now that certain clubs and organizations are trying to bring ahous a general vote to serve Santa Claus with notice to quis, is looks as though the Easter Bunny would "be rent hopping after him. There's something sad in all this attack opon the legends of childish days. Even the good old prayer, * Now I lay me,” which most of us aiesentimental enough to believe can never he improved upon, is in- veighed against, the cbarge heing that one live of it is full of '‘the bugaboo of death,” and the ress of it *‘too usterly childish !"’ The [Easter Bauny seems harmless enough. And the interest of the children is as wonderfal—the anxiety for fear that some stnpid grown-up may come along and shut the window down tight, instead of leaving the necessary erack for the Bunny to creep in through ! Aud the breathless rush to inspect the nests which have heen 80 mysteriously built in odd corners. Wonderful eggs are in those nests—pink and lavender, blue and red, with chocolate for the bess of all, and a generous lot of the little sugar eggs (the kind that are epeckled all over) filling in odd corners Children aren’s always deceived by these legends, and the deceit isn’t the kind that does harm, any more than a bit of poetry does a grown-up. It’s a treat to the imagi- nation, and a child’s imagination craves its treats as surely as we older children do. Leave your window ‘‘on a orack’’ the night before Easter if there’s a child in the honse. Aud provide yourself with plenty of eggs, to belp the Bunny as you helped Santa Claus. It’s the days which some mystical personage influences that are the bright particular memories in later years. ~—Benbam—I know a woman wrote this story. Mrs. Benham—How do you know ? “The author makes a man have the last words,”’ ——*Do you shave yourself all the time?’’ asked the barber. “No. I stop occasionally for meals,” said Jimpian savagely. Flock of 800C Pigeons One of the largess pigeon plants in the United States is located at Hammonton, N. J., the birds, about 8000 in number, consisting of puare-blood Homers, that breed having be:n found to be the best for producing choice equabs for markes. The buildings are divided into lofts, each loft containing 50 paiis of birds and each building is lined with heavy building paper. These lofts are thoroughly cleaned every four weeks, the nests from which the equabs are removed being dusted with air-slaked lime, to which a proportion of carbolic acid is added. Three heaters, and a line of two-inch pipe running from each, and into the sev- eral houses, keep the temperature at about 50 degrees, day and nighs, during the winter season. There are regular shipping days in each week. On such days the rquabs are taken from the nests early in the morning, be- fore they have been fed by the old birds, 80 as to bave their crops empty when killed. The squabs are marketed when about one month old, If the nests are well filled the marketing is done daily. The yonug are packed nicely in layers, large, clean sugar barrels being used, the squahs being arranged with the breasts up. About 10 pickers are employed, their work being to remove the feathers. 1he squabs are dry picked. The buildings are seven feet high at the front, six feet as the rear, 15 feet to peak of the roof and 16 feet wide, being di- vided into compartments each 10 by 12} feet, the passageway being 33 feet wide. As stated, each compartment (or loft)con- tains 100 biida (50 pairs), with wire-cov- ered ruos outside. By this plan, an or- dinary city lot may be used for keeping 1000 birds or more, according to the area of the lot. It is estimated that each pair of birds should prodoce six pair of eqnabs in one year, though some pairs will hatch as many as 10 pairs of rquabs, the prices ranging from 20 to 50 cents per squab. The cost of food for a pair of parent birds and their young, for 12 months, is about $1. The parent birds feed the young until the fquabs are nearly ready for market. Squabs are in demand every month in the year, the prices being highest in Jan- uary and Febiuary. Strict cleanliness is essential and the use of the best breeds muss not be overlooked, the Homers hav- ing the preference with the majority of breeders, as they are careful parents and also produce superior sqnahs. To Live to be 100. By following these precepts, which Dr. J. B. 8. King, of Chicago, submitted to she Natural Health club recently you may live to be one hundred years old. For a sudden strong effort of severe trial eat meat. For a long continued effort for endur- ance eat cereals. Afser exhausting mental labor eat yolk of eggs. After exhausting pbysical labor drink infused tea. For a pure brain stimulant drink coffee. For paleness eat lean meat and spinach. To make gray brain master eat eggs, beans and oats. For sound sleep eat onions and garlio. “*The first thirty-three years of man’s life is for growth,’ he declared. The breast- hone, which until the thirty-third year is composed of three bones, then consolidates into one, ending the growing period. The next thirty-three years: is for work. The remaining period is for. the enjoyment of fiuits of labor.” *‘Many people who get stout at their fortieth year think they are in fine shape. Mistaken idea. Stousness at forty is asign of old age munch as giay hair. When itis noticed, the diet should be cat down one- third. The ideal old age isto be lean, spare and active. Old age loves fat, while youth detests it. **Qats for children and Indian corn for adults is almo