Bellefonte, Pa., September 27, 1907. STATD PAT. If you're down on your luck And your life runs awry; If fate brings you up With a discolored eye, Stand pat! If you're out in the thick Of a smothering sea, If there's nothing but holes Where the stars ought to be, Stand pat! If Fortune skips out Without leave or good by, If the world take« your God-born Truth fora lie, Stand pat! If the blackmailer strikes With his venomous fang, And you lift him to where The morning stars sang, stand pat! If you're borne hack In a desperate fight, And it don’t seem to count That you're eteroally right. Stand pat! If all that you hope for, Every joy that you know, If all that you love Fades away like the snow, Stand pat! If the solid earth sinks From under your feet, And you've nothing to wear And nothing to eat, Stand pat! If all that you rev'rence, That seems most divine, Turns turtle, goes down Through the %illowy brine, Stand pat! If Death gets a blow In under your guard, And with sardonic leer, Hands over his card, Stand pat! —Henry L. Turner Chicago Evening Post. THE KEEPER OF A LIGHT. His name was Samuel, and, like the son of Havvah, he from bis infancy was dedi- cated to the service of a temple. It was not a tewple buils by mortal hands; God's face shone upon it, aud its waters were auayeq back aud forth by God’s compelling Hie father, throwiog off wet oilskins to beod over the baby on ite mother’s breast, smiled at the grip of the little fingers around his own bard ove, and said : ‘‘Hey, you's a fist will hold a tiller !” His mother, luokiog iuto bis hard, shiny little eyes, smiled, tuo, and said : “‘Aud bis bright eyes—they’ll see far through many a fog!’ Later, his father taught him many of the simpier forms of service that she sea de- wands of its followers, and his mother was proud of both ber captains. Then came the day when the temple exacted one more sacrifice, and the father came home from the Banks, grim and crippled. He was able, in time, to hobble around,and through some meaus was made the keeper of the lighthouse on the Pointe; but be did not linger over his charge, and the soo was left to continue it. They lived in the lighthouse alone—he and his wother. Bat for ber querulous fears he would bave auswered the call that ached within him, to go down to the sea in ships; as it was, his youth speedily aged there on the lonely, wind swept Point. Datiful son he was, hut the varsing emo- tions of the sea and the care of his light came to be his chief interests, The lighthouse was s:uall and old fash- ioned ; before the days of railroad and irol- lagatd fast steam coasters many small ves. sels had piled along the coast, and the white lighthouse that marked the long, rocky Point wae of great service ; but in later years, when the hig vessels passed farther out, away from the danger, it serv- ed for little more than an old wmile-stone, aud the Governments Lighthouse Board recommended its disuse. To the dwellers of the coast the suggestion meant much, and their representative in the balls of Government was called upon to use his in- fluence that the old light might be kept burniug. This he found a matter of no very great difficulty ; his sea-going ocon- stitnents bad no need of free Government garden seeds, while those of a member of the committee on lighthouse affairs were farmers; a fair exchange was made—oer- tain rich farmers got their free seeds, and the lighthonse on the Point was left in the care of Samuel. Samuel and his mother were never lone- ly ; bis natare grew to be more and wore like bers, and r they watched the sea and the clouds and the passing ships. It was not antil after she died that Samuel became aware of the great silence that lay beyond the poundiog of the waves upon the rocks, beyond the howling of the wind around the lighthouse, and tbat created a | void in his little sitting-room which noth- | ing he could do seemed to fill. The winter months left upon bim the touch of so many years ; he aged rapidly. He was large of frame, and possessed of that gen. tle hesitancy of manner that so many large men bave, and, withal, of the handiness of the born sailor. His mother had been a legs without knees, and the women bad skirts whose simplicity was modeled on the unadorned garments of bis mother. The women all wore their bair in koobs, and the men had olosely hair or wore little round hats of she Shalio type. Samuel did his carving io the evenings, after the light was lis the supper things neatly put away. He was apt to hurry bis sopper on Friday, for that was the night when be set bread to rise. He kept his sharp jack-knife aud his bis of wood on the highest shelf of the cuphoard ; be wonld bring them out and put them in his chair, for his mother did not like the box set on the table-cloth; then he would go to the little shed outside the kitohen door and bring in a large round wash-tab, into which he whittled, for his mother did not like to have the bits of wood go over the floor, even though Samuel would bave gathered them all up. The tub was car- ried hack and forth every night ; but Sam- uel’s pleasure in his work more than re- paid his trouble in getting ready for is. It was bis game of solitaire—and it always “came ous.” His salary as keeper had always been held by his mother, and she bad saved a good bit of is, fearing always that some day she lighthouse mighs cease to be theirs. She had never allowed herself any luxaries, aod Samuel scarcely koew that luxuries existéd; but there were two things which he longed for greatly : one, that be might whittle without the tab, let bis chips and shavings gn over the floor or any where, that bis long legs might stretch themselves com- fortably ont in front of him, instead of hending themeelves around the sides of the large tah, as they had to do; the other was that he might possess a pains hox. He had once seen an artist at work oo the rocks, and bad watched him laying on formless color which grew into vivid life on the canvas ; and there was a wooden paint-box in a shop on Greenwich Stieet of which he often dreamed : if he might only buy that, he could give the very tints of life to his little men and women. After his mother’s death it occurred to him that be could have both his withes ; and so, one night after supper, be sas himsell down to whittle on the carpet; bat his hand was awkward and shaky that night and the night after, and on the third night he brought in the tub again as before. The paint-box he booght; he bad never spoken of that to bis mother, and so she had not forbidden it, and there seemed no great disloyalty in buying it. Thereafter he found great joy in coloring his figures, although for a long time the problems of green and purple absorbed him ; hus hefore the second winter passed bis wanikins bloomed in every color of the rainbow. It wae during tbe second sammer of his loneliness that She came. Augels have a way of taking os unawares, when they come at all, and she came without farther warning tbau the glint of sunlight on a pair of vats. The young man who rowed belped ber { om the boat, and lazily said that he would stay outside while she ex- plored the lighthouse. At thas time Sam uel was fifty-three, and she bad just tarn- ed swenty ; Samuel was worn with weather and looked older than his years, and she was lovely with the glamour of youth, and with the grace and sweetness that youth alone can not give. She koooked at the open door of the kitchen, and smiled at Samuel in a simple, friendly way. For the first time in all his life be stood face to face and alone with a young and beautiful woman. There was a child-like quality in her manner of making acquaintauce which at once disarmed his «hyness, and before they reached the level of she light they were talking like old friends. He showed her how he took out the big lenses to clean them, aud she an- derstood and voiced his pride in their brightness. As they looked out of the win- dow across the calm sea, she spoke of the feeling that she had when the sea was not calm,aud when the light—his light—shone through the miss like a pale red reflection, warniug ships off the Point. Then he told her some of the things the sea aud sky said to nim, and he koew that they said she same things to her. They stood by the window for a while in silence ; when peo- ple can be silent together they must be friends, indeed. Later she came down into the kitchen again,and said that it was the neatest place she had ever seen. He told her about bis housekeeping, even to the washing ou Mon- day and baking on Saturday ; she listened with she cordial interest of one village housekeeper toward aovother, without a smile, ing questions that were sensible, not carious, and even making a suggestion or two. She sat in bis mother’s rooking- chair, and he brought out cake and pie ; she chose a piece of the pie, and he said he prelested that, too. His carvings interested ber immensely ; she beld every one, and she showed bim a pew way to paint baiz: There was vever a laugh in her eyes, nor in ber heart, at the big man’s simplicity ; instead, there stirred within her that motherly tender- | ness which the most immature of women can feel toward a helpless man. In some dim way she realized that the keeper was talking with her more freely thao was his wont, that she was making a bright place in a life that was being lived out in mono- tone. Before she left he bad sold her about his father, about his mother, about bis lonely years; and she, balf-wusing, found somewhere the right words to say. He never forgot the picture she made, in the high-backed rocker beside the window, looking over the row of his little men and women out to sea. Something of the light without mingled with the light that shone al in her face; it lit a depth of the man’s heart into which no ray bad pene careful honsekeeper, and Samuel did his | trated bel best to keep the little place ae she would bave had it. He did pot sink into the usual slovenliness of nnaided man. He washed on Monday and ironed on Tues. day ; be rowed to the village on Thurs- days, when the weather permitted, and be baked on Saturday. He never went to church, but be knelt beside his bed ev night, and said the vimple ‘Now I lay me,” which his mother had tanght him many years before; and, strange to say, he bad never left off the prayer of blessing for father and mother—his verse always ended with the childish ‘‘God bless pa and ma, and bring pa safe back home.” In the summer visitors came occasional. ly, but hie mother bad always played the part of guide, and Samuel was apubizibgl) shy hefore shem. Nevertheless, he lik to have them come, expeginily the children; but the Point seemed emptier than ever when they left. The children pleased him most hecause they always noticed the little figures he whittled ; there were rows of these little forms on the mantel of the kitchen, which served as parlor and sitting room too, and still more rows on the win: dow-sills. The creative instinet of the big man-creature somehow found expression in carving crude listle fignres of wood ; they were his ulapring; and to his imagination they each distinot personalities. Asa master of fact, they were all pretty much alike—the little men bad straight little ore. ‘Yes,’ she said slowly, ‘‘it most be dreadful to have lost so much. But—bhut, I think, I’d be willing to face dan- rs, loneliness, everything,for what I love, fost as you have for your mother and fath- er and the sea—the sea and the Reople on a thing to keep a light !"’ it! I is Samuel flashed ; it had never so pre- sented isself to him before, but he knew at Yuge that she us fiw, that it was a great to keep a | 8 She went on—and who can tell from what height the thought came to her? “You serve what yon love best, don’t you ? Having lost it doesn’t really matter, when you can keep on loving! I don’t think that to have a thing means nearly as mach as to love it.” Ab, blessed, indeed, are the pure in heart, to whom the face of God is shown ! Before she left she asked him for one of his carviogs—a little man in a bright blue and brighter green trousers, whose et Jocks hoots were surely blacker than avy | pol other hoota in the world, whose Bobby Sbafto bat set on his head with the jannt- iest air imaginable, and whose little arms tirelessly held out a pair of diminutive oars, which swirled around when the wind blew opon him. That was the one she held longest, and finaliy asked him to give her. Samuel flushed with the happiness of the artist over his first bit of apprecia- tion; people had, indeed, offered to buy his figures, but no asked one as a gifs! she would wait, he i | i ed them out of sight. She bad heen on the Point perhaps an bour, and his world was a new place. That afternoon he was filled with excitement ; he went over every word they bad spoken, touched every place where her hand had rested, recalled every look and taro of her face and figure; for the first time since his mother died he did no whistling at night. He climbed the stairs again and again to see if the light was burning ; he walked to the edge of the rock< snd stood while the salt spray dashed into his face. He was moved almost to sickness by the passing of a shy ; ita lights beokoned him, beckoned him from this ledge of rock where he had neither wile nor child, father nor mother, friend nor dog to keep him company. For days he was by a miserable rest. lessness which he had never known before; then, coming in one afternoon in time to light the lamps overhead, he staggered in the doorway. There was his mother’s chair. She sat there, She, and he al. most believed that she was sitting there now, and that he heard again the words : ‘‘It doesn’t really matter. when you can keep on loving ! [ don’s think that to have a thing means nearly as mach as to love is I" He took a step within the room, and laughed a listle. ‘‘] guess you're #till here, anyways— ain’t you ?"’ He flushed at the sound of his words, but ovee having broken the silence he tween himself and his memory of her, the rest was easy. Day hy day he hecame more accustomed to her seeing presence ; day by day it became more real. He talked "80 her as he worked, as he had never talked toa living being. He did not know her name, bat he called ber Beaaty ; that, in his imagination, fivted her precisely. For a while her presence went with him everywhere, except to the village ; alter having returned to her several times he found such joy in it that he used to try to lose her in the lighthouse, to come upon her aronnd corners, as it were, for the mere delight of finding her again. Then, when her presence was there with him suddenly, he would chuckle with delight. *Foller me aroun’ jest like a little gal, don’t ye ?”’ he fondly ask. He was sare she offered to help him with his work, bat the manifest difficulty of her doing so did not appear, because he always at once refosed. “Now you koow I conldn’t let yoa wile your pretty little white bands with this here kerosene, could I?” ‘“An’ parin’ potatoes—why you'd cut yourself !"’ So his vision did not insist on sharing his labors, which was just as well ; and he bad all the joy of serving her. In she autumn some one sent to the lighthouse a bundle of old Sunday papers and magazines, and on Sundays Samuel Inoked them over ; he never whittled op Saudays. Oneday he came upon a pi sure which made his beart leap, and be cnt it out and later madea frame for it, and set it on his mantel-sbelf in frons of the tall clock. It was the piotore ofa young woman dressed in the white shirt of a boy, a fairy boy, who—thoagh Samuel koew it not—was given to flying from mantel shelves and out through windows ; her hair was brushed boy-fashion, and her face wore a wistful, whimsical little smile. [t was not her face, but it resembied her ; the eyes, especially, were eyes that saw such visions as she saw, and be remember- ed that over her face, too, there had passed at times Saray that one boar joss such a whimsical smile. Alter she picture was framed and set on the mantel, Beauty bad a way of staying more in the kitchen, aod she seemed even more real thao before. While he whittled in the evenings Samuel used to talk to her, and look ap to catch the sidelong, upward glance of the face in the picture. He often asked her opinion of the figure he was carv- ing, and on which he was spending his at- most care avd skill. This little man was taller by at least eight inches than any other he had made ; his features were more marked, and bis legs less like seo- tions of stove-pipe. His little coat was decorated with minute carvings of- pockets and buttons and even of seams, and his hat the crowning achievement—was carefully sive iD imitation of straw. ben 2 was Bally paseid uben ug complete, as far as knife could complete him, he was polish- ed and seasoned again, and then painted. He stood on the mantel for three months, waiting aotil July should bring ber back to the shore. Samuel looked forward with no misgiv- ing to his call upon her, and the presenta- tion of his gift. It was impossible that ehe should, in ber living presence, differ at all from what she was in his imagining. When the spring came be began his preparations. Looking at her ohair heside the window one day. he had an inspiration which took bim to the village the next morning, al- though it was not Thursday. He broaght home a parcel which he undid on the table, chuckling with delight. “Guess what I t, Beauty ?’’ he asked. He proudly held upa length of some white stoff, printed over with gaily hued flowers. ‘‘Look at that, now ! Ain't it fis for a queen? That's jest why I brought it, Beauty ! It’s winder-curtains !"’ It did indeed, become window-cu after many days and nights of toil. His fingers the needle and thread very clumsily. The stitches were not of even | and distance, but the Siig they kept out part of the light. She liked Shem, bowever, and that was the main ing. Another day be brought home a fine che- nile tablecover, and again some flowering gists ; ber by the window should made fit for made to shine. The day that he had set for his visit came at last, and the sun shone with a pleasantly tem radiance. He cured is on the bow seat of his ; often ae he rowed he looked over his der $0 make sure thatit had not blown away. But the manikin was as well behaved as the weather, and Samuel came in safety to the wharf in front of the hotel. He made and stepped to the wharf. gay after- Samuel looked A to t walked directly into man behind a > 1 g £ : 288 5 : = : F233 £5 % ; although her with him ali through the year, knew well the turn of her head and of ber eyes and the tone of ber did not know he: name. Some one whom he took for a tall, slen- down the stairs. paused for a mo- went, then came more quickly down and toward bim. He koew her by her smile— she looked up at him with the sweet, wist- ful look of the picture, and smiled a little one-sidedly. “I’ve been expecting you,’’ she said. It sounded very much like the things Beaoty always said when she came hack from town. Sle did not kuow his name either, but she led him at once toa place where they FEE Bf § g could talk. He gave her the manikin, and | she noticed at once that the colors were different from those of his old paint box. “Oh,” she said, ‘‘the old paints would have done! Bat I like these better.” Samuel laughed ; yes, She was Beauty, nos different in word or look. Several times girls and young men came to take her away, but she always shook her head ; | not once did Samuel doubt thas she would | rather stay with him thao go with them — which was, indeed, quite troe. wanted him to stay to tea, then remember- ed the lights. She walked beside him over the grass to the wharf : her skirts made a faint swishing song that reminded him of the lapping of little waves on acalm day, and the color of her dress was like the purply gray of a hazy mornirg. She watched him auntie his hoat, saying : “Oh, can’t I help you ? Please let me !"’ Samuel laughed spa her ; it was pre cisely the question She had asked, daring the winter, a hundred times. ‘I couldn’t let you sile your pretty lit- tle white hands for me,’’ he replied. He paused in the door of the kitoben, perhaps a little anxionely ; but there She was. There, in the cbair by she brighe window-curtaina. She rose to grees him, to say : ‘I've heen expeoting you,’’ to smile in her whimsical way, to look up at him with her sweet, sidelong glance. Only pow her dress was long and soft, and of an indescribable color, like the mists of the sea. As he mounted the steps to the lamps overhead he laughed a little to himself. As if it were possible that She bad been left behind, there at the hotel !| She was here, in the lighthouse, standing beside him even as be looked out of the window at the star that was just beginning to glow above the sunset, He torned, just before he went down, to look toward the shore; in the distance the lights of the hotel swinkled like tiny fire- flies. Beside him was his own lighs, the | light that shone over the rocks out to sea. He went down the stairs, bappily con- tent, and set abont getting supper. When be sat down at last to his whittling be looked up at the pictare and said : **As if I could let her sile her little o- | hands for we !"’—By Edith Baroard, in Collier's. First Salphur Matches. In these days of rapid progress it does not take long to wake an appliance old- fashioned and out of date, says the Youth's Companion. Not more than 70 years the match was considered an innovation of a daring and dangerous sype. The con- servation still soraped away with his steel and flint, bolding she sulphur dipped stick in fear and trembling. One Robert Gibbe tells the story of the first match he ever saw. A sochoollellow who had visited London hroaght back with him, besides his stories of that wonderful town, a hox of the newly invented match. es. He exhibited them to his wondering mates and, as a great favor, presented one to Gibta. The boy took his prize home, stuck it in the chimneypiece and gleefully watched the surprise of his mother. Now you may throw away the tender box, be said. No such a thing, responded the prudent woman. Matches which light themselves will find vo place here. Why, some night we might be burned in our beds! Give me the tender box. A Salem, Mass., newspaper of June, 1836, speaks approvingly of one of the in- habitants of its town. “Notwithstanding the convenience of these dangerous little articles which are in almost everybody’s hands, but which, with all their charms, bid fair to prove a heavy curse on the community, we learn there is one man in Salem, a respectable trades- man who keeps a store where we should generally expect to find such things, but who has vever sold them or allowed them to be used on his premises. He sticks to the fling, steel and tinder; be shows bis wisdom in so doing. How many more oan say as much?” Conundrums, Why should a fisherman be very wealthy ? Because his is all nes profis. Why is your eye like a man being flog- ged? It is under the lash. How do you account for the water in a watermelon ? By recalling that it was planted in the spring. Why is a field of older than yourself ? your ago (pasturage). How many make a million? Very few. What ie the difference between an In- dian and an Irishman? Ove smokes the pipe of peace and the other smokes a piece of pipe. Why arecats like wvnskilled surgeons ? Because they mew-till-late and destroy pa- tients (patience). When may a chair be said to dislike you? When it can’t bear you. What should youn do to it? Cane is. Why is a proud girl likea music box ? Be Tul a. Eyesight tests for chauffenrs are being agitated for in Germany. movement has the support of medical practitioners and Government officials, who point out that snch tests are compulsory for railway men, while motor car drivers are given cer- tificates after merely proving their ability $0, 3340} plate the mechanism of an auto- le, without inquiry as to whether ors-sighted like a person use it is past they may not besh or color- blind. ——Graft often goes about disguised as a business opportunity. se—— Ba g : { dil She even | ago | mings. FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. DAILY THOUGHT. The most important part of our environment we really carry within us, —Exchange. If | should name the greatest danger of child. hood | would unhesitatingly say, Overfeeding. More babies are drowned ip milk tnan wilors in salt water.—Dr, Oswald. Suggestions for Stout Women. —First and most important is the question of corset. The woman who is stout makes the greatest mistake when she attempts economy in this particular. A poor corset is a moss expensive luxury. It not only spoils the a) of the stous woman, hut it makes the fitting of ber clothes a serious problem. The stout woman can make uo greater mistake than 10 try and deceive bersell by wearing a close, tighs-fisting corset in hopes thas it will wake her appear slender. The effect ie diwssinectly the contrary. A well made, comf.rtable corset, fitted and especially adapted to ber personal require- ment*, will make her appear much more slender. The stout woman should avoid plain, tighr fitting blonses. They serve tw em- phasiz= ber stontness. The round and belted waists ate the most trying ones she CAL Wear. —In wearing shirtwaists, the small | shoulder yoke in front, which is fashiona- | ble this season, is ove of the best adapta- tons, as it make: the shirtwaist fic far | better across the shoulders, and gives an opportanity for some folvess in the front breadshs across the bast, where it i# need- ed, and where any tightness or strain is so ugly. The back yoke for the stont woman is a serions mistake. It has a tendency to shorten the waist line. and add breadth across the shoulders. A few pleats in the center from the collar to the bei live is the hest way of fiuishing the back. This gives long, straight lines as well as flat- ness, A waist with a round yoke is apt to be uvhecoming to she stont woman. Her care must he, as far as possible, to acquire straight lines and to simplify by divers | ways any style of trimming that threatens | to make ber appear short-waisted. All coats and jackets for the stout wom- | an should end below she waist line. The | three-quarter coat is not to be advised, as it detracts from her apparent height; con- | sequently it should not be worn by the | short, stout woman. i The long, balf-fitting coat is excellent, | and lends grace to the figure. The jacket | with straight fronts, ending several inches | below the waist line, and made either in | double-breasted style or with a fly front, | is one of the best models for the stont woman to follow. | The stout woman should beware of over- trimmed skirts and not attempt any elabo- | rate styles in tbat direction. The skirt | trimmed in panel fashion is becoming. { The panels may be of contrasting material, | or the panel effect may be simulated by | an arrangement of stitched bands of silk | or braid. The choice of materials is not important. Plaids are absolutely forbidden, except in Lana) doses, when utilized as waist trim- Stripes should also be used with discretion. They bave a tendency to make the stout woman appear conspicuous. Black and darker shades are the best colors for the stout woman. Of course, it does not follow that no color should be vsed in brightening up and relieving the monotony of a dark color. Remember that theset of the shoulder depends on how the seams are put to- gether. The back portion of the lining should be held toward you, easing it a mere trifle on the front as youn sew. Skirts should be kept on the sewing table as much as possible, and not handled any more than is absolutely necessary. e pleats in skirts must be ecarefally basted so that they will not pull out of lace. P First of all, mark with tailor’s chalk, or take a long basting thread, while the pas- tern is still on the material, and barely catch the material throngh the perfora- tions, taking tiny stitches in the material and long ones over the pattern. When al! pleats are marked the threads should be clipped, the pattern removed, and there is a distinct line marking the pleats acourately. Remember, too, that a pleat that is to be stitched only ball way down must be basted the entire length so thas it may be pressed properly. CRAB APPLE JELLY.—Wash and wipe tbe apples, cut in half and place in crock on the back of tke stove or the oven, set. ting in another vessel of bot water if there is danger of too great heat. When the apples are soft in jelly bag to drain over nighs. easure this juice and allow one pint of sugar to one of nice. Boil and skim the jnice ten minutes before ad- ding the heated sugar. Stir till dissolved, then boil eight or ten minutes. This makes a very tart jelly. Mint may be aed fo flavor this to serve with mutton or lamb. CRAB APPLE AND WILD GRAPE JELLY. —Simmer together with just enough water to prevent hurning, wild grapes, washed stemmed, and one-third the quantity of crab apples cut in pieces. Crush with a wooden spoon, cook about two hours, then turn into a jelly bag and drain over night without squeezing. Measure the juice in the morning, heat and skim care. fally, allowing a pint of heated sugar to each pint of juice, and proceed as with other jellies. APPLE JAM.—Pare, core, and weigh tars apples, allowing for four pounds of apples, four pounds of brown sugar. Chop apples, meantime making a syrup of the sugar with as little water as can be used; add up- ples, and grated peel of four lemons, and a listle ginger root. Simmer till the frais pulp ie travsincens aod golden in color, when place in small jars. Loaf sugar may be need, the lemons and ginger omitted, and the pulp cooked longer. For a simple hed-room table isa denim square edged with white fringe. ' —You can’t cut out pear blight to quick y. —Barn the tent caterpillars with a toreh. —1f you cannot see a gain in the pigs every week, investigate matters. Some- thing ix wrong. You can just see a healthy pig grow, ~—There is a good t in poultry, yet itis someshing more # to go out and pick np the dollars. The hen will do her pars if the owner does his. — Keep plenty of fresh clean water in the poultry yards so the fowls can have plenty of it They ueed it these hot days. Provide for best health in all stock. —Hare a collar that fits she horse and von will prevent much of the sore shoul- der distress, Prevention is cheaper than cure. It is cruel to bave sores ou horses. ~The attempt to raise a call by hand is Dot an easy matter, as it i» subject to scours, which soon ends ita life if the dis- vase is vot cured. If she call is provided with milk fresh from the cow and receives it in clean vessels much of the difficulty may be averted. Sour milk is not fis for any young animals. —S8heep will not thrive on all kinds of soil. Some breeds are very active and thrive ouly in large flocks, but the large mutton breeds require good pastorage and will not give satisfactory resalte i com- pelled to work over a large area for all they get. All sheep should bave dry soils, Foot ros will occur in a flock that is kept constantly oo wes land. —Where meadows show indications of failing, give an application of manure this winter, leaving it on the surface. In the spring apply 50 pounds of nitrate of soda, 100 pounds of sulphate of potash and 200 pounds acidulated phosphate rock. This should be done in April, the bare places to be seeded with seeds of a variety of grass which makes considerable growth. —Do not spread gas lime directly on your land. [It ia destructive to plant life unless medified hy atmospheric influences. It should first he worked into composts with old turf, wood marl or muck. A mass of green vegetable matter, such as weeds, may be used with it as composts, and it should not be spread until the whole heap bas been reduced to a fine condition. ~—Parsnips are best sowed in mounds in the open air. Lay them on boards slight] raised ahove danger from water, cover wit straw alter heaping them and then cover the straw with earth well pressed to the straw. Leave a wisp in the top to allow gasses to escape. ey are excellent in winter for the table and for stock, and are usually but slightly injured by frost. —Kiln-dried sand is recommended as a material in which to pack apples in winter. Experiments have shown that beets, car- rots and parsnips can also be conveniently kept in bios in the barn, when the spaces ave filled with perfectly dry sand. The point to observe is to keep the roots cool, bus to avoid freezing. The dry sand al- lows the roots to be taken out without 8} iBeulty, and at any time when it is desir- able. —Ground intended for onions should be plowed as early as the weather will permit, as the onion orop is the fires to go in. One method of producing onions is to sow the seed in hotheds and tran