SAG Bellefonte, Pa., October 9, 1908. mm— HEREDITY. When | look on a blue-veined wrist Aud think how its pulsing tide, Began in u far-off mist Where centuries breathed and died. There is something within me yearns For that kindred of long ago, Who govern my life by turos, Whether | will or no. There's a soldier with a heart of gold But a spirit that brooked no wrong ; Am | fearless? iis courage bold, Not mine has made me strong. "Tis a Quaker the ages know Who ean otten my varying mood ; Not to forgive my toe Were to wrong thet gentle blood. There's a priest in gown and stole Stands« rapt at an altar-rail, Above him an aureole : Through him must my prayer avail, And one with a wind-filled sheet Feralien Innds outspread ; 1 follow with roviog feet His haunts revisited. Nota long procession of saints But a line of honor fusi, The brush of history paints On the canvas of my past, And [love them one and all And offer a “Bidding Prayer” For a race without stain or thrall, That blesses me unaware. —| Louise Manning Hodgkins, in The Congre- gationalist, -. WALTER HARVEY-COWARD. Walter Harvey faced a cold fact on she evening of his return to Thorpe Academy ~ he was a coward mentally and physical- ly. He kuew in his heart that every strange sound which he counldn’t account for fully, whether it was a dusky figure on the road at twilight or a adden noise in a silent place, cansed something to drop within him. Only five minutes before he had felt a great nervous panic when a shadewy form appeared in the barn door, just as night was olosing in. He bad resisted the temp- tation to slip into the house, bracing bhim- sell with all his strength, yet tinly i» a tremor. It was only his father, and when he was alone again he muttered to himself: “I am a regular coward, and it is all the worse that I pretend not to be.” Certain it is that nobody eunspected him of cowardice. He was a olean cut, athletic lad of sixteen, with a singularly calm and determined face and poise. In baseball mes at Thorpe his steadiness in the box Bad been an inspiration to more than one victory. He was never ruffled, never loss bis head, but always held his team in the most trying moweunts. People kuew him as a ‘nervy boy,” and always his father had said : *‘Walter has more courage than either of his older brothers, and almost as much as the two put together.” This reputation, gained more, perhaps, because as a youngsier, he would go alone to bed in the dark, when his brothers would not, had never lefs him. The praise which he got then, though he knew that bi- feared many things on those nightly t11ps, bad kept him from showiug or ad- witting fear afterward. Yet to-night he wae honest with himself. ‘If I should ever meet a real danger, I'd probably faint away like a pervoue old la- uy.! He did vot know, as brave men do, that cowardice is more a matter of action than feeling ; he didn’t realize that the hravest deeds in the world's history have been done by men whose hearts pumped and knees shook while they made their pames famous, The courage that overcomes the desite to ran, that can wait for the un. known aud the terrible, when every fiber of the body i+ tense with fear—that was | not courage +o hi- mind, but deception like bis. And vet he esnld not remember that any of his fears had come true. In a quiet, silent way be bad ontwmdly lived up to the npearned reputation his father had given him because it flattered him to be called brave, and the next day, stil! disgusted with his cowardice he re. sarned to Thorpe. He was walking in a big wood, a month later, with Mi. Benjamin, a big, square- shooldered fellow, just ous of college, who was teaching at Thorpe that year ; when a mile or more from the town, at the foot of the mountain, svddenly a twig snapped nearby. Walter stopped for a second, his face going white, shen plodded on. In a minute he had control of himself, but as be looked at Mr. Benjamin he saw the keen, quizical glance and his face flash- “Gave youn a start?’ gneried Mr. Benja- min. “Um—yes—] must have been dream- ing,” Walter added slowly. Bat Mr. Benjamin knew something of humo nature and he gaes<ed at once that anderveath Walter's silent non-committal manner there was a bundle of highly- strung nerves which made him a prey toa thousand fears. He followed up his gues. tion, gently hus persistently, until Walter, stopping, faced him squarely: “I never said so before, and I never will again, but [ am a coward—an ont and ont baby. I'm afraid of my on shadow— aod yet I never had anything to be really scared of in my life.” *“That’s just it,”’ Mr. Benjamin replied. “‘It isn't courage you lack’’—but he didn’t finizh the sentence —for as be spoke there came again and nearer this time, the crack- ing of a swig, and a fat black bear wallow- ed into the clearing where they stood. “Great Heavens !"”’ shouted Mr. Benja- @in, ‘We've got to run for it,” and in one bound he cleared a stone wall near them and crashed through the brush. Walter stood still. He felt something give way, a8 if a great weight had fallen from inside his chest to his stomach ; he felt his jegs buckling and his breath choked him. The bear stood blinking lazily—a little uncertain as to what this great crashing in the brush and this solitary figure before him meant. Then be waddled slowly for- ward. Walter would bave run then if he could, but his strength failed him, and io an instant he realized that running would pot do much good if the animal chose to follow. His mind grew a littie clearer, and though bis heart jumped and his breath still came in short gasps, he realized vogne- ly that he could do nothing bat stand still, He leaned his back against a sree ; he fixed his eyes on the broken stump of a giant oak and waited. The hear came up, stop- ped an instant, circled about, sniffing sus- piciously, then walked straight up to the | tree. Walter kept his eyes averted and | exerted every muscle to keep from collaps- ing. He felt the bear's nose agaiost his | viouser leg, then the breath on bis band, | but be did not move, He could hear the | “enoff, soufl,” all about him, and then | the hear ambled off. | For what seemed like hours he held his position. never looking away from the shat- tered tice trouk. And then, at lass, when { all was still he looked abouts. The bear was gone. Walter sprang away quickly and ran in the opposite direction as fass as be could go. A long circuit brought him at last to the railroad track which led back toward the school, and there he saw Mr. Benja- min, “Ob, I saw it all,”” Mr. Benjamin said, “and it was splendid, splendid! I don’s believe a man in a million could bave held his groand. And you said yon were a coward !"’ “But I was too scared to run. I was all | weak and wabbly, and so faint that I can | hardly stand now." “But that is nothing, Walter,” the old- er man answered. ‘You held your ground, aod saved yoor life. If both of as bad rau, one of us wonld have been caught, sure, whichever took his lordship’s fancy.” “Bat I was in a complete funk,” Walter began, “No, no. You didn’t fall down, or try to gest away or move when the bear nosed ‘round you. Never mind if you were scar- ed to death, you did yoar part, and I am perfectly willing to believe that practical- ly every great hero of the world has per- | formed his deeds of bravery with a beating heart and great hollows where his knees and stomaoh ooght to have been. Your knees did their pars, though, and so did you.” In spite of his protests Walter found bim- self a bero at school, and every frank state- ment of his fear that he made seemed bat to add, in his listener's mivds, a touch of glory to his act. And Walter realized slowly that in this first real hazard of his life he had, some- how, despite a trembling, death-like fear, managed to hold himself together. “And yet all I did was to stand still,” he would mutter to himself ; ‘‘and if I'd had to do avything else, I'll bet I'd bave fainted.’ The last recitation of the day was over and the olear, cold, blustering, January air was turning into the gray of early twilight, when Waiter awoke suddenly io his cbair. He bad been reading Virgil by the grate fire in his room, and the warmth of the fading light had sent him off gently into dreamland. As he came to consciousness be heard a greas clattering and yelling in the ball-waye—a bit of boisterous play he sapposed, and then it died away. He heard from the sirees below, a great confu- sion too, which grew louder and suddenly ahove the noise, which to his sleepy senses, had meant little, there came sharp ories of “Fire I" and with is the olanging of the hell on she town hall, and the sharper gong of the fire-engine. Awake now he rushed to the window and through the smoke that poured from below he could see the upturned faces of a great orowd three stories down, and in an instant he knew that the dormitory was on fire. He snatched hia cap and rushed to the door, bus a great roliing bank of smoke met him. He slammed the door, but not until a great cloud bad filled his room, and it was only hy a sudden memory of a story read years before, that he fell to the floor, for there the smoke is never ao devse, and orawled go the window, He forced the sash open and stuck his head out, but by this time the smoke from below was dense and the chances of escap- ing #affocation hardly better. He manag. ed, however, to get outside the window, on the narrow ledge. It was covered with little knobs of ice, and it was with great difficulty that he was able to keep bis bal- ance. He was ous at last and bad olosed the window behind him, leaning back bard against it to keep his balance. Great olonds of smoke curled round hiw, but with the cold, fitful wind, it was swept aside every other instant and be could catch his breath, i Just a< he had olosed the window, a | heavier gust of air blew the smoke down ward and the crowd below saw him for the | first time. There was an instant of silence, | then a great startled ory. Everybody was | supposed to be safely ont. {Again the smoke covered him. Hiv eves smaried and a great strangling band seem- ed to grip his shroat. He fought hard to keep his balance, and bis hands were al ready numb with the cold. From below he heard mingled cries and orders. ‘‘Hold tight ’—"Ran up the ladders "Don’t jump!" —a coofased babel. One moment they wonid be shut out from his view by the choking smok»; the next he could see them, a hundred hands trying to raise the ladders, and it came to him with a sickening despair that they were across the street with swo rol: lev wires intervening. Slowly the old lad- ders mounted, and then, sven thongh he conld not sve, be heard a voice orying “You are on the wrong side of the street. Cut the trolley wires.” But there was nobody to cut the wires, The ladder was up almest to his level, wahbling and swaying in the wind, but it was thitsy feet away. When he could see again, the m-o were trying desperately to lower it but the machinery would not work. And go through moments of saffocation and pain, he watcher the confused, [rantio moh below. He could see the faces of his classmates and best friends now straining upward, now hobbing about in a desire to help him. He saw Mr. Benjamin, too, togging at the big crank of the ladders. And all the while he saw that he could hold on hut a minute more, for he heard the flames crackling in his room behind him and felt the glass grow hot. He could see nothing todo bat to wait till he was harned from behind or crushed by his fall. Wave alter wave of sickening fear swept over him as he olung grimly to his narrow ledge, struggling for breath, hearing the intense heat of the window, waiting, hopeless and afraid, bus waiting. When he could see the erowd next time, bis eye caught the big figure of Mr. Ben- jamin, forcing bis way sbrough the men about the ladders. Mr. Beojamin stopped, made a srampet of his hands, and shonted: ‘‘Hold on a minute longer, Walter. Wait till I get a blanket. You've got to jomp for ie.” Again the smoke curled around him. This time a deadly dizziness seized him. He thought he was failing and would never strike. He stiffened bis hody against the hot glass and held his breath. [It seemed to him that the emoke would never olear again. When it did, he saw a circle of men juet below him, straining at the edges of a horse blanket. A silence fell upon the crowd. He saw Mr. Benjamin looking ap and heaid him shout : ‘Loosen your clothes avd jump for it.” To those below he seemed to move with great deliberation, tantalizing them as if he were pitching a desperate ball-game and wished to strain the batsman’s nerves by delay and nnconcern. Mr. Benjamin told abont it afterward. “I can never forges that pictare to my dy- ing day. Through the smoke we could see him as he stood, braced against the win- dow. He raised one arm, slipped the coat from his shoulder and shook it to the ground. He anbuttoned his collar and loosened his belt. And when at last he jumped, there was not a nerve in my body that was not near to snappiog. He struck the blavkes equarely, bounced off and then somebody les go, 80 he got a braised knee and was unconscious, but was about the next day?" “Afraid, yes I" Walter would say. “I never expected to land on that blanket. I was siok and dizzy ; and after I jumped I didn’t remember a thing sill I woke ap in the doctor’s bed. Bat others saw it differently —and at last Mr. Benjamin made him see something of the kinds of fear and courage there are and geocy when it comes, shat trembles but waits or fights as the case requires, is what must be ndmired most ; for then men con- as well. It was old Major Jenkins, the superin- tendent at Thorpe, who gave Walter the moss comfort. Talking with Walter the next dav we said : “I shau’t forget my first battle. Scared ? {| Why, there wasn’t a man on either side who wasn't. Old soldiers don’t deserve much credit ; for they get used to heing onder fire. They no longer think of the danger. I's the youngsters, who are soar- | they are stronger than their fears, or asham- 1 : : : praise.’ —hy Martin M. Foss, in Si Nicho las Children's Voloes. A friend who has spent many years abroad remarked : *‘It does seem too bad that American children should have such disagreeable voices. They are acknowledg- they are shunned,” says “Good House: keeping.” dren are imitative, and as our voices are vot well modulated, neither are theirs, the nnmusical voice a necessary American trait ? Throat specialists tell us that, al- though our climate is inclined to sharpen the tone, a certain sweetness and a low piteb may be maintained with proper care. A child ie soothed by gentle speech and does watobing of articulation and tone. This is good exercise for the reader and a means of child. Never rebuke in anger ; keep quiet until you ean speak sweetly aod firmly. One point which oultivated foreigners no- tice is that our young people call their messages from a distance, ivstead of going to the person and quietly waiting for an opportunity to speak. Shousing through the house is unpleasant and uncultured. A child should uvderstand that it is not to break in upon couversation. This last performance is considered ‘“‘very Ameri- can’’ abroad. An old woman was ill, and a kindly neighbor took a bottle of whisky to her. The neighbor then said she wonld give the old woman a glass of the whisky then and another in the morning. The old woman received the first glass. About ten minutes elapsed, and then she suddenly exclaimed: “‘You’d hetter let's hev the other noo. Ye heer 0’ 0 mony sudden deaths nooas- days. Yon do pot peed to use Dr. Pierce's Pleasant Pellets as ordinary pills are used. One of these pills isa laxative, two to three have a cathartic effects. They donot become a necessity to the user. They cure constipation and ite consequences and once enred the Pellets can be dispensed with, —Subsoribe for the WATCHMAN. irritated hy harsh tones. Of course, you | read aloud to your child ; every mother Let this he done with constant culture, in more thau one respect, for the | from The Philadelphia Record, Sept. 28, 1903. oue kind, the kind that does meet the emer- | yo; ju eany to accomplish. | ed "most to death, hat stick 1t ont hecaunse -By De Mar TUR T.LAST STRING Plant Your Waste Land with Trees. | These cones or seeds must be stored away Planting your waste land with trees may mean a college education for your son, a wedding troussean for your little daughter | $0 and something for your old age. There is hardly a farm in this country | thas has not some waste land. If there is, is isn’t in good old New England. By waste land is meant land practically use- less to the farmer,—land shat is looked upon as worth listle or nothing. In al- most all cases it could be and should be made a very material sonrce of revenue. This article is not intended to deal with waste land that is swampy. To make such land of value requires money and bard work, though when his money and hard work are put into suoh swampy land and the same is properly drained it is often found that it is the bess part of the “arm. This articie is intended to deal with im- provement on the farm which does not in- volve auy expenditure of money, and, far- Therefore, we jump from the swampy land and reach the upland area, possibly with outcropping rock that makes it unsillable. Over this quer not only their danger but themselves | 14,3 yrows a thicker of miserable trees and undersiable shrube, quite as much weeds a« those which overrun the vegetable gar- den. Sach land oan be foond on prao- tically every one of the farms of New Eog- laud, particularly the abandoned farms, It cannot produce agricultural crops, but it can support a growth of pines. This is the subject with which this arti- cle deals, —the planting of pines without mouey cost and with little labor, and with a fotare result that, properly handled, means a wedding trousseau for your daugh- | ter, a college education for your son, and a {ed to he the firar to ran, who deerve the good protection for your own old age. Today that land is useless, —practically valueless. Seeded with pine, forty vears from now, when some son, yet to he horn, may he twenty vears of age, it may be covered with timber and worth approxi- { | mately from two hundred to two hundred and fifsy dollars an acre. This estimate of ed to be hright and attractive, yet because | value is based on the returns from pines of their high pitched, disagreeable voices | forty years old and harvested now ; while if the recent tremendous increase in time “Travelers avoid a car or a ho- | ber prices still continaes through four more tel in which there are young Awericans.”’ | decades, the returns from seeds planted at Why is this? Largely because oar chil | this time will be something enormously | greater. Is | There are scientific ways of starting a pine wood, and there are easy ways. Both | begin along the same course, the gather- jog of the seed. It takes two years for white pine seeds to grow. They must he gathered from the trees just hefore the cones open in their second year. In New England this form is from the end of Au gust to the middle of September. The small cones, about a balf-inch in length, thas are now on the trees will be the ripe cones of the ensuing year. Cones which are three or foar inches in length now will be ripe this fall. The vear 1907 was a great seed year throughout New England, and white pine seed will not be born again in any great gnantisy in that region for four years—maybe seven years. Still, in re- strioted localities they may be found. I bave seen, this past sammer, a lot of them starting their second year that will be ripe this fall. They may be growing even in your own back yard at the present mo- ment. Old single pasture pines, those with long limbs that come close to the ground, are generally the best seed-bearers and they have the greater advantage of being the easiest from which to colleot the cones. The cones can be gathered in many ways, but vo scheme works so well as a good, active boy,~your own or your neighbor's. He can gather them in a bag or throw them to the ground to he picked up. Perhaps some ne timber is being out in your distriot, ust at the ripening season. The cones can then be pioked from the trees as they fall. In short, get the cones. If yon wish to try, a way can surely he found. How many? That depends on how much seeding yon want to do. aod jose how scientifically yon want to do is and just how astive your hoy is, A bushel of closed cones will makeaimost two bushels of ripe open ones, and these will shell ont nearly three quarts of uncleaned seeds, or something over a pound of cleaned seeds. | in a dry place where mice or squirrels can- not ges them. Just now white pine seeds are worth from two dollars and fifty cents three dollars a pound. Each pound con- tains abouts twenty-five thousand seeds and this number vught to grow half as many, or twelve thousand five bundred seedlings. If you are too ‘‘tired”’ to gather these seeds, I repeat, they are worth about three dollars a pound. You can buy them. The next step is where scientific work sud easy work diverge. Soientifically, these seeds should be grown ina prepared need-hed in a corner of your garden where | they may get partial shade. It would seem that a small field of hiroh brush, properly cleared of grass and weeds, would make an ideal spot for planting, but so faras my knowledge goes it bas never been tried. Brush or other expedients may be used. A pound of seed will plant a bed fifty feet long and four feet wide. After two years in the bed the plants may be set in a trans- plant hed or taken out and set about six feetjapart in the places they are tn ocoupy. The easy way is to avoid the trouble of the prepared seved.-bed and the transplant. ing two years from now. This means two periods of energy, and we are noue of us ton energetic. Enthusiastic over a soheme today, we like to put it through today. We don’t like to start at the present mo. ment and have to take it op again two years away. The easy way, then, is to plant the seed right now just where yon want your trees so grow. You have gath- sred a hnghel of coves or yon have bought a pound of seeds. Yon have, therefore, twenty-five thousand seeds. Take a hard- wood stick a conple of feet long, sharpened a little ar one end and start ont. You are on the spot you want to plant. Sciatch the ground with the point of the stick—a little soratch, half an inch or an inch deep —and drop in two seeds; walk a couple of steps and repeat the operation, and keep it up until you are tired. If you are an old man get your noys to help you; if yon are a young man, get some other young men to help you: if von are a boy, persuade your chins to do it with you, and help your chums do the same on their farms, Two or three walking paraliel together about six feet apart will accomplish a lot, will enconrage each other and won't get tired so quickly. If youn soratoh the earth about every two steps yon will have plant- ed two seeds to every six feel. An acre is abont two hundred and six feet square. At six feet apart there would be thirty-six soratohes each way to the aore, ray forty for a liberal measure. That means six- teen hundred holes. Two seeds toa hole means thirty-two hundred seeds. You had a pound to start with twenty-five thousand seeds, and with it, therefore, yon can plant ahout seven acres, If the ground is covered with hrush or white pine, so much the better. They for- nish desirable shade. The chief danger in the planting is thar the ground may dry ont within four or five weeks, and then the seeds are liable not to germinate. Seeds put in a dry, gravelly soil that bears only a miserable grass are unsually wasted. It is best to plant in the spring, about the time vegetable seeds are planted. It is advisable to plant two seeds to every soratoh, becanse one may not come up and hecanse some holes may not show up at all; and two or three years after, when those that do come up have got their start, yon can visit this lard and transplant from the places where both seeds bave come up to the places where none bave come up. I have seen seeds lie lo the rough wastz ground for two seasons before they made their appearance. I have known seeds that were planted in the late summer to take root and come up two or three inches, only to be killed in the winter. It is best to plant in the spring. From my own experience (I have set ont a bundred thousand seedlings and planted ahont sixty acres of rough land with seeds) I am inclined to helieve that the scientific way is the best, —the only really sure-thing way, hut the easy method here outlined is the way mos: likely to be adopted, and one that the small boy can be most easily per- snaded to undertake. And it will almost surely bring results. However, the addi.’ | tional effort of the scientific method, like | all effort intelligently put forth, may be counted on for proportionate returns. The plavtiog of white pine is all thas this article bas heen intended to deal with, | bat it 18 by no means the tree exclusively | recommended. Maple and elm seeds, chestnuts avd acorns may well be gathered when they ripen. They may be stored ountdoors in winter in moist sand. Such hard-shelled forest-tree fruits as walnuts and hickory- nate must be stored outdoors in the sand in the same way, and are «aid to be really bevefited by [reezing; but my experience with chestunts and hickory-nuts is that field-mioce and squirrels bave a great fond- ness for them, and without any doubt will find them, ron off with them and pot my forty years’ anticipation ous of joins ! Much more can be told abont this sub- ject than this amatear planter knows. The Forest Service of the Department of Agri- culture at Washington is only too glad to give you all kinds of information. A greas deal of the information in shis article comes from then. Write to them, or, if you prefer, write to us, and we will help you with your problem. If you don’t want to gather your pine. cones for yourself, and want to know where to buy them, we will tell you. Ten dol- lars will buy three or four pounds. Three poands will plant, in the roogh way out- lined, twenty acres. Twenty acres, forty years from now, may well be worth four thousand Jollars Think of it! Isn't it worth while to do it for your old age or for those who may come after you? And isn’t it better yes to get your small boy todo it? Forty years seems a long time to wait to get the return from any effort, —forty days seems too long for some people, —hnt noth- ling worth accomplishing is ever socom- { Pliehed in a moment, and be wi:c builds ! for tomorrow, a far-off tomorrow. is he who really huilds.—By George W. Wilder, in the Delineator. Slips In English. It is said that a teacher at Wellesley Col. lege bas prepared for she benefit of her stn- dents the following liss of “words, phrases and expressions to be avoided:” ‘‘Guess’’ for “‘snppose’’ or *‘think.”’ “Fix? tor “‘arrange’’ or ‘“‘prepare."’ ‘‘Ride’’ and ‘‘drive” interchangeable. (Americanism. ) ‘‘Real’”” as av adverb in expressions— ji real good’ for ‘really’ or ‘‘very good,” et oetern. “Some'’ or “‘any’’ in an adverbial sense, for example: “I have studied rome’ for “somewhat;'’ “I have not studied any” for *‘at all.” ‘‘Some’’ ten days for ‘“‘about’’ ten days. Not ‘‘as I know” for “‘thas’’I know. “Storms’’ for it ‘‘rains’’ or ‘‘snows’ moderately. “Try’’ an experiment for ‘“‘make’’ an riment. ingular subject with contracted plural verb, for example: “She don’t skate well.” Plural pronoun withsingolar antecedent: Every ‘man’ or ‘woman’ do ‘‘their” duty, or if you look ‘‘anyone’’ straight in the face “they” will flinch. ‘‘Expect’’ for ‘‘suspect.”’ “First rate’’ as Ap adverb. ‘Nice’ indiscriminately, ‘‘Had'’ rather for *‘wounld’’ rather. “‘Had’’ better lor ‘‘would’’ better. “Right away’ for immediately.” *“Party’’ for *‘person.’”’ *‘Promine’’ for ‘assure.’ “Posted” for “informed.” ‘‘Post gradoate’’ for *‘graduate.”’ ‘“‘Depot’’ for ‘‘station.”’ Try *‘and’’ go for try ‘to’ go. Try ‘and’ do for trv ‘to’ do. *“Cunning’’ for “smart,” * dainty.” “Cute” for “acute.” “Fanny for “odd” or ‘‘anusual.” ‘More than’ for ‘*heyond.” Does it look “good? enough for “well” enough. The matter ‘of’ for the matter ‘‘with.” ‘Like’ I do for **as’’ I do Not *‘as good” as for not ‘so good’ as, Feel ““badly’’ for feel ‘‘had.”’ Feel “good” for feel “well.” “Between” seven for ‘among’? seven. Seldom ‘‘or’’ ever for geldom “if’’ ever or ‘seldom or pever.”’ Taste and smell **of”’ when used transi- tively. More than you think than you think. These’ kind for ‘this’ kind. “Nicely” in response to an inquiry. ‘Healthy’ for *‘wholesome.”’ Just “as soon’ for just ‘‘ae lief.” “Kind of," to indicate a moderate de- gree, ex ‘“for’’ for more Poor Old Fly. The Board of Health of New York in- forms the public that the fiy’s hody ie cov- ered with disease germs, and asks us all not to allow decaying material of any sort to accumulate near onr premises. All refuse which tends to fermentation, such as bed- ding, straw, paper waste and vegetable watter, should be disposed of or covered with lime or kerosene oil. All foods should be screened. All receptacles for garbage should be carefally covered, snd the cans cleaned or sprinkled with lime or oil. All stable manure should be kept in vault or pit, and soreened or sprinkled with lime, kerosene, or other cheap preparation. The sewage syetem should be in good order, and not exposed to flies Kerosene should he poured into the drains. Food should be covered alter a meal, and table refuse burn. ed or buried. To kill the flies in the house pyre thrum powder may be burned. If you see flies, their breeding place is near- by. It may be behind the door, under the table, or in the ouspidor. If there is not dirt, there will be no flies.—From Colliers. ——*‘I hear you're trying to invent a new style of cornet.” “Yes, I'm at work on one with a reflex action.” “What's the idea ?"’ “If I can get it working right it will hlow the head off anyhody that tries to use it. Ap Irishman went into a barber shop, and was compelled to wait a long time. When he finally climbed into a chair, the harher asked him : ‘“‘Have you a mug?" “Yes,” replied the Irishman, *‘and I want yon to shave it quick.” ——*‘Did yon ever take advantage of anyhody in a bargain ?" ‘Not of recent years,” answered Mr. Cnmrox. ‘You see, we've been livin’ eo much in great capitals of Europe that I've got sort of accustomed to hein’ the feiier that pags up without askin’ questions.” —‘T'}l bet this in his first visit toa summer resort,” “Why?'’ ‘“‘He’s wearing duck trousers. Summer resort tenderfees always do thas.”
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers