EE ess — Bellefonte, Pa., July 2. 1909. “PROVE IT, YOU Two little birds in the wild wood were calling, Calling the long day through, While the sun gleams, and as evening is fall, ing, Dowered with dusk and dew. One little bird earols forth to the other : “1 bike you ; I like you,” All through the day, and when nature's mild mother Brings us the dusk and dew. And from the jother comes back the defiance: “Prove it, you ; prove it, you,” While the sun gleams, and when there is | €¥ affiance Between the dusk and dew, Hark | how we men shout these words to our brother : “J love you ; I love you ;" Bhout them unceasingly, one to the other, In the crowd, or the few, Clear [through the din of our wars and our floutings Comes the voice from God's blue : “Perish the love you proclaim in your shoutings— Prove it, you ! prove it, you I" —P. M. MacDonald. A RURAL TELEPHONE. The great clock ticked with lond insist- ence in the immaculate room. bad to be immaculate where Mrs. Daore was. The sunlight sifting through bare branches gilded the brown shadows of the walls ceiled in old pine, and now the color of the dead leaves whirling withous. The bed was of snowy whiteness, and the old woman propped on the pillows was whiter et **There, mother dear,” said Nancy. ‘‘It’s all apple-pie. And I'll go to work. There's er'ble i'ning to do out there. Bas if ny one comes in, you're as neat as a pin a8 pretty as a pink.” ‘My! There no need of any one’s comin’ in, sence: we gos the phone. Jes’ give it here, Nancy, and I’m content.” The telephone was at the head of the bed. It was a recent acquisition in the little community, and regarded as a de- lightful toy whioh one could not play too much, The daoghter took down the receiver and laid it on the pillow by ber mother’s ear. ‘‘Isnppose it’s all right,’ she said besitatiogly, ae she bad said before. “Ol course is is!"’ was the swils reply. “If any one finde lault with a bedridden old woman for tryin’ to keep along with the world, they can! Why, the satisfaction I've bad out o’ this sence we pus itin passes all I conld git out o’ sewin’-circle an’ penis meetin’ pus together!” “I don’t believe any one oares if you do use it,”’ Nanoy said, comforting her con- science “Only old Mis’ Mooroe. An’ she ses to Mis’ Plamer—I heern ber .myself— ‘I can’s talk any more now,’ ses she. ‘Old Mise’ Dacre’s listenin’,’ ses she. ‘I ain’, either!’ sea I, real sharp.” “Why, mother!" “Well, I wa'n’t. I bad the bandle down, because I can’t stan’ the ringin’ olost to my ear, it’s so sudding. An’, too, I wanted to bear if Aon Mari’ Speer 'd sold ber chickings for enough to buy her m-color dress. It'll set off her skin ely. Why shouldo’s 1? Ann Mari’ 'd tell me bersell. Faot is, Nancy, it’s likea continnered story in the papers, I'm reely ourue to know if Almedy Bent’s goin’ to out her skirt bell-sbape or gored. Gored 'd fis her figger best. Thie Fo ain’s jes’ right, Nancy. There—that's it. Moree was callin’ up Mis’ Morse—he wae $0 West Centre. Didn’s git her, fuss call. Seems be couldn’s raize bus a dollar and a ball for his apples, an’ won’s sell. So I we'd hester k our'n for ome seventy-five. If some epile, they'll more’'n everage up.’’ “The ground wae covered with a hoar frost this moruin’—it looked beautiful on she brown grass.”’ “Means a thaw. Have the suller win- ders opened then, When Danny comes round wouldn’t you better send a basket- ful to Mis’ Ruggles? Them won’s spile. I never could see why everyboday don’t bev an apple tree as much as a back door. They're motherly oreeturs with their broodin’ boughe. It makes me feel dretful bad to think of Jobnny runnin’ off to sea an’ forsakin’ Ann Mari’. It's mos’ broke Mis’ Ruggles down. Don't you forgit about sendin’ the apples, Nancy. I declare to man, I do’no’ w’at we done afore we bed the rural telephone. It’s bette:'n rural free delivery; for that comes now an’ then, but this comes all the time. I nseter lie here like a dead tree—nothin’ stirrin’ but the pend’lum of the clock tickin’ off my days like a sentence of death. An’ now I'm all alive an’ full o' the life of folks. I don’s need to see 'em the way I did when she days was so long. An’ w'en a 3 come is Hive got owt tell em. ow the days ain’s long enough. There was a whir, sudden as the chal- lenge of a rattlesnake, and the receiver wae at Mrs. Daocre's ear. ‘‘Tot, tat !'’ she said. “It’s ouly Mis’ Monroe a-tellin’ Mamy to wear her rubbers. Them sort o’ no-account make me disappointed as I be when I'm readin’ the it there ain't anybody I know in the deaths an’ mar. riages. There ! you won’t never git to your work. I'm reel comf’able. Comf’able as I can be, I cal’klate. It doesseem ome 0’ the mysteries, when I useter be head of everythin’ here, that I can’s eet foot to the war you conld, mother dear, if you “Nancy ! You go right about your work! 1f that’s all the sym I gis—"' ter ? And Nancy eed her mother and was gone. “Ob, you pretty flower!" eaid Mrs, Dacre—when the door was closed. But what she bad said was quite true; Mrs. Dacre was a personage in the settie- A pative desire to rule had made it impossible for her not to meddle. She was pever too tired to wake in the night and walk a couple of miles to a siok-bed. Few were born in the without ber help ; few died tbat she did not close their eyes. She bad sprung from eli stone to slippery siaue, évvesing the the ice up ; she gous Wisrdugh the hills in driving snow w! many a shep- berd lost the way ud Ah Sutil Hite niogs never held back on of mercy. She could bardly have sold you if they were errands of mercy or of desire to bea part of all that was on. She was the confidante of the ; they life and left her boy among them. Dacre never forgot the illumination that kindled in those eyes of hers at the moment she understood there was only an boar or two more to live and the opening gates showed ber the way to freedom. And Nanoy ! It was making the nest of a silver dove out of the common mud. The Dacres were poor, land-poor still ; but they were settlers, the first Friston, the aristocrats of the region. y always held their heads high. And now to have bim—‘‘Why, when he was a boy he uster come for our skim milk !"’ she oried. “He don’t now,” said Nancy. ‘‘And all them are dead and gone. And he’s sold the Hollow, an’ got a place on the hill, an’ for it, an’ don’t scant on anythin’.”’ *‘Reg'lar driver. Bus be ain’t a goin’ to drive my N to her death.” “‘Mother ! He loves me !"’ “Call-love said the old woman, wrath- fully adjusting the pillows herself. ‘‘He'll love a good many girls yes.” “Never, never, mother! And you'll brane his heart, aid who BO ‘ ‘I ain't nosym y early loves an’ heart-breaks. As if there wa'n’s nothin’ else in the world bat keepin’ com- y ! Your beart ain’s so brittle. He oves himeell. That's who! And it’d be a great lift to him to git into our fam’bly. My brick’s gittin’ cold, Nancy. My [feet are like the clode of the valley. Marry ! How can you marry anybody, 'ith me on your ban’s I" “He'd help. He'd be a reel son to you,” sobbed Nancy, as she bent to fi the brick. “I've got a daughter. I don't want no sons of the Manley sort—always nine o'clock with them till it’s ten! And I ain’t one o’ them that whiffles about, Nancy. Iain’s willin’ to bave him come in here an’ master me, and I ain’ goin’ to be took care of in any house o’ his’n. An’ there it is I"” And the paler and thinner and sadder N looked, as she went about her tasks, fiercer the old woman w with the sense of her res bility or it. Bat thas her child should conde- scend from the high estate ofa Daore to that of the Black leys, the low-browed, beggarly crew—it was not tobe thought of ! 3 “Is’s no use, Saul,” said Nanoy, when ber lover came to the foot of the garden, one night of the last spring. ‘I can’t leave mother.” *I don’t ask you to leave her ! Dear,my dear, I'd make her more comfortable than she ever dreamed.” Nanoy was crying softly, hiding her face in his arm. ““There, there !"’ be eaid, as one might soothe a child, and laying his face on her soft hair. ‘‘We're better off than some, for we've got each other. If we never marry, I'll be faithful to you, Nancy, till the day I die and after.” “Oh, ob, I don’t want to kee you bound, and out off from a home —and “J am bound ! There's nothing in the world can undo thas. I'm yours, single or married, and into the other life. And if there's no marryin’ nor givin’ in marriage there, there’s no divorcing, neither!" The freshness of upturned furrows came on she breath of the op prag L rain, e fragrance e blos- some streamed round them in long walte as they stood there hidden by the mists of the kindly night; and full of the invincible spirit of youth that feels its immortality, the earth was beautiful and lite was sweet even in their trouble. Tomorrow—well, tomorrow the roses might be in bloom. And Nano, thought of ber lover, and trusting to time for her mother, a shade of sadness clonding the happiness and giving her a pathetic sweetness that the heart of everyone bat her mother—her mother who adored her, but would nos have les her know is for anything under heaven. us indeed all the village regarded the girl tenderly. Anna Speer wanted her father, when he honght ber a new print, to buy another for Nancy. Mis. Bent told ber mother that it saziiing happened to her she would take Nancy for her own. “There's nothing goin’ to happen,’ said Mrs. Dacre, with sublime confidence. The child took every one’s affection for granted; a rosy, darl thing, her head sunning over with ourle, her smile always kind- ling, b ting kisses always oo “E a while she went ¢ Deacon | all I”? tour of the village. “I'm glad I come to dinner bere,’ sb , where and greens made the . *‘I sorrow for you,’ she said, where some illness was. “Ev’y- body wavs me ve'y much, and I wav ev’y- body,” she declared elsewhere. And every- body did; from the time she took off ber own shoes to give them to a child who bad none, $ill long after she bad turned up ber lovely leoks, body felt an ownership in her and her affections. ‘I can’t think wy people are so good to me,” Nancy once “Why shouldn’s they be?” said her mothe:. ‘‘Ain’t you John Dacre’s dangh- ’ John Dacre’s daughter! Al h Nanoy felt ber mother a pars of the walls of the world, it was ber father, in his always sub- dued and quiet mood, toward whom her heart yearned. ways been a Dacre herself, hishougy she bad so completely identified her hushand’s amily thas she had half for- gotten the fact. ere wae a time when she was a mnoh humbler person, a hand- ber bread with carding and spinning from house to bouse. Strange say, every one else seemed to bave forgotten Shas, too, with such foroe and assurance had she taken hold of life when she became John Dacre’s wife. And Jobn Dacre bad not been the only man who cated for het. Toews bail iron dark reckless young scamp w e her feel his power. She bad seen him shoot ssestibiam feiag ia Sho Inks Jot & man—ales ! name Manley. stayed hall bappy in the | M brook, sod Siigp pebbles there; be lean- | 'Tain’t nat’ral for you to talk about ed over the with ber, and each was 44 to the other a part of the magical beauty | *“Ido’no’. Wal, anyways—Mis’ Dacre, when twilight veils the 247 450 abe stars | the folks is all mad as boroets at your tap- tremble out. He followed on the | pin’ the phone so.” high pastures knee-deep in Ta rarer “They be!” fern and baybetsy, and into the green sba-| ‘Yes. They found out ’twas you—{fust, dows of the . Once, through a gap of | because thin's thas sot "em all by the ears crowding trees she saw the red flame of the | come from you direct. An’ nex’, becanee sunset repeated and flashing in Aleck Man- | they could hear a big clock tickin’ away leF's ayes; Yul vac, that once, hie arms | like an ingine, an’ you're the only ove were t ber, and bis lips were on hers, | that’s got a gran’sher’s olook—"" and in that moment she comprehended all | ** was tappin’ then.” the sweetnese, ali the honeyed richoese, of | ‘‘An’ they're a-talkin’ of goin’ down to life—and in the next she broke away and | beadquarters an’ bev is put a stop to—"’ ran; she had ball plighted faith with Jobo | Mrs. Dacre sat vp straight—sbe bad not Dacre, and Jobo was a comfortable | done such a thing in months. ‘‘Me!"” she man, She always bated the eight of that | said. ‘‘Pust astop to!” Her great eyes wood ; she closed the window of ber room | were like s wild creature’s. ‘‘Mis’ Rog- gles,” sbe said, ‘‘do you mean to say that any of my neighbors grodge me— shut in from meetin’ an’ from prayer-meetin’ as I be—gittin’ what plaisure I can ont o’ this telephone?’ She stopped a moment, as if in review. ‘“Why,” she said then, “they've allus come to me with everythin’ all their lives, or sent for me to come to them, an’ told me all their worriments, An’ why sbouldn’s I have it this way, now when I can’t go out? I vow to man—"" “I'm only speakin’ to save you tronble, Mis’ Dacre.” said Mrs. Ruggles, laying the witoh-hazel aside, as one making ready for a fray. “I come over a-purpose, at con- sider’ble pains. I bave a lot to do, now Johnny's gone, and I mos’ broke my back choppin’ kindlin’s, til Sanl Manley see me, an’ come in the goodness o’ his heart an’ sawed an’ split all my winter's wood, free gift. I thought you'd orter know.” “You're all right, Mis’ Roggles. But it's cruelty! That's whas it is! It's small business to crowd an old woman this way. And then, t00,”’ she said, in a calmer tone, “it’s mighty hard besides—for Mis’ Mon- roe's be’n tellin’ Mis’ Plumer a story she’s be’n readin’ in some story paper, asl gather, and it’s jest at the moss interestin’ p'int—"" “Do tell | What'a it all about ?"’ “Lemme see. Why, it's about a gel, a young gel—she warn's a beauty, you know, but there was sunthin’ to ber— maybe like you an’ me, when we was yonog, don’s yon see—"’ “No, I don’s !"’ said the other, with em- phasis. “‘Cap’'n Ruggles allus eaid I wasa beanty.”’ “80. Every eye makes its own, ye know. And there's some thinks faculty’s better’n any show o’ good looks. John Darce did. Anyways, this young gel—they ain’t call ed her by name—had faculty, an’ bad that, whatever it is, that makes folks ses by ber. Folks was fond on her—the minister, the deacon, the doctor—there was nobody that wa’'n’s. And of course there was some one waoted to marry ber, she him. A fine fel. ler, ban’some, sober, forebanded, 'most a church member. An’ the course 0’ true love, you know, never did run smooth ; an’ there was an old woman in the fam’bly es’ pus ber foot down an’ forbid the bans. ere wa'n’t no reason why ; butsbe did. An’ she kerried ber p’int. An’ they said ‘twas jes’ like them thin'’s in outlandish storiee—an old vampire gittin’ the gel’s life-blood—an’ then somebody out the phone off, an’ the last thin’ they said wae that the gel wae goin’ in a gallopin’ con- sumption. An’ there ain’t acure known for gallopin’ consumption ! My Lord, Mie’ Ruoggles, what if is 'd be’'n my Nancy !"”’ And suddenly Mrs. Dacre stopped, her eyes, that been welling with tears, shedding them like pearls as they opened wider and wider. Sbe olapped ber baud over ber mouth. “What is it, Mis’ Dacre! My grief, what is is!” For a moment Mre. Dacre did not speak. She was staring into vacancy ae if she caw somesning horrible there. And then fell miserable Manleye. burned out of ber in that one fiery mo- ment. She was a good wife; she took faith- ful care of John Dacre, with an aggressive loyalty, standing somewhat in awe of the silent man: but pot till her little Navey came did she ever forget herself in another. The ohild appeared to her like a wonderful white flower blossoming out of the dead. ness of ber inner life. Her child and Jobn Dacre’s—she was a miracle! Her innocence, her exquisite infantile delicacy, were a ual marvel; the universe bad come to 1te perfection in Navcy. When she saw the wind stirring the fine fair bair, and the blue eyes mirroring heaven, she felt this was the Jp of beauty. In ber long cloak the child in her arme, she went into the green woods as if to teach ber the spell of weaving branches; she dipped ber in the brook, and she sparkle of the waters on the little rosy limbs seemed tbe radiance of some young sogelic creature; you would bave mes her down any lane when the wild roses were in bloom, as if the loveliness of the earth were her darling’s only fit com- panion. Then, living in tbe cbild, worship- ping ber, she began to love the children of others; and loving the children, their fath- ers and mothers grew dear, and #0 nt- ly she ruled and mastered the small com- munity through serving them. When she went out as night to watch by some sick- bed, the child was under her cloak, cradled by and by on a pillow, but there as il she were a of the healing forces. And in the bright dawning it seemed to the moth- er as if cure lay in the sight of that sweet countenance. Wars crached over the land; it did not signify. The great elements were barn ; is did not signily. John Daore died; is—did not signify. So long as there was Nancy the world rolled on serenely; there was need of nothing else. Nanoy’s going out of the house sent sha- dow into every room; sunshine came with her returning. The hours when she ber. self was away from Nancy seemed time loss out of life; ehe looked forward to being at home with her again as to some festival. All the passion, all the fire, of her power- ful nature wrapped the child. She thought —until she was sried—that abe would have given Nancy ber heart’s blood. She had a certain fierce protecting instinos of the wild creature for ite whelp; she felt that she could never die while Nanoy needed ber. She wondered what the ohild’s dreame were about; she was jealous of the young wom- sn’s thoughte—tranquil thoughts they were, for Nancy was a e. When Nanoy ped the church, it seemed unnecessary ; ancy bad been horn perfect. When som- mer days were long and fice, they seemed the promise of long, fine life to Nancy; and when great winter storms were raging, the mother lay in a Stausport of content, shut in with ber sleeping Nanoy. back on ber pillow, gasping. ‘‘My Nancy!" The bitterness of it, then, when from this | she was whispering to herself. ‘‘My Nan- depth of satislaction she woke to the fact | oy I" that Nancy loved some one other than her- | ‘Where's the camphire ?"’ cried Mrs. gelf--and that other a Manley ! Ina day, | Ruggles. Bus the oid woman pushed ber an hour, she grew old. Her sins bad found | aside when she brought it. her out, the sin of she world bad come to| ‘‘You’ll find a pair o’ shoes in that clos- her door and was visited on her head. The | et,’’ she “hirgess] esently. An’ some blush branded her face so thas the stain re- | etockin’s in the left-ban’ corner of the mained. The son of Aleck Manley ! She | lower drawer 0’ the chiss. Fetob ’em bere remembered that man’s love, bis kiss, as a | —quick as winkin’—any on ’em! An’ orime she bad committed. That his son | now, if you'll give me a belpin’ ban’, I'll should love Nancy was profanation, was | see what I can do, the Lord belpin’, too.” sacrilege !| Had Nancy been overtaken by | And presently Mrs. Dacre wae sitting on any Sabgarons illness, although is tore ber | the side of the bed, witha foot on the heart, she would have given her bitser | ground. “Do you ¢' 1 can walk acroet medicine. She must have bitter medicine | the floor ?*’ she asked. now. . “I o’pose you oan do most anythin’ you So, Saul being forhidden the borders, | eet out to do,’’ answered the obedient rs. Dacre contrived work enough for | Phoebe. Nancy 10 keep her bande and ber thoughte | *‘I guess some folks ’}l be surprised,” fall her waking bours. Bus sbe |eaid Mre. Dacre, drawing in her breath, could nos binder Nancy's dreams at nighs, | and giogerly following ove foot with the and hn is was their sweetness thas | other. ‘‘There!” she exclaimed, trinm- ve her every morning the soft flush on | pbaotly, as, grasping the bedpost, she cheek, the brightness of the beaming |etood up. ‘‘When I was a baby and could eye, the tender smile abous the lips, until | pull myself up by a cheer, I walked off. I Shey faded into the light of common day, | wouldn't wonder if I could do it again !"’ the patient look of endurance that | And slightly tostering, bus imperionsly came in their place. waving Mrs. Roggies away, she croseed the “You ain’s eatin’ enough, Nancy,” ber [room to the big chest of drawers, and mother said. found the various Same she wanted. * ain’ much appetite.” ‘‘You jest toss that together, Phebe, “That's no matter,” said the indomi- | if you wanter belp,”” she said. ‘‘There table old spirit. *‘You eat! You'll git she | she exclaimed at last. ‘‘I guess I kin da good of is whether you wans it or not. You | without the phone. You tell the folks, bad the combs fetched in? Honey’s fust- | Phebe. A man in the house makes a con- rate for you. Who took 'em? You?" sider’ble diffrunce. Now’’' she said, re- “Saul took them, mather.” tracing ber steps, ‘‘I'm clothed, and in ‘OD you pay him?" my right mind. Bat Ido feel wobbly. ‘Pay Sanl!” Where's the phone? Central ! Gimme 9— ““Thas honey 'd orter make yon sick! Ob, | 0—9, riog three. I want the Elder.” me, me, there ain’t a trouble sharper 'n an | ‘‘Mother ! Mother I’ oried Navey, run- ongrateful child gives ye!” But just then | ning in, breathlessly, her flat-iron holder the telephone bell tinkled, and Mrs, | in a. “Oh, what bas happened ! Get Dacre surmounted her own trouble tem- ht back into bed ! Ob, mother dear, do! porarily in her lively interest in the affairs , you ain’ a-goin’ to die!” And she of others, threw ber arme around the recent invalid It was late that afternoon that Mrs. Rug- | in a resisting terror. gles passed the window and came in. She| ‘‘Die? Nonsense, Navcy ! Die! I'm as bad a branch of witch-bazel, strung with | well as ever I was in my life. I've bad a its threads of bloom, in ber band. *‘I| beautiful ress. Where's your cambrio thought I'd fetoh is over,” she said, ‘‘jest | dress?” 'a a token that enmmer ain't ali gone. 1| ‘‘My—what—which one ?"’ asked Nan- mind you like the nat’ral thin’s. Somehow | oy, not knowing what she aid, and trem- I feel when this blows shat it’s a sign the bling se if before some catastrophe. Lord's lookin’ ous for ue still, as muohas| ** one? The onl The one I stood up in with your father an’ when the bow was set in heaven. Ain’ that so, Mis’ Dacre? I take it as a promise | made over for you ! Pus is on guick—bere's o' flowers.” Mis’ Raggles ’1l hook it up. There ain't “Is's most excellent for a bruise,” said | a-goin’ to be any gallopin’ consumption in Mrs. Dacre. *‘I was jes’ tellin’ Mis’ Bens | this house ! I'm callin’ the Elder to fetch to get the flowers an’ make a poultice for | Sanl Manley here, ous o’ band. What for ? Tom's hurt—"' Dons you see I've E08 silk wod m3 [0 4) 9 — 9, m a-goin’ to a wi y w ‘Wy, I didn’t know— How's you a ea, the ol ephooe i» m_By Hi ot “They phoned for Dr. Bly. But he'd | Eres0ott Spoftord, in Harper's Monthly gone down to Salt Water. So I told her Magazine. i She was obleeged an’ thank- ——Do you know that you can get the finest, oranges, baoanas and grape fruit, and pine apples, Sechler & Co. —Do you know where to get the finest caoned goods and dried fruits, Sechler & Co. —D0o you know where to get the finest teas, coffees and spices, Seohler & Co. Subscribe for the WATCHMAN. “Make it a whole one, knowed you hed sunthin’ on your mind. nN FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. DAILY THOUGHT. I wrote down my troubles every day; And after a few short years. When 1 turned to the heartaches passed away, 1 read them with smiles—not tears, ~John Boyle O'Reilly FOR A CEILDREN'S PORCH PICNIC. Freoch Dressing. Lemow Relish. Filled Biscuit Sandwicbes. Summer Swand-by. Cherry nectar. PRADPM POND LILY SALAD, WITH FRENCH DRESS- ING. Pood-lily Salad, with French dressing. The whites of several bard-boiled eggs Toto peat, lengthwise pieces out; ( Aboant eight to each white will d To make a flower balf shat.) 0 Arrange them on nasturtiom leaves To form pond-lily petals; Next grate the yolke and add to them, Before the mixture settles. Chopped olives and chopped celery, too, Seasoned until joss right, And pile the mass ip little mounds Io the central ‘‘petals’’ white. Then, just before the ealad is serv Place is upon cracked ice, To look just like the water "Neath the lily-pad device. FRENCH DRESSING. Three tablespoons of salad oil, Ouoe ball teaspoon of sais, Together blend so thoroughly That none can find faults. FILLED BISCUIT SANDWICHES. ed Take rolls, which you must see are fresh, Small, with a tender, crispy crust; The grabams round or biscuit raised Are easy to adjuet. Remove from tops a piece of orust, About a silver-dollar size, Scoop out with a blunt kuile or spoon The part that in the center lies. Butter the inside of the shells, Spreading a little round the walls, And fill with bot creamed salmon, If the day for creamy, hot thing 3 calle. Or, if you 'd rather bave them cool, Fill with well-seasoned, well-chopped “meat,” Fish, crab, or fruit; replace the lid, And pass in wicker basket neat. Youn ’ll find that dainties such as Are almost always sure to please. SUMMER STAND-BY. Whip up one pint of double cream With white of egg till stiff, — (The egg adds bulk and stiffens, 00) ; Of sugar add a whiff. Have ready Eoglish walnuts Which are rather finely ground, A dozen dates, ball dozen fige In pieces, fine, cut round. Three shakes of pepper next stir in ; 11 sugar is preferred, Omit the pepper, and instead Let “‘sugar shakes’’ be stirred. Half tablespoon of vinegar Or lemon-jaice next add ; And when they're all together mixed This dressing is not bad. LEMON RELISH. Select some good-sized lemons sour, And trim for each a ‘‘base,” So as tc make each separate fruit “Stand up’ and keep ite place. Cut next a piece from off each top, Then scoop the inside ous ; Fill with sardines and olives, too Chopped up and stirred about, With good French dressing, unto Some celery seasoning add ; whiob Garnish with watercress and serve, And all your guests make glad. Stir them into the well-whipped cream, Pat into mold, and cover tight, Packing in pail, with ice and salt As for ice-cream’s delight. Let stand for nearly five long hours, When you will surely find This quantity eight guests will serve And be just to their mied. Since this desert of many kinds O! flavors is a blend, Some neutral-flavored waferette Its service should attend. CHERRY NECTAR. Two quarts of stemmed red cherries In three oups of vinegar stand For three or four whole days at least, Then strain through cloth by hand. To every pint of liquid tart, Add pins of sugar $00 ; Boil twenty minutes, bottle tight, — And you've a ‘temperance brew.” This neotar, well diluted, pour In glasses of cracked ice ; Upon a warm or sultry day Refreshing 8 is, and nice. ~By Charlotte Brewster Jordan, Hi 2 : | in St § e : E i 2 : i i : : i : Bik is3ig jaf fil isc 8 A : £3: 7; Li gg : 1 Pg FARM NOTES. —Too much cayenne pepper is said to canse liver trouble among poultry. ~It is very bard on a prompt borse to be obliged to work with a lazy one. ~A lamp of rock salt should be kept in Jus manger of every animal of the horse kind. —In matching up the work teams mate them in size, weight and disposition as nearly as possible. ~When lambs are about four months old, i! intended for early markes, they should be pushed strongly on feed. —Sheep will damage orchards when the trees are small both by rubbing against them and by eating the tender bark. ~=No class of live stock requires good fresh air and ventilated houses more than sheep to keep them perfectly healthy. —A% arule most live stock do better wien the grain fed to them is ground, but sheep will do as well when fed whole grain. —Jt is just as important to water the colts regularly every day as to feed regu- larly in order to keep them in thrifty con- dition. —Lime is a stimalant fertilizer, Il the soil is sour an application sweetens it; if too heavy, lightens it; if too light, renders it more compact. —Corn silage in limited gnantity may be fed to sheep, but not in a large quantity. Yearling lambs whep shedding their first teeth will not fatten rapidly on that ao- count. —As a rule, a load of manure made of nitrogenous foods, if all the solids and fluids are properly saved and applied, is worth foar loads of the ordinary farm ma- pare that bas lain ous of doors all winter. —Don't compel bogs to go a long dis- tance for water when the heat waves shim- mer aud !dance in the distance. Fresh water at all times is a matter of vital im- portance; and the slop should be fed every day as made, and not be allowed wo rot in the swill barrel. —Cabbage plants thrive well under fre- quent cultivation. The cabbageis a gross feeder and too much manure cannot be ap- plied. Should the plants be backward in growth apply a tablespoonful of nitrate of sods around each, scattering it over an area o one Square foot and working it well into the soil. —In breeding profitable horses care should be taken to select animals known to possess desirable qualities. Vicious mares should not be bred. Every year bad dispositioned horses send quite a number of perons to premature graves and cripple others, while the material damage they do is quite considerable. —An aore in thie country contains 43,- 560 equare feet, or 160 square rods. A tch 69 yarde, 5 inches wide and 70 yards ong is practically an acre of ground. It is far better to see just bow much can be raised on an acre than to follow the old plan of showing just how many acres one is able to plant and partially rr. The one-acre orop is in line with high-class diversified farming. -=For batching alwaye select the best shaped and largess eggs from the best lay- ers. Buy theegue from poultry raisers who are reliable and when you stars in re- member thas the chickens to do well muss be made to feel comfortable. This they cannot do if covered with mites and lice. The sarroundings should be kept scrupu- lonsly clean and suitable food should be Jrovided. Hens need gravel, lime, bones, is lean meat as well as grain and green stufls. ~The value of sulphate of ammonia as a fertilizer was demonstrated in some Ger- man tests where mash lands were fertilized with nitrate of roda and sulphate of am- monia. With both oats and heets the plants receiving sulpbate yielded much more than those receiving nDpitrate. These results indicate that on marsh lands a liberal supply of lime, sulpbate of am- monia may be advantageously substituted for nitrate of soda and confirme the wisdom of the practice common in Germany. —Fertilizers may be divided into two general olasses—direct and indireos, or nutritive and stimulant. A direct or nu- tritive fertilizer is ome which furnishes nourishment to the growing crop. Nour ishment means simply nitrogen, phos- phoric acid and potas. These are the three ingredients which muses be renewed through the mediom of manures and fersil- izers. A etimulans of indirect fertilizers ia one which does not furnish an actual lant food to the soil, but by its stimulat- action renders available some plant food which previously existed in the soil in an insoluble or unavailable condition. —The best investment a beginner in the sheep business can make is to buy good etook and the worst thing he oan do is to gab poot stofl because itis cheap. The sheep one has the more pride he will take in keeping them up to the standard. He feels thas he cannot afford to les them run down and generally if he is a progres- sive man he does not. If you have a pret- ty rood flock make is better by purchasing a purebred ram for a foundation. You will ind about all breeds ted in our advertising columns and if youdon's ste | ha you want an ve gladly pus you next to & . tion. The old statement that the ram is cally and with a definite purpose in view. The men who have succeeded are those who bave followed this plan. This idea holds in feeding as much ae in breed- jug fo 4 15s the sin who bua sw Tr. or stock a superior price w! ey are ready to go to market. ——Do you know we have the old style sugar syrups, pure goods at 40 cents and 60 cents per gallon, Seobler & Co. The growing child has to be doubly houtishied ones for tha ordinary needs of : ££ ¥ i g g "iii Eesspsst | £ ie id i i } i
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers