== Bellefonte, Pa., October 25. 1907. THE COOKINGSCHOOL BRIDE Can she make a loaf of bread — This fair maid that you would wed? Can she make a loaf of bread? “Nay, she cannot make my bread, But a fine souflle instead; And, it I do not complain, why should yould?* Can she cook a good beefsteak Without makisg a mistake? Can she cook a good brefsteak? (Teli me trael) “Nay; bui, then, her salad cream Is delicions as a dream! (And it's something that my mother could not do!™") Can she brew a cup of tes Good enough for you or me? Can stv» brew a cup of tea? (Tell me true!) “Maybe so and maybe not, For | really have forgot, but she'll freeze a Cate Mousse, — Pray can your —~Helen Knight Wyman, in Buston Cooking school Magazine. ——————— THE HOMETAUGHT BRIDE [The publication of the foregoing brought the following reply. } Can she make a fine souflle This dear girl you wed today? Can she make a fine souffle? (Tell me true!) “Nay; but she can make my bread, Finest biscuits, too, instead; And, if I am well content, why not you?" Can she make a salad cream? “As delicious as a dream?” Can she make a salad cream? (Tell me true!) “No; but she can cook my steak Or a roast, without mistake, And they taste just as my mother's used to do.” Can she freeze a Cafe Mousse, Or a plombiere produce? Can she freeze a Cafe Mousse, (Tell me true!) “Ab! I'm sure that she cannot; Yet there comes a happy thought, — She can learn what's really worth her while to do.” —[Yevol R. Nottarts. BIJIE AND THE VISION. Starling Apgel was moving his npeigh- bot’s goods to the big town some twenty miles away. When he came to the bard, worn, little path that ran off from the road and ap to the Eller cabin be pulled ins horses to a standstili with a loud “Whoa.” “Hello!’’ he called. Bijie’'s mother was washing the dishes that were never quite done. At the sound she wiped her hands and crossed the cabin floor. “Come on,’ she said to Bijie. ‘‘Don’t keep Starlin’ waitin’. Ye've got a right smarts journey abead o’ ye.” Bijie looked down his clean shirt and old green trousers that were clean, too, to the urass toes of his clumey shoes, proudly. ‘Good-by,’’ he said to the cabiufaol of children. From she doorway he called good- by to them agaiu, and the pride of the traveled man pricked through his tones, Hs bearing was bolder as he [followed bis wother down the path. It was fitting that one about to journey ous into the, world should have a bold bearing. ‘“They ain't many lectle fellars hyar- abouts thet's bed the lettin out Bijie’s ter get,’ Bijie's mother said. She addressed the tall young mountaineer who had climbed down from bis wagon at her approaroh. ““Bijie’s ain’t never hen nowhar. Bat I lowed las’ fall when the leetle fellar run away from the lady thet was gwine ter carry him off an’ eddicate him—hit peared like he conldn’t stan’ ter go off from all he'd ever knowed—thes I'd do my pore bes’ fer bim. Pore folks hev pore ways, Ssarlin’. An’ seein’ Asheville’s a sight o’ larnin’ ter a body, man er chile.” She shook bands with the young moun- taineer himply; shook hands with Bijie, limply, too. If the temptation to Kiss the eager little brown face assailed ber, she resisted it. She was not a demonstrative woman. The big young man swung Bijie up aod up and up—ithe neighbor's possessions loomed like a mountamn—and lauded him amongst the billows of a feather bed. He looked down at the woman kindly. “Ye’ll not fret aboat the c¢ ars runnin’ over him? Ye'll not be afeared he'll git lost er—er anythin?" ““Afeared?’’ her voice quivered to a shrill little laugh. The sound could have de- ceived no one but a Jul! voung man and a joyous young child. oyars. Hol’ on ter yer wits, son. ain’t a mite o’ danger.” The wagon moved. ‘“‘Bijie,”’ his mother called warningly, “‘don’t git no dirtier 'en ye kin help.” ‘ Ne' m’,” Bijie called hack. He was breathing in little delighted gasps. A house lurched past his vision. Far, far below him the horses were lilting their plodding hoofs as if in the corn furrows still. My, but the houses matched past! he litsle post office, the store, the school- ouse. At the foot of the long red hill that led back to Marsville the horses drank deep of Banjo Branoh's swees, singing waters. They moved up stream until sheir noses were under the footbridge. The soft young leaves crowded about Bijie with wh He els oat fhe yee *ucw the listle boy who so often played under its outspread branches. eel . u, r p nppling from tree to tree, chattered as young girls do over their morning toilets. In its Jutisy, ite clear-eyed [ieshness, the young y was virgin. The san came up. It shot through the trees in shafts of light that were like long, shining fingers. It olimbed higher. The pines breathed out a soft pervasive sweetness; higher still; she dew glinting on a million tender new leaves was ornshed in heat. Bijie’s thoughts spon round and round in glistering circles. He tried to catoh at them as they passed him, They were strange fancies, these queer ideas ahout a city. Bijie had gleaned most of them when he #at in meetin’, on a bench without a back. hix legs dangling uarcomfortably. Bat the city Bijie was journeying towamd was Jot the one to which the circuit rider re- erred. | The wagon | she air. | weighted down the brauches, they looked | like soft, still clouds. “The idee! Bijie's | got sense. He'll not git run over by the Thar thas sent warm waves of perfume through The pink and white blossoms It rolled overa bridge; past a busy mill. The mountains | no louger crowded up to the road-side, | They withdrew themselves, drawing veils | of mst over their faces. Bijie was no long- | er theirs; he was journeying to the alien town, | Atnoon shey stopped for luoch. The (Tell me trae!) sun was low when Siatling aroused the little hoy, deep in the motherly folds of the feather bed, adrift in a swimming sea of sleep, with, “Bijie, wake up, wake up, | we'te thai!” Bijie, in the Bijie way, bis listle brown unwashed face palm deep in his little brown unwashed bauds, sat in the door. way of a listle house on the outskirts of | she town. It was evening of the next day, | and it was raining. Like all next days | when the rain pours down, it is dreary. I Bjie was waiting for Starling. Whe | Siuarling came they would climb into the | wagon and jog back to the mountains, | He looked out vn a drowned world dis. | prritedly. Suddenly his shoulders heaved. | He was not yet eight, and when ouve is not | yet eight disappointments hurt. Cowing to town had meant so much to a liste boy who had never been anywhere. Seeing the streets shining with gold ; seeing the great high walls; going through the gates with shiny angels witting on them. ! There bad been no city walls; no gates with shiny avgels ou them. Not one whing | was as the histle boy bad imagined is. | The streets hurt the imprisoned little feet | accustomed to freedom. They were hot. | The people burrying up avd down them ‘joggled small boys unm:reifuily. The ! houses looked hot, too. They huddled to- | face gether like a lot of frightened sheep. A carriage came down the street and stopped in front of a big grand-looking house not far from where Biji- sat. Ladies poured out of it. They ran up the broad walk under bobbing umbrellas. Other carriages came, and other ladies got ont and ran op the walk under bobbing. um- brellas. The carriages backed up in the street. They looked with their wes tops like glistery beetles, Life 100k on a sudden sweetness to Bijie. Hewwang far ous the door, nnmindful of the rain. It was a ‘‘meetin’.’”’ It was a funeral. In an agony of indecision Bijie swayed back and forth. Suddenly be dais- ed away. He meant to find out. Down at the gate ladies were hurrying out of carriages and tripping up the board walk under umbrellas. Bijie went with them. He had to find oot. None of the ladies touched the door, bat it opened. A person standing there offered a tray to the ladies,and they dropped some: thing, Bijie dian’s know just what, into it. No woe noticed him in she least. He slipped thirough the open door. There was 8 moment of awe. Then the door clos ed. B jie was sbut off from his past —fiom all he had known before. The ladies swept him with them to the foot of a wide stair- way. They 1an up the steps, laughing. Bijie leaped as the young deer leaps on his wountain side, and orouched hehind the curtains that led to a little unocoupied sitting room. When the tattered line of his courage swept back, he looked out cau- tionsly. Here and there candles were lighted —so many candles! They glowed under shades golden as the wings of a butterfly. There ‘| were a bewildering number of rooms open- ing into one another, and women, beanti- ful women, wearing wondrous shimmering dresses moved abont in the soft luminons- ness. There were flowers, too, and they were golden. They breathed out a sabtle Sweetness It was all so heautifal toa little beauty wor-hipper; it was al! so wonderful to a little lad who found life such a simple mat- ter—to & little lad who tumbled out of an overfull bed in a log cabin and made his simple morning toilet as the branch below a bubbling wountain sprivg—that he loss his breath altogether and gasped and gasp- ed before he could find it again. When the ladies bad come down the stairway aod the ball was almost deserted, Bijie stole up the steps softly. He went along a hall aud through an open door. He entered the room without the preliminary coortesy of a koock and found the angel that should have heen sit- ting on the city gate. She had come right out of the sky, Bijie knew. Her eyes were a bit of the sky's bine and the sunshive was still tangled in her hair. The question that bad so often teased Bijie’s mind was answered when she tarn- ed. At lass Bijie knew how angels looked. Everything about her was soft and white and shiny; the ridicnlous little skirts that were no more thao ruffles below her waist; the great bow of ribbon that was meant to hold one of the bright carls in place but failed, and drooped te her ear; the cocks that had tried to climb to her plump, fat knees aud bad stopped balt way, dishears- ened. The Vision shot a glance at Bijie throogh the shining mist of her curls. A glance sent iv this way is a disturbing thing. Bijie almost pulled his little brown thumbs out of their sockets. She crossed the room. The children faced each other. Then the soft little voice, said, hall shyly; “You looks funny, boy. But I likes you stravagantly.”’ Bijie looked at her dambly. He felt that some actual look woanld bave to be broken on his lips before he could speak. “I'm tired parties an’ fings," the Vision said. *‘I’m awfal glad yon comed. Lesterday it was a lunch-party. It’s some- fin ’most every day. Me an’ the woolly lamb ap’ my Pinkie doll gets awful love- some an’ tired ous of the way.’’ She righ- ed. Bat presently she dimpled deliciously, and shot at him another of the glances he found so disturbing. “Le’s play,’’ she said. Bijie spoke at last. ‘‘Whut’s parties ?'’ he hiorted ous. ‘Is thet a gy The Vision derided him with rippling laughter. ‘Parties is nothin.’ They’s jnat eatin’ fings an’ savin’ howdy do. “‘Le’s 3 she said again. “‘Le's play train. Hookle on!’ She got behind Bijie aid put ber arme about his throat. Bijie’s head swayed ; bis knees trembled. Bas it was sweet, this swaying and trembling. “Ta— t8—t8—ding —dong—sho—shn— sha—."" She gave Bijie a little push and they were off for that dear land that ‘grown-ups’ never jonroey to—that only childhood knows, Time wi moment, an hour, an mon. Bijie lost count by earthly reo. orda, but be bad reached heaven. When they had ceased to strut about the room with uplifted ohests and outpuffed cheeks, there were other games, other things. None of them were hookling on, thoogh, The Vision sat on the floor beside Bijie. With loving impartiality she hogged her fat knees and the woolly lamb that bad jogged on. 1s passed orchard journeyed with her out of slumber since the days of her earliest babyhood. Bijie's eyes fastened on ber—eyes the lady who wanted to educate him had likened to pools in a deep wood were wurshiplul. He leaned forward shyly. He waoted to tell her. He longed and longed to tell her. In his whole life he had never told anyone. ‘Secrets ?'’ she encouraged. She under- stood, if dimly, and leaned forward in de- licious receptiveness, “What's secrets ?'’ Bijie hadn't meant to ask a question. He tried to stop it, bus it bad leaped heyond his lips. “‘Secrets is fiugs you tell somebody,” the Vision said gravely. Sbe did not again de- ride his ignorance. Two flame spots showed in Bijie’s cheeks. For the space of a breath he hesitated. “They’s pnps.’”” He hurried into con- fession. ““Ther’s hoth black pops. One's named Sin, t'orther’s Sorrow. They's a sight o’ company when yer mommie’s tan- ned the bark offen ye fer hidin’ oat stid o’ rockin’ the hahy ter sleep in the orib eradle. When ye air martin’ all over an’ feelin’ like ye'd ben in a yaller jacket’s nest, hit's a sight 0’ company jest ter hev them pups craw! op an’ lick ye in the face.” The Vision smiled. “*Fair is they ?'’ she asked. Bijie looked at her helplessly. They were as real to him as the dolls on the floor, | as the woolly lam" she had given him, hut they were not corporeal. They were things of the spirit—his pups. But the listle girl had divined it. pups?" she asked. Bijie nodded. Her eyes pitied him ! Just play pups ! She leaned nearer, all woman. all sym- pathy. He smelled the faint fragrance of the carls falling so deliciously ahont her Then it happened ! Sight ard sound failed Bijie. The floor rose np and met the ceiling. Oatside the window the solid earth spun round and round. He shut his eyes tight. Mayhe— oh, mayhe—if he shut his eyes tight she would do it again. Bat it was not a kiss that Bijie felt. He was jerked to his fees. Eden had heen en- tered by the serpent—a capped and apron- ed serpent. “The likes of you kissin’ her,” the nurse's voice rasped rough as a cow's tongue, With the implacable fory of childhood, th@®child flung herself at her nurse, who pushed her off roughly. ‘I'll lick the life outen ye, ef ve hurt her,” Bijie cried fiercely. He sqnirmed from under the restraining hand and flong his arms ahout the tearfal Vision. But the woman was stronger. She drag- ged them apart. Bomping him spitefully, she drew him down the stairs, ont the baok walk, and, with a final shake, aud a “I'd like to hreak every hone in your body,” she flung him into the street. Bijie stood there dazed. There were a good many of his hones he knew. Mayghe all of them were hroken. But it was not of his bones that he was thinking. His thoughts whirled dizzily round and round ove dreadful pivot. Shut ous! Shut out from her ! Reality in the shape of Starling Angel's band pulled at Bijie. “Bijie?"’ There was relief in the moun- taineer’s big voice. ‘I've hen lookin’ ever- whar fer ye, skeered outen my wits. Whar hev ye hen, boy ? Ye look like ye'd seed a bhant. Come on. The wagin’s waitin.’ L Gosh a mercy I"’ catching sight of the soy that Bijie still olutched,” ““Whar'd ye git thet 2" Bus Bijie was silent. He was silent when he dropped down in the wagon bed and orawled to the hack. He longed to steal away and hide bis hurs as the little wild things of the woods do. The wagon clattered through the streets aod ont from the town. As is grew darker Starling glanced back more thao once. In the night chill she little boy seemed so lit- tle, ro comfortiess, “‘Starlin’ !"’ Starling turned round quick- ly. Bijie was plucking at his sleeve. “Gosh a meroy !"’ exclaimed Starling, as he caught sight of Bijie’s face. The child’s eyes were burning like stars. “I'm gwine ter larn I" he cried. ‘I'm gwine ter larn all thar is in the worl’! Larnin’ opens shet doms. She sed hit did —an’ she knows—thes lady thet wanted ter eddicate me.”” He dropped back on the wagon bed. “Ef I live I'm gwine ter larn an’ open thet shes door,” he said solemnly. There in the twilight something bad beer: born. The new thing beat in the lit- tle boy’s voice. Already the fight bad begun. The wide, deep night grew blacker and blacker. Starling Angel pushed on toward the mountains. Bijie slept, the woolly lamb clasped close. Starling threw ap old quilt over him. “I wonder whar he got thes outlandish ole sheep thet’s ontlived hits legs,”’ he mnt- tered. “‘Quare leetle chap, Bijie. A- wantin’ ter larn #o had.” Starling hadn't a seer’s vision. He didn’t know that Bijie would one day trudge over the moantain to the college in the valley below, a lean old satohel that held all his worldly goods over one shoulder, and the ax that was to enable him to chop his way through the valley college to the shut doors beyond, over the other. He didn't know that the day would come when the kindly old teacher there would say to Bijie, ‘My hoy, we've taught you all we can here. I'll help you to go higher, for I'm thinking there's a place in the big world outside for on Bijie didn’t know it either. The woolly lamb had crept into his dreamland. And the Vision was there, hogging her fat knees and the beloved lamb, and look- ing at him through the mist of her shining cnrla.—By Sara Lindsay Coleman, iv the Delineator. “Play “Just make like?" Stop the Leaks. It a ship springs a leek it would be a foolich captain who would crowd oo sail and try to run away fiom the leak. The first thing to do is to stop the leak, or tke very press of canvass increases the danger. Look at the drains which affect some wom- en in the same light as the leak. It is no use to use stimulants and tonics, as if they could carry you away [rom the effects of that leakage of vitality. The first thing to do is to stop the unhealthy drain, which is rohbing the body of st with every day. 's what Dr. Pierce's Favorite Prescription does. it stops the drains which weaken women. Is regulates the periods, heals ulceration and inflammation, and cores female weakness. When the local health of the womanly organs ia establish ed, women find an improvement in their general health at once. There is no need for tonics or stimulants. There is no more nervousness. The whole body is hailt up futo sound health. ‘‘Favorite Prescrip- tion’ makes weak women strony, sick women well. Johnstown has now a population of 75,000. SAA ie i Opportunities in Pennsylvania Hore tiemitnre, The August number of the Western Fruit Grower states that ‘‘the 1967 crop will nring ahous $2,000,000 to she apple growers of Washington county, Ark.” Fifteen years ago, under a system of geveral farm- ing in that county, the average vield in corn was 15 bush :i8 per acre and the aver- age price of land was $15. Seeing the fatility of this style of tasming people be- gan to plant trees. Part of the result is in- dicated above. The price of land in that county now, set in orchard, is $100 an acre up. This shows that it is easy to waste energy and capital trying to make a region produce something for which it is not adapted, and thas it pase to seek out and to do the adapted thinge. If thix is tine, can we do more to improve agriculture than to bend it into those wore profitable lines ? In Penvsyleania the most striking nasaral tendency is toward trees and tree growth, The indastiies that moss {ally take ad- vantage of this are forestry and hortical- ture. Bat, for its mo-e immediate returns and for promoting the fullest development of those engaged in is, hortionltare is the industry, par excellence, for Pennsylvania. We are right in the center of the apple growing district of Ea