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.”