oneal. , Pa., November 24, 1911. | THANKSGIVING. For the sunshine and the rain, For the dew and for the shower, For the yellow, ripened grain, And the golden harvest hour. ; We bless Thee, oh, our God! “For the heat and the shade, For the gladness and the grief, For the tender, sprouting blade, And for the nodding sheaf, We bless Thee, oh, our God! “For the hope and for the fear, t For the storm and for the peace, For the trembling and the cheer, And for the glad increase, We bless Thee, oh, our God! “Our hands have tilled the sod, And the torpid seed have sown: But the quickening was of God, And the praise be His alone. We bless Thee, oh, our God!” i i THANKSGIVING. i i The little world of St. Stephens was | like an apiary in swarming time; the various dormitories grouped irregularly | about the broad green quadrangle buzzed | and hummed like so many hives with (to i paraphrase a little) the murmur of in- numerable boys. Boys were continually | pouring in and out of doors, scurrying busily—often with arms laden—from one | dormi to another. Boys were con-' tinually flinging up window sashes to lean | far out and call to dormitory or quad- | rangle at the top of their lungs. The air | rang with shouted question and answer, | with shrilling thrust and piercing repar- | tee. John Norman Selfridge, Jr., tried to enjoy it all, endeavored with a kind of | valiant dispair to hurl himself body and Spicit into the seething jubilation about m. But he found it difficult, because, as a matter of fact, vicarious hopoiness | always is difficult, and he felt that he had no actual, licensed share in the mad carnival about him. These were actors; he was only a spectator. The school was going home for Thanksgiving, he alone | was to stay. This was doubly hard because it awak- ened him for the first time to a philo- | sophical consideration, because it brought | him to the tragic realization that he had | no home to go to. That his father was a prize fighter had never distressed him. His father’s profesion had been to him simply a profession, and his father him- self much like other men—except, of course—much better. Now he felt, not exactly a mistake, but rather a want in his father's scheme of things. To his clear, straightforward intelligence this business of a home made direct appeal. He made up his mind that he would speak to him about it; perhaps somehow they could work it out between them. In all his twelve years he had never been un- reasoningly denied anything, and now he | felt he had discovered a lack, which eve instinct he cried out to have supplied. Yes, certainly he would speak of it. Per- haps he would not even wait for the op- | portunity, but would first broach the mat- ter in writing. Letter writing was one of the many new habits he had formed at St. Stephens. Before his life there began he and his father had been inseparable. They had | boxed and trained together, they had | walked and talked together, they had even roomed together at the various hotels and farmhouses which had shelter- ed their mutual existence. It was only the father's pride in the position his son! was taking at St. Stephens that made the | situation possible, and even pleasant, for | both of them. The newly acqui of letter writing had grown naturally enouy, Twice a week he heard from his father; twice a week he wrote to him. It was a virile correspondence, full of male doings and male thoughts, with an | easy understanding that all the life of each | was of vital importance of the other. His father’s letters came from a grea: distance now, a surprising distance for | “Kid Mack” (as the world knew him) had announced his retirement from the | ring, and it was only an irresistibly large | purse which had drawn him from his Smiry and his determination to Austra. | t except the correspondence hac Pren uninteran: : ed. In the midst of the tumult about him, | Jack wondered if a letter, broaching this idea of a home, would have time to reach hir father. The door was flung violently open, and Clem Robbins, his roommate, his arms | heaped with miscellaneous clothing, burst | in upen him. t “Pretty state of affairs,” said Clem, “when a fellow has to retrieve his purple and fine linen from all over the school. There must be something about my clothes | people like. I'm a pair of shoes shy even | yet. Lovely fixings? Hey, what?” ! He pulled 2a somewhat rumpled dress shirt from the tumbled heap, and held it up before him. "Some class to that, Jack,” he said. “I guess I'll be ‘clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful,’ when I get that on.” : Jack tried to smile, but did not make | much of a success of it. | “Anything the matter?” asked Clem, in | { { immediate pathy. i Jack ihe og head. There was an! unexpected lump in his throat which he’ felt ashamed of. A great light came over his roommate. | He dropped the things in his arms and | his theatric style at the same moment, | and came over and put his hand on Jack's shoulder. t “I suppose,” he said, "I'm the most brainless fool alive. It's hard to believe, but it never occurred to me until this moment.” Jack swallowed the lump in his throat | with all the heroic manliness of twelve years. He even essayed mirth. i “I don’t believe it vet, Clem,” he said. But Clem was not to be diverted. "I don’t mean about my being a fool, as you know very weil. in and about your Thanksgiving. our father's in Australia, isn't he? i Jack nodded. “That means, of course, that you can't | have dinner with , and | ing i that means, I suppose, that you, Jack Sel- ' fridge, are going to stay right here in school and eat your turkey with Mr. and Mrs. Dum-dum? Oh, Jack, such an idea never entered my head.” “I think it was very nice of Mr. and’ Mrs. Dumfries to have asked me.” Jack threw his shoulders back with a confi- | dence he did not feel. “I'll have a bully | time.” Clem snorted, and fell back upon the | classics: ' progress of Jack | Jack as the . school; | guest, “Double, double, toil and trouble, Fire burn, and caldron bubble— That's the Thanksgiving dinner here hoon Finch ly The idea is too horrid to contemplate.” : “To what?" Jack asked, stirred even in his trouble by his lasting envy and won- der of his roommate's marvelous vocab- , ulary. “Contemplate, consider, think about.” Both of them were interested gloom onl suggestion, Clem turned again to his packing, but his hilarity was gone, even | his capacity for quotation deserted him. An ti hour wore spite of the frequent interruptions of "Oh, you Clem ins,” or "Oh, Jack Sel- fridge,” from the quadrangle without, which necessitated leaning out of the window for a shouted conversation with | some excited friend or other, some exhilaration. All through his packing Clem kept mut- tering invective to himself, invective against fate, his own thoughtlessness and his roommate's unhappy lot. And Jack presisted in whisteling little, inharmoni- ous attempts at tunes with determinned gayety. It was a relief to both when Mike, the historic expressman, thrust the red effulgence of his smiling face in at the door, dangled a great ring of checks, made his historic joke about an | elephant and a irunk, and stalked away with Clem’s luggage. It was a relief be- cause it meant the beginning of the end. Clem slapped his hat on the back of his head, threw his overcoat over his arm, and wrung his roommate’s hand. Neither boy said anything, but they turned with one and made their way down- stairs to join the shouting mob in the quadrangle. It was Wednesday, and the school was not coming back until the fol- lowing Monday, and the school appreciat- ed the fact. Boys were beating one another on the back and shouting unanswered questions, scrambling into the stages, and calling to their chosen intimates to take places be- side them, or scrambling out again to change to places of greater imagined de- sirability. And through the mass, like uncertain generals at a harrying, the masters were pushing here and there, rtriving to bring order out of chaos, and sealizing that, for the day at least, their authority was but the ghost of its cus- tomary omnipotence. At last the stages were filled, however, and one by one they lumbered away to the cracking of whips, and the many-noted cheering of their burden. Jack found himself staring after them with Mr. Dumfries’ arm about : . his shoulders and a very queer feeling at the pit of his stomach He saw Clem wave | to him as Clem’s particular stage turned a corner in a cloud of dust, and he waved | back. Mr. Dumfries’ hand tightened on | . his shoulder, and his five days’ vacation had commenced. “Cheer up, John,” said Mr. Dumfries, | | "we're going to have a good time of it, { and we'll have a dinner to-morrow that He still thought of | will surprise you.” ew Little Boy, and his heart . went out to him in his loneliness. "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir,” said Jack. He spoke bravely enough, but in his heart he felt he must get away. That hand on his shoulder seemed to have a peculiar effect on his throat. “I think I'll go and take a walk, if that is all right.” Mr. Dumfries had built up a great he was indisputably a man of intelligence; so now he made no offer of sympathy, and he put away immediately his first impulsive idea of entertaining his pupil for the afternoon. "Certainly, itis all right,” he said. “What's a holiday for? Stop in at the study. I'll have some sandwiches put up for you, so that you won't have to bother red habit | {© come back to lunch. You can make a | day of it.” But in spite of a picnic lunch made up under the su i of Mrs. Dumfries herself, Jack found the day a long and dreary one, a sucked orange of a day, to he ca eye M and golden and fair, t, in actual experience, mockingly empty. He made the rounds of all their tre he had seen before is school days, its set for life and action—with no sign of life about it. He recognized all this vaguely, but concrete- ir le knew well ehouth iat he was lonely. Wood and id So and were m were all very well. heautifal He Tevenibered them allur- i t pleasure was to him a generous Wing iste only in the sharing. He back to his room at supper time, tired, and in spite of himself, de- His supper he took at the headmaster’s own table, and there he struggled valiant- ly to be what his father would have called “game,” and because he tried hard, and because Mrs. Dumfries did her tact- ful best to help, he met with some meas- ure of success. He even grew interested and excited; for the headmaster of St. Stephens and the sweet lady who was his wife and a lonely little boy of twelve, who was by hard circums:ance their beguiled the evening hours with the life and battles of Kid , middle weight champion of the world. : Jack Went 5 bed with much the Sol. ing of a r, grievously wounded, but with the glamour of victory to lighten his pain. He slept in his own room with a ! friendly gardener in the room across the hall, that he might not be alone in the dormitory. He wished that the were a more noisy man; for it was like trying to go to sleep in a cathedral. He had not realized the noise of the dormi- tory until it was gone. Before he turned out the light he tried to pencil a few lines to his father, to start his essay let- ter on the subjectof home; but he he could not write as he wanted to. He had always written cheerfully and now the words would not come. “Dear father,” he wrote, “Thanksgiving vacation has commenced. We are to have five days. IT am to take giving dinner with Mr. and Mrs. Dum- fries. Isn't that fine?” He paused, for it did not sound very fine. On the whole, perhaps, he had better write the letter to- morrow. He p aside pencil and paper and crept into bed. It was some time after the school chimes had struck eleven that he fell at last asleep. It was only shortly after this that he was aware of a light in the room. He awoke and thought for a moment that he was still dreaming; for Mrs. Dumfries was standi his bed PE She would and smiling down at have looked an angel, only angels do not in the s , but the lifted for a moment. At Jack's away. | Clem’s bag was packed at last, packed in “had gone to bed, and ' starry in the flickering light. "A telegram?” He was fully awake es,” she said, "from your roommate, a very nice telegram, I think, so good that it wouldn't keep till morning. You can read it yourself.” She gave him the yellow slip of paper that was his first telegram, and he sat up i read the blue- , magic boy bound home Tike Clem. and full of | Morne by pb typed, magi | words by lantern light. Take the early morning train for Thanks, giving here. Hip. hip, hooray. Crem. it was unbelieveable. Jack looked up Dumfries. Mrs. Dumfries ves, it's quite true,” she said, “and you can go. [ knew you'd like it. Now you must go to sleep quickly. for you will have to be up at five and your train goes at six. [looked at the time table before | came over. I'll have you called.” She took up her 'antern and went out | of the room, leaving him just as he was to think it over. “My dear, | almost cried,” she said to Mr. Dumfries a few minutes later. “Oh, i no, of course I didn’t, but I almost did. I wish you could have seen him. There | he was, sitting up straight in bed, the same gallant New Little Boy as ever. His | eyes were so round and blue, and that | hair he is so careful about was so rum- pled and astonished-looking, and his ex- | | pression—I can't tell you about his ex- way—or, at any rate, I hope they d when they walk in | heaven.” Certainly it seemed to Jack himself | that a finite mind could grasp no more | infinite happiness. He sat there in the i dark, the telegram still in his hand to | prove he had not dreamed it all; the | wonder of the moment and the wonder at the door of | of the morrow billowing like a rolling, | ' golden haze before his mental vision. . Once he spoke aloud in the darkness that | was no longer lonely. “Well,” he said, “well, I say!’ and could find no more adequate expression. He forced himself to lie down again at last, as he had seen his father compose ! himself, by sheer will, before an import- | ant battle, and by sheer will, he, too, fell asleep, the slumber that was that happy i borderland between sieep and waking, when the body takes its rest, and the soul is dimly conscious of great and glo- rious things, prescient of the marvels that ! the day may bring forth. At five the friendly gardener awakened him, and he sprang up with that clear consciousness which is one of the rights of clean boyhood. Before he was half | dressed. the rubicund face of Mike, the | historic expressman, appeared at the | Jack's clothes into a big bag, once the | property of Kid Mack; and Mike made | the historic joke about the elephant and | the trunk, and Jack found it inexpressibly | funny. | There was something romantically | fascinating about eating his breakfast by | artificial light. It was as if life had been | turned suddenly inside out, and in cele- bration of the day he was allowed for a little to live on the reverse. Oatmeal had | zest to him, and bread and butter a | changeling charm. | Both Mr. and Mrs. Dumfries were up to see him off, and he understood the ef- i fort that it cost. It was something un- | official and human that made his happi- | ness greater. instructed him care- fully, so that wi : i knew, as he drove away to the station, | just what train he was to take, where he | was to cars, and what train he | should change into. £2 {his 2558s bs Sina ] 2 so>35k gf 3 : | gE 2333 ; ] 5 ; E ] = L: day o discovered Clem awaiting him on the platform, and Clem fell NpoiEhii and beat him on the back, Na lind to race t0 Stell you before you changed cars. When did you get the telegram? “Late last night. Mrs. Dumfries brought it over. I tell you what, I was surprised.” How feeble words were. saw her, and thatit was a shame, and tat 1 t 1 pave Jud sense enough ve how. Didn't she, a a Mr. Robbins nodded. He was keeping carefully out of the conversatio n. “Well, I got it anyhow,” said Jack con- clusively. It was as if they had been parted for years. They talked in crowded, half- Jack saw that her eyes were | pression. Px must look just that | ! ope : o— | and stable and the orchard, where late’ breakfast over he!' . | feet, explaining that he had to be able to told | meat stuffing, crimson i. individual happenings of the last iE - home-coming was joyful con- Jack saw a big, far back in a great, house the if g well- Hi i } t if ; 8 i ed him in exactly the same way, a white- | they called grandfather, | lady with iron-gray, old-f; curls, | who was the heart and center of it all. i Jack was a little atraid of her for a min- ute or so. They ali crowded around him very ; much as he had seen people crowd around | his father in the dressing-room after a fight. Little brothers and little boy cou- . sins expressed a shy desire to feel his ' muscle, which gave him the warm feel | ing of 2 man of years, and of being for the first time an “old boy,” at St. Ste- phens. Even the grandfather poked him tentatively in the solar plexus, and mur- mured something about the interest with which he had followed his father’s career —a murmur which the grandmother heard and laughed at. He said nothing at all to the little girls They were starchy, fluffy creatures, ali ruffles and ribbons and blowing hair, and more beyond his ken than if they had been the fairies they looked. He present. ly found himself out of doors again with Clem, that he might make a tour of the | place, and to work up the all-conquering appetite which Clem informed him was ' an absolute necessity. Here again were pond and meadow and wood and stream, but today their beauty cried aloud to him, all the lovely russet world of after-harvest time fairly shouted ' him welcome. He took great lungsful of the keen, clear air, and threw back his head in the sunlight. They visited barn ! russet apples were still on the trees. They ! skirted the poultry yard, and cut across the pasture, to return home at last | through a wide, brown, stubbled corn- field, where the crisp, rustling stalks were 1 stacked here and there like the tents of ian army, and orange-vellow pumpkins | lay in gigantic splendor at the ends of withered, running stalks which could not possibly have nurtured them. Jack had taken Thanksgiving dinners before, or thought he had, uninteresting, perfunctory hotel affairs, where he had | eaten two slabs of luke warm turkey, and ' a dab of glucose-stiffened cranberry sauce, dinners that he discovered now were no | more like this home. The long, white- | draped table filled most of the big, sunny dining room. There was something cere- monial about its very size. He had heard of tables groaning be- | neath the feast, but there was no groan | about this table, rather it seemed to laugh and chatter and almost sing. There was only room down the center of it for a low | and narrow bank of flowers, and all the ' rest of its great length and breadth were | crowded with side dishes of various nec- | essity as the meal progressed, dishes of salted nuts and candies and fruits, and door, and between them they bundled, dishes whose contents he could only guess; a comfortable, old-fashioned, home- ly board with no modern nonsense about | it, where there was pienty of bread and butter, and the changes of silver were brought on as they were needed, and not | arranged in a Chinese puzzle beside the ! plates to trip the unwary and the young. | The dinner commenced auspiciously with | ! oyster stew, illusively flavored, hot and steaming, an ideal medium to crumple | crisp crackers into; then came chicken | pie, brown, crusted, and succulent, which the grandmother served from her end of | , the table, an estimable dish, somewhat | neglected to be sure, and cast in the shade | Even in his inexperience Jack kuew periectiv wel when the turkey was com- dren, a sudden hush in the chatter about the table, an unconscious turning of faces | toward the pantry dour, a galvanic thrill ' of premonition, uch the same sort of the entrance of the mon- seemed a the feast, a mastodon-like fowl. Even the experienced, the la turkey possible fo SIE he Jaren always surprised—if the feast be a proper one—at a creatare larger than theirimag- inings. To Jack this turkey seemed a sheer miracle—a -four hours. i | , and a stately i by the coming lord of the feast. | re was a stir among the chil-' blending of both, a monarch of | pelling dish. A reat golden brown bird looming a an enormous plat- | ter, garlanded and decked about with ' high-standing breast bone as nature made him. i There were cries and cla a shrill “Oh!” from one of the younger ' children, which brought a laugh from the grown-ups. Jack found that he had been girl beside him—whom he had not yet! to look at—was squeezing his hand | in the ecstatic abandon of the moment. He looked at her. She was not looking at him, but at the turkey. She was flush- ed and wide-eyed and very pretty. There was no self-consciousness about her, even | when she dropped his hand. i “Isn't it e-normous” she gasped, turn- ing to him. “It looks like an ostrich,” said Jack suddenly finding himself able to talk. The little girl giggled with delight. He was a man of wit and presence. The rosy grandfather had gotten to his see over what he was carvi The chil- | dren shouted, and ted with | ized him as a polished repre- | sentative e the og schon avery n : 0 , cou umor. Even ik i was a ov She In mms days gone by: for thin,ju ces under his yi in mi orderly fashion in patterns of white and brown on each side of the fast-appearing rack. Jack found his plate when it was set befort him a wide, heaping profusion in p. Mv wiih i was difficult to the first poin attack. There were turkey white and brown, chestnut and sausage cranberry sauce that no French chef had ever learned the secret of, a snowy mound of mashed potato, a dish of tra turnip, and something which loo , which he discovered to be squash. made islands, and round about and celery still crisp with a cool, underground | isolation. he offered her the salt, and she poured a , Steaming incense to high heaven, a bird impossible to city ovens, none of ' a Jone molded market creatures, vanilla planifolia, to give it its full name, | t of pump, terfestia ng of hands, | i’ : ! sentences, and the forty fast | little heap for their mutual benefit on the | were gone before they had exhaust- | between tablecloth their plates. It was lovely of her. He remembered some- thing Clem had said about salt. had decided he could eat was cleared, the tur- key vanished away, and pie reigned in its stead. He ventured to take a small slice | nce. little girl beside him | of | whispered that the mother made | ; all the pies herself. i should have known, as if only grand- said it as if he mothers could make pies worth eating. He heard the grandmother herself avow- - ing, in her stately way, her scorn of i \ , brandy in mince pie, and explaining to | haired, ruddy young fellow of sixty, whom | one of the aunts that boiled cider was the only thing to put into mince meat. Whether it was due to the lack of brandy or the presence of boiled cider, he did not know: he only knew that his hunger had taken a sort of second wind. He al- lowed himself more mince, and branched from that into apple, lemon. and even | squash pie, a delicious spicy dish hitherto unknown. Nuts and raisins came as a happy anticlimax. He found himself skillful in nut-cracking. beside him told him it was because he was so "awfully strong.” upon it in spite of his disclaimer. Afternoon was well advaiced when they left the table, but after some sit- around games played in deference to the common repletion there was still time for others when activity returned again. Jack found himself on intimate terms with’ everybody. even white dresses and rufiles —now losing something of their starch- mess—inspired him no longer with ter- ror. With Clem he shared the honors of vrisoner's base: with the little girl who had sat beside him he found, at hide-and- seek, a place that even Clem could never discover. And when at last the children came trooping in from barn and meadow and orchard to sit down to a cold supper, he was warm with new comradeship, aglow with the feeling that he was almost kin with these happy, wonderful, every- day boys and girls. evening was cold and a fire of soft pine had been lighted in the big fireplace | in the living room. Jack threw himself naturally enough with the rest of the children on the floor before it; their elders grouped in the flickering. half- shadows behind them. the ceremonial end of the ceremonial day; for everybody waited in silence, or talked in low whispers, until presently the rosy old boy of sixty began the story which was expected of him—a story which Jack realized meant that he was not sixty at all, but something more than seventy. For it was all about what he called “the late unpleasantness,” the tragic struggle between North and South, and how he had been captured and had escaped, an enthralling tale of armies and | war, of lonely wildernesses and baying bloodhounds, a tale that concerned the vital life of his great and glorious coun- | try—and Jack's. When it was over the good nights were said quietly. Clem took Jack to his room, tried to talk, and finally yawned himself away to his own bed. Jack stood for a | moment with his hand upon the door! knob, alone and with his heart swelling within him. Home and Thanksgiving : day! He understood them both now. His soul was singing in a sort of reverent | exaltation. He wished that he were Clem, | that with pen and ink and easy cadence | he might express it all! He began slowly to undress, and among his clothes, in Kid Mack's big bag, he found his half finished letter, and a little stub of pencil. He paused a moment and then wrote rapidly from his full heart: “I did not stay at school after all. Clem telegraphed for me to come to his grand- | I wish that you had been here. ' mother’s. I never understood about Thanksgiving. I will write all about it sometime if I can’ —but I am afraid that can’t ever write it well enough. I'll have to wait until you are home again” (he paused at the “home” and then underscored it), “then I shall try to tell you about it.” He knew that this was a poor expres sion, but he hoped his father would un- derstand. Then he had an inspiration, and getting up, he took something from his jacket et and wedged it carefully into the envelope. “P. 8.” he wrote, “I am sending you | the pri This | the wish-bone of the turkey.” He folded the letter, and sealed the lumpy In five minutes more he was in ~—By Wells Hastings, in the American Magazine. The Bean in the Cream. ‘The vanilla plant is the only orchid of any industrial value. As orchids go, the plant is not unactive, for the 4 is much greener and more enduring than in the case of most species. It is a climber, | mission and when the leaves are freshit brightens small tree trunk wonderfully. The isa | parasite. It climbs from the ground. But, once established, has sading Stations on the bark all along the line. leaves—Iiong, very smooth and light green——are alernate and at the of each is a sucker a few inches the tree, lying flat against the bark. blossoms are inconspicuous. It is the resultant pods that are the vanilla of the industrial world. They are slim six to eight inches long, and, when for the market, are of a rich, deep red- dish brown. These are called vanilla beans, but without warrant. They that are usually found in the finest grade * | of vanilla ice-cream, the best chefs in the | (h. calf world ever prefering to grind the “bean” rather than use the extract. Vanilla is found growing wild in the Bahamas, West Indies, and Central America. In Mada- gaseal and some of the neighboring it has been introduced, and now forms an important article of export. But American vanilla is the best. The First Thanksgiving. In the a) of 102 Governor Jidiond set a or Than ving. e Pilgrims a he a fruitful gM Their corn had yielded a good crop. Deer a wild fowl were plenty, and there were in the sea in great abundance. So they kept their Thanksgiving with feast- ing An tie wo thle ong ne of New nksgivings w Bave been kept each year since that me. Squanto was one of their Indian friends. He taught them when to plant their corn. When the leaves on the oak tree were the The little girl She insisted | It was evidently ¢ con- | as dust. These seeds are the black specks FARM NOTES. | ~The wool crop is one of the surest i on the farm. —The best wool is on poorest on the belly. —You need a silo because with it you | canmake more money. —Quality, quantity and density are im- portant factors in the fleece. —Evenness of wool depends upon even- ness of condition of the sheep. —It is best to manure and plow the garden as soon as the growing season is over and the crops harvested. —If you watch the thistles carefully and ido not let them goto seed for two or three years you will rejoice in their ab- sence. the back, the —A one inch pipe from the tank on the windmill to the house and another to the barn with 50 feet of garden hose attached to each is a great deal cheaper than a fire. — There is far 100 little mulching done. Small fruits, trees and garden crops are ‘given a most favorable opportunity for attaining the highest perfection and de- velopment when their roots are covered with a thick mat of leaves, hay or other suitable material. A good mulch keeps down weeds, and renders the soil loose, moist and porous at all times, and that, ton, with little labor of cultivation. —The bull to be strong and vigorous and of good use must be fed, sheltered and given exercise. The stall should be roomy and strong, but not boarded up tight. The animal will be better content- ed if he can see out and have plenty of light. A lot or small pasture for open exercise is necessary for health and vigor. Clean stall and good general sanitation should not be neglected. An unhealthy i Sihy bull will scon mean a diseased erd. —The establishment of a Bureau of Markets in the Department of Agricul ture is proposed in a bill introduced by Representative Wickiffe, of Louisiana. The purpose of the bureau would be to investigate the marketing of farm pro- ucts, recommending the fairest and most direct methods by which such pro- ducts might reach the consumer from the producer and keeping the public inform- ed through reports of the best methods and the best markets. —One should have in mind how much land is to be planted in corn the follow- ing year when the seed corn is being se- lected. Of course, plenty should be se- lected, making due allowance for shrink- age, discarded ears with low germination test and probable loss by rodents, insects, etc. It must not be forgotten thar the seasons are often such that a second planting is necessary. If one saves more good seding than is needed it can usually be disposed of at a good price. It can be . generally estimated that a bushel of good ' seed corn will piant from seven to nine acres—say, eight acres. It takes from 100 to 120 good ears suitable for seed to shell a bushel. It will take at this rate ' from 12 to 15 ears to plant an acre. —To make good vinegar use only sound windfall apples fer the making of cider, free from rot of any kind. Let the cider remain out of doors until as much of the impurities of it #s can be are worked off, , then put it into the cellar to remain until it becomes vinegar, which will be in almost a year, when it should be “racked , off” before it is ready to use. Cider and vinegar barrels must be thoroughly cleaned and perfectly free from the “mother” that many people believe a necessity to constitute good vinegar. “Mother” is the impurities of cider, and none of it should be allowed to remain in | the barrel. Don't put in any corn, mo- lasses or anything else to hasten its con- summation. Time is all that is recuired. —Thomas Davy Candy, of Langhorne, near Philadelphia, declares that he has discovered the cause of the blight which is withering chestnut trees in the Middle jand South Atlantic States. A boring | beetle, one-sixteenth of an inch long, i black in color, which lays its tween the outer and the inner is mary cause, he says. Grubs are hatched from the Ses 3d these i is 2558 gil appointed by | vestigate cause of the disease | devise ways for exterminating it. ~The calf should be taken away from | its mother by the third day or earlier, and should have its mother’s milk for about two weeks. When the calf is , about two weeks old, the milk may be | gradually changed to skim-milk, using i 3 cheering with the rest, and that the little | in length that fastens itself securely to | “Out @ week to make the change. . In order to make a success of raising i the calf on skim-milk, the condition of | milk must be uniformly sweet. Probably nothing can be done that will produce in- digestion and scours with more certainty than to feed sweet milk one day sour the next. The younger the calf | the more sensitive it is on this point. proper amount to feed the calf the | six quarts per day, and no more can be | given without danger of indigestion. As i grows older it will take more, but it is never necessary to feed more than eight or nine per day i never advisable to over ten. | calf should never be given all the milk it | will drink. The calves must be fed in such a way that each calf secures the amount intended for it. Bs is. bust to Joe milk WANDS at all ' times especially important t it in this condition for young calves. Cold milk will usually cause indigestion in a { young calf. i Begin feeding the calves dry corn meal ' as soon as they will take it, and continue 31 as Jo shimerailh is fed. Provide ay of good , Or pasture a i calf is three weeks or a month old. | An abundance of clean water should be | accessible at all times, or at frequent in- | tervals, as the calf is not satisfied with milk alone as a drink, and wants to drink a little water at a time, quite often during the day. This thirst for water is often overlooked when calves are raised g +H size of a mouse'’s ear, then was the time. | by hand, and as a result the calf is He told them, too, to drop a fish into each | thirsty, as well as h , and between was a brown sea of gravy. The | hill of corn to enrich it and make it grow. | itself with milk when it has a chance. little girl beside him passed him celery, i For Englishmen did not know much | Salt should also be within reach when the about Indian corn in those days.—[How calf is old enough to eat grain and hay. With grateful presence of mind New England was Made, hy Frances A. | Humphrey. —— Subscribe for the WAT~UMAN.
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers