Bellefonte, Pa., March 29,
MARCH WINDS.
1912.
Thé bold March winds,
The cold March winds,
‘What a chorus of elfin sounds
‘They make as they scamper down the street
Just to jostle the passengers off their feet
As they go their daily rounds.
The bold March winds,
The cold March winds,
What a comical part they play,
They fluster and bluster, they rage and roar,
They knock at the window and bang at the door,
In a most ungallant way.
The bold March winds,
The cold March winds,
How they strike to our very bones,
Yet the sweet little violet lifted its head,
And the daisies peep out from their grassy bed,
At the sound of the trumpet tones.
—Author unknown. Sent by Emily B. Busey,
Baltimore, Md.
MISS CELIA’S BOW.
By Maria Crawford
ht, 1811, by Associated Li
Copyright, y Joel torary
“That's lovely, Miss 'Celia. Play
some more,” demanded Betty, getting
up to spread out her white skirts with
precision before sitting down again.
“lI have to keep this dress nice, you
know, because mother has gone down
the mountain to the station to meet
my uncle, and he is most particular
about the way I look.”
“So your uncle is coming!
he like, Betty?"
“Mother said she hoped he would
fall in fove with you, for she thought
you were the finest girl she ever
knew. I can’t tell you what he's like,
‘cause it's been a long time since I
saw him. He's been traveling for a
long while. Daddy said he's been in
love with some girl who wouldn't
marry him, but mother laughed and
said he was silly to say such a thing,
for all the girls adore Uncle Bob and
he could just take his choice if he
wanted any of them.”
“You never told me that his name
was Bob, Betty.”
“Didn't 1? Well, that doesn’t make
any difference, does it? Don't you
like the name of Bob, Miss 'Celia?”
“Yes, of course, dear. I—I just
didn't remember having heard his
name. You haven't told me what he is
like, Betty.”
“Big as a barn. Daddy says that's
the most 'spressive thing you can say
about Uncle Bob.”
“Robert Mayfield is a very pretty
name, isn't it?”
“That's not his name. He is moth-
er's brother. Now please play.”
Afraid to arouse the child's suspi-
cion by too many questions, Miss
‘Celia tucked the violin lovingly un-
der her chin and softly drew the fra-
gile bow across the strings. In a min-
ute she had forgotten the rapt little
face of the child before her and was
living again in her romantic past,
which had been of so short duration
that it often seemed as mysterious
and unreal as a dream.
“That's grand, Miss 'Celia.” The
child's voice brought her back to the
present. “It's mighty sad sounding,
though. It makes cold shivers run
up 2nd down my back and 1 hurt way
inside. Mother says that sounds like
I had the heartache, but, of course,
‘she said, I am too little for that.”
“I hope you wil! stay too littie to
know the agony,” said Miss 'Celia,
suddenly wrapping her violin to put it
away.
“Play one jolly plece and make me
feel good, Miss 'Celia. Try that one
where leaves are dancing. It sounds
just like the leaves do out there on
the mountain when the wind blows.”
“What a flatterer you are, Betty!
One more, then I must stop, else the
people over in the hotel will be ask-
ing me to move.”
“No, they won't. Everybody says
they love to hear you play. Old Mr.
Wilson says that you can make a for-
tune by playing on the stage. This is
the loveliest cottage I ever saw. How
long are you going to stay on the
mountain, Miss 'Celia?”
“I don’t know, dear. 1 feel as if IT
would like to stay here always.”
“I know all the girls are charming,”
said Bob Thorne to his sister, as they
went slowly up the mountain road,
“but please keep them at a distance.
I came down here to visit you and
Betty for a week. Of course I will
meet your friends—I don’t want to be
a boor—but don't expect any Ches-
‘terfleld stuff of me or you will be dis-
appointed.”
Betty's mother looked
feet of splendid manhood.
“All right,” she said quietly and
began to believe her husband's story
of Bob's love affair.
“I haven't seen Miss 'Celia all day.
I wonder why she hasn't played any.
What is
at the six
!
grew
launched into a triumphant love song. |
There, listen, Uncle Bob, that's my
Miss 'Celia playing now.” f
Betty moved closer to her big un- |
cle where he sat on the hotel steps |
and laid her hand on his knee.
“'Celia!” said the man softly.
“Celia!”
It was almost twilight and there
was a quiet hush on the mountain.
The notes of the violin came to his
ears and their music was no louder
than the sound of the south wind as
it sighed through. the pine trees and
‘stirred the maple leaves touched with
the crimson of the fall. There was
the pain of an aching heart in the
music of the strings and Betty nestled
closer to the man and turned her pink
palm to meet the big hand that had
clused protectingly over her small
one.
g Soon the music changed. The notes.
light and happy and then
It was as if the player himself were
calling to her mate and it seemed, so
insistent was the call, that if such
were the case, he must answer, even
thovzh he had to come across a world
to her.
“Come, Betty,” said Bob Thorne
hoarsely, “take me over to see your
Miss 'Celia.”
“lI wanted to take you this morn
ing but you said you hoped you would
be delivered from any girls here. I'm |
awful giad we're going. 1 just can't
get along without seeing Miss "Celia |
every day.”
Betty pushed open the door and
peered in the shadows of the living
room in the cottage.
“Wait,” she whispered to the man
beside her, and went in alone.
“Hello, Miss Celia. Let's light the
candles so we can see!”
That task accomplished, Betty de-
manded more music. So it was that
just as Miss ‘Celia lifted the little
rosewood instrument to her shoulder
Bob Thorne, finding that he could
wait no longer, stepped into the glow
of the candles.
“This,” said Betty proudly, “is my
Miss Celia, Uncle Bob.”
“Entirely yours?” gravely question-
ed the man as he took Miss 'Celia's
cold little hands in his own.
The introduction properly effected,
Betty went off in search of Mise
'Celia’s mother and the cookies that
were always ready for her.
“Well,” asked the man, “is it al-
ways to be just the violin, "Celia?"
His tone held the bitterness of long
suffering.
“Not if you—if you still want me,”
answered the girl breathlessly, Then
when she was clasped close to him
a voice from somewhere under his
chin said, “Oh, I was so afraid it
wouldn't be you after all, and you
wouldn't hear tonight.”
*“'Celia, how did it happen? What
has come to change you s0?”
“Time,” said 'Celia, “and sorrowful
loneliness. Art may be enough for
some women, Bob, but I am not one
of the elect.”
“Elect?” scornfully.
“I thought I owed it to mother to
make something out of my music |
when I had been so carefully educat- |
ed. I tried harder than ever after
you went away—"
“After you sent me away,” he in-
terrupted.
“But my genius came down to
merely talent and I grew discouraged.
I broke down then, gave up my col-
lege work and came to the mountains i
to get strong and try to forget—you.
But when I met Betty I gave up all
hope of forgetting, for she has your
way of demanding things a#d getting
what she wants.”
“Not always.” There was a shadow
in the man's eyes at thought of his
lonely journey over the world to for-
get one face and the sound of one
violin.
“Don't look like that, Bob,” cried
the girl. “I am so much better fit
ter for vou if—if you still want me.” |
There was a pause while he proved
to her entire satisfaction again how
much he wanted her.
“You know I tried to believe that I
was a modern woman. I wanted a
career and fame. Retty made me
realize that a happy life for a woman
is bounded by love and a home.”
“God bless Betty,” said her uncle |
fervently.
“When I heard that a man was
coming, and all they told me was
that his name was Bob, and that he
was big, T hoped, oh, you don't know
how I hoped and prayed that he
would prove by some miracle to be
you.”
“So you are willing to give up a
career for me?”
“I'll never play again, Bob, unless
you wart to hear me.”
“That will be often, dear. I am not
selfish and I'll never be jealous of
your violin again. To tell you the
truth, I have run from the sound of
a violin for a year, for the music of
one always made me want you.”
“You ran to it tonight.”
“Only because I kxew the sound of
Your bow on the strings, and I knew
that I would find you here. So you
are really going to give up walking
the boards in the glare of the foot-
lights?”
“Yes,” said the girl, happily, “for
a space no larger than the circle of
your arms.”
“And the light?”
“Of one man's eyes.”
—————
Quite Another Matter.
“Do you give gas here?” asked a
wild looking man, who had rushed
| into a dentist's.
“We do,” replied the dentist,
“Does it put a fellow to sleep?”
“It does.”
“Sound sleep, so you can't wake him
up?”
“Yes.”
“You could break his jaw or gouge
out his eye and he wouldn't feel it?”
“He would know nothing about it.”
“How long does he sleep?”
“The physieal insensibility produced
i by inhaling gas lasts a minute, or
probably a little less.”
“I expect that's long enough. Got it
all ready for a fellow to take.””
“Yes, take a seat in this chair and
show me your tooth.”
“Tooth! Nonsense!” cried the ex-
cited caller, beginning rapidly to re-
move his coat and vest. “I want you
to pull a porus plaster off my back!”
—Pittsburg Chronicle-Telegraph.
Poor Horse.
The family horse was shedding his
coat. “Oh, mamma,” exclaimed small
Sadie, “do come and look at old Dob-
bin. I believe he's all moth-eaten!”
FOR THE HEROINE.
By Martha McCulloch- Williams
(Copyright, 191, by Associated Literary
Edson frowned as the girl took the
‘vacant seat opposite him. He dined
| at Harney's oftener than he could
well afford because the place was so
much man-size. Women came there
1 i0-be sure, but either in family nar-
| ties, or properly escorted; that is to
say, for the most part. He had once
| or twice before seen the lone female
ln search of a meal, but oaly once or
lwice.
This afternoon the lone woman was
| particularly upsetting. He had come
rather early—the day had been blis-
| lering—intent upon getting his pet
' table, just beside the fountain. There,
; if anywhere, one caught a breath of
breeze; moreover the water-play made
| the air fresh, and the big skylight
overhead was sure to be open. The
| tiny table was hardly big enough for
two. Why had he not seized upon
! Cram or hardy and made them come
{in with him? Then he might have
smoked his cigar, sipping his coffee
it was likely he might run across a
lot. Netwithstanding, he was game—
the gir! could not elude him always
—and she was truly the type of which
he stood so screiy in need.
The piay, given upon a big lawn
full of immemerial oaks, was half over
when there came a scud of rain. Yet
it was not the big peiting drops which
made his companion shudder—of that
Edson was certain, although she had
given no sign of recognizing anybody
in the crowd.
He had seen Grabam across at the
far side—Graham with his eves
dreamy, vet his mouth set. Graham
was not one of fortune's spoiled dar-
lings—inheritor of a fortune, no less
a genius and a gentleman.
rain came thicker, Edson heard him
gaying bebind him:
“Take this umbrella, Dan, while I
call a taxi. No use in waiting—we
; are in for a real rain.”
Then the astonishing voung woman
rose up, faced Graham, and said soft-
I ly: “No need of a taxi, John—you
| the while, at peace with all the world. |
All this flashed upon him between
lines of the sporting extra, in which
| he affected to be buried. But even a
; double-header at the local park could
' not last longer than through the inter-
| val of waiting. He had refused the
i regular dinner, ordering what
chose. The woman would be sure to
he |
| 80 right through all the courses, else |
! affront masculine appetite with iced
tea and chocolate eclairs.
! A covert glance told him his table
‘ mate had not the chocolate eciair com-
: plexion. Her skin was fine and firm.
| Her hair looked alive—fine tendrils
| drooped on her brow and about the
| nape of her neck. She was quietly
| Bowned, in a soft sheer gray some-
| thing almost entirely lacking trim- |
mings. The lack recommended her to
| Edson. He was an illustrator, with
| aspirations toward real art. “Good
{ lines—and she knows enough not to
know neither I nor my frocks ever
minded a wetting.”
“Elizabeth!” Graham gasped, catch.
ing her hands, and going all colors.
She, too, changed color—a clear red
swept her pallor, aml made her vivid-
ly beautiful. “I have changed one
way,” she half whispered, moving
nearer Crabam under pretext of shel.
ter. “I have found out it takes &
really sensible girl to be the worst
possible fool.”
“How?” Graham asked chokingly,
while Edson stared.
“By reading advance sheets of ‘Two
Women,” the girl said. “You don't
krow it—but 1 am doing press work
for it. Of course I recognized my-
self in it—and—your point of view.”
“Odd, but I recognized you as the
hercine—the model for her, I mean—
the minute I looked at you across the |
table,” Edson broke in.
She laughed softly. “I went to your |
table to see if you would do it,” she
: sald. “IT will tell you now my name—
| spell them,” he commented inly, not- |
| ing the while that the sleeves, neither |
| too tight nor too loose, revealed some- !
| thing rare—a pair of perfect dimpled |
| wrists. Neither gloves nor bangles
marred them. Indeed the lack of su-
| perfluities throughout was refreshing.
Edson began to feel that after all Fate
| had been kind—kinder than he de-
| served. Here was just the type he
| had been vainly seeking for a wdek—
the girl in Graham's novel, about
| whom the author himself was so par-
| ticular.
He wondered if he could recall her.
If he had dared he would have
| sketched her outline upon his cuff. She
{ did not seem to be watching him.
| Yet he was aware she knew pretty
| much what he did. She had answered
| graciously enough the few common-
| places he had ventured without in any
| way inviting their continuance, Evi.
| dently she had come for a dinner of
{ herbs. Her meal began with canta
: loupe and ended with sliced peaches—
| a double portion. In between there
! were green corn and a crisp salad.
| And by way of finale coffee, for which
| Harney's was rather famous.
The two came to coffee at the same
| time, though she had eaten delicately
| with a refined deliberation. Edson
| fingered his cigar a thought irreso-
| lutely. She smiled and said—the first
| time she had spoken unprovoked:
| “Light it, please—if you can say hon-
lestly it is good. Otherwise, please
! wait until I get away.”
| “I wonder if you really know a good
| cigar!” Edson answered, smiling the
| least bit.
| She nodded confidently. “My father
' taught me discrimination—in men and
tobacco,” she said. “So I have an in-
| convenient belief that neither is worth
i while, if mediocre.”
“Doesn't the belief make you
rather solitary?” Edson hazarded. She
shook her head—Edson went on: “Pos-
sibly, then, you are a woman's wom-
an—"
Another head shake interrupted him.
“l am—mostly—a human being,” she
said. “I have a shell, of course—for
self-protection—but most times I leave
it at home.”
“Dare I hope you left it this time?”
‘Edson asked.
“She looked at him doubtfully, half
a second, then said with a faint shrug:
“Isn't it too hot for shells of any
sort?”
By way of answer Edson laid his
card in fron. of her. She did not
glance at it until she had paid her
check. Even then it was no more
than a glance.
“I knew you anyway—your picture
is so often in the advertising pages,”
she said with another little shrug. “I
have to pay attention to them,” she
explained, “since advertising means
| my bread and butter.”
{ “I see! A hopeless plutocrat—in
| spite of your dinner of herbs,” Edson
! answered.
She laughed softly, “I like only the
herbs which cost real money,” she
sald. “That reminds me—your cigar
wants lighting. Make haste, please!
I must be going in a minute, and am
really curious as to the sort of weed
you fancy.”
“I would rather show you the sort
of girl I fancy,” Edson said boldly,
looking straight at her. “I won't ask
your name, much as I should like to
know it—but since you are reasonably
! secure that I'm neither a pirate nor
"a kidnapper, I am asking you to gO
with me to an open-air “As You Like
It"—luckily I have cards.”
“That will be very much as I like
it,” the girl sald dimplingly. “I was
Just wondering what to do with my-
self.”
But she gave neither her name nor
any clew to her identity—Rdson was
piqued into a deeper, keener interest
i by her evident reserve. It would be
" awkward, if he met people he knew—
Elizabeth Bradley.”
“It is hardly worth while telling it-—
since it will be Elizabeth Graham to-
morrow,” Graham interrupted.
She looked at him a little reproach-
fully. “You had better explain,” she
sald, nodding toward Edson. “He
doesn't know that we were engaged
until daddy lost 20 much money your
lady mother sighed at thought of the
: match.”
“Never mind! Never mind any-
thing but that you are going to marry
me,” Graham said stoutly.
Elizabeth began to giggle. “I have
to mind a lost opportunity,” she said.
“Since it is happening to me, myself
Apparent- |
ly he had not seen Edson—vet as the |
| FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN
|
DAILY THOUGHT.
Oh, the iittieness of the lives that we are living,
denying to ourselves the bigness of that thing
which it isto be aman, 10 be a child of God.
—Phillips Brooks,
Many sailor hats of white and black
straw with white velvet bands are seen,
—
! Sailors of white straw with brim
! rolled at side and one small plume are
| stylish.
| White satin, trimmed with wide black
| satin cord and braid, is being exploited
| for day gowns.
| A new linen material called Ottoman
cloth promises to be one of the favorite
fabrics for tailored gowns during the
spring and summer season. The cloth is
a heavily corded material, differing from
the wide wale pique in that the cord is
rounder.
It comes in alternating cords of white
and color, and is exceedingly effective in
white and gray, white and rose and old
blue and white.
Its wearing qualities are admirable, for
it cleans without trouble.
Piques in white and colors will also
hold a prominent place in lightweight
materials. The Turkish towelings which
made their appearance during the winter
are shown in fascinating array of colors
and color combinations. They are used
as trimmings for lighter materials of the
same tone rather than for entire gowns.
There is a new material called sponge
which suggests the toweling, but is much
lighter in weight, finer and less rough.
This will be used for complete costumes.
Cotton crepon promises to have re-
newed favor after having been laid aside
for several seasons. Remarkably lovely
frocks are seen in this material, both in
| white and light colors.
Some of the weaves are very crinkly,
| but the fine, sheer qualities are the best
| selections.
place in the wave of popularity.
They are shown in every possible shade
and color.
' with white and shot with black are de-
| cidedly smart for suits and one-piece
gowns.
| What has become of the tailored girl
| who looked so smart in her mannish col-
|lar and firm, steady four-in-hand? She |
j and all her ilk seem to have passed out
| with the advent of the frenzy of fluffiness
that has seized the feminine world. The
few who have survived the billows of
| laces and miles of ruffles are marked
| rarities, and, possibly do their own laun-
| dering. *
| However, the generousness of neck-
| wear is gradually decreasing and fan
| frills and Parisian jabots are taking on
proportions not only more refined, but
| undoubtedly more becoming.
The small girl with a great white wing
Linens, of course, will hold their usual |
Those in mixed shades of |
| ecru and white and the clear blue mixed :
FARM NOTES.
—Breeding from immature animals too
often reduces the size and uniformity of
the litters.
~The practice of using young sows is
suretoend in ua degeneracy of stock
sooner or later,
~—When it can be done, the sow and
litter should be kept alone until her pigs
are a week old.
—As a rule, young sows that do well
with their first litters may be considered
good brood sows.
—Generally a well-matured sow does
not cost as much for keeping as voung
and growing one.
—A ration in which corn is a portion
of the food will give better resvits than
to depend entirely upon it,
—Pigs should not be weaned until they
have learned to eat well which will be
When they are from eight to ten weeks
old.
—When the pigs get fairly to cating,
be careful to increase the feed as grad-
ually as the pigs’ power of assimilation
increases.
—The breeding sows should be lengthy
and strong, the more so the better pro-
vided it is, not to such an extent to de-
note weakness.
—As a general rule a good appetite is
a good indication of health and a hog
that will eat heartily at each meal can
generally be looked upon as in good
health.
—In feeding for growth, what is neces-
sary to keep in a good thrifty condition
should be supplied, but in fattening all
that they will eat up clean should be
given, let the quantity be what it may.
+ —So says Professor A.G. Phillips,of the
' Purdue University Agricultural Experi-
ment Station, and what he says of In-
diana eggs will equally apply to almost
every State in the Union:
The farms of Indiana produced over
72,000,000 dozen eggs, valued at over $12,-
000,000, in 1910. A large proportion of
these eggs were not first class in quality,
many of them being small, dirty, washed,
cracked, stale or rotten. The following
figures, taken from Circuiar No. 140, of
the United States Department of Agricul-
ture, are given to show the percentage of
undesirable e that are sold upon the
market in the Middle Western States:
Dirties 2 per cent. Broken 2 per cent.
Chick development 5 percent. Shrunken
or held 5 per cent. Rotten 2 per cent.
| Mouldy 4 per cent. Total 1 per cent.
| Observation of conditions in Indiana
| has not shown that the eggs of that State
| are any better than any other State: in
| fact, some reports seem to indicate that
| the reverse is true. Assuming that the
above figures are applicable to Indiana,
| it is fair to state that the annual loss to
{ farmers selling good eggs amounts to over
| $2,210,000. This amount might therefore
| be saved to the producer without extra
| cost to the consumer if buyers would buy
I want it kept dark—but onlg think | Securely pinned to her shoulder would be | €888 on their merits.
what a chance for a press agent, if | Jaughable were she not so modest and |
the story of how the illustrator un-
wittingly reconciled the famous au-
thor and his heroine-sweetheart, could
be featured as it deserves,”
“I shall tell it to—your successor,
and sce that justice is done it,” Ed-
son said, bowing. “Unless you agree
that I may be best man.”
“That goes without saying,” Gra-
ham said over his shoulder, as he
strode with the drenched but radiant
Elizabeth toward a waiting car.
SEASON FOR SPINNING TOPS
Boys of Malta Gather in the Streets by
the Hundreds for the
Sport.
This is the top-spinning season in
Malta, and hundreds of boys are spin-
ning them in the streets. The tops
used are like the common American
toy spun with a string. There are a
few whipping tops.
The favorite game of the top spin-
ners is as follows: The boys draw
lots to see whose top is to be placed
on the ground. Then the, others try
to hit the top on the ground with the
spikes of their own tops when burl
ing them at the beginning of the spin.
If they miss they pick up the spinning
top in the palm of the hand and throw
it at the top on the ground. If the top
is missed the spinner loses and must
place his top on the ground.
The game ends when the top on the
ground is knocked behind a line pre-
voiusly agreed upon. Then all the
rest of the players have the right to
strike the top of the loser by taking
their tops firmly in their hands and
stabbing the loser's top with the spikes
of their own. Their number of stabs,
usually about six, is agreed upon pre.
viously,
Very Likely,
Cousin Silas (reading)—“It says in
this here paper that a flea kin jump
2,000 times its own length.” Uncle
Heck—"That's probably why we never
hear of a flea getting run over by a
motor car.—Puck.
Why Not?
Mr. Brown preached fearlessly and
with power, and many in the audience
were visibly affected. Rev. Mr. Ross
did fine work with the chorus, and he
sang as a solo: “Why Not Say yrfipm-
fwgkjgkjbkg."—Chicago Tribune.
What the Relkin Is.
A new stringed musical instrument
is reported to have been devised by a
Japanese violinmaker in the city of
Nagoya. The invention is named the
relkin, and seems likely to supersede
the samisen. It has the shape of a
guitar, save in the neck, that is the
only part resembling a samisen. There
are four strings to it, and by manipu-
‘lation of the keys the instrument can
be made to do the work of several
samisen. The inventor has played his
relkin in an orchestra of Japanese in-
struments and showed that it is a suc-
cess in every way. He says that the
idea came to him when he was tour.
ing through Europe last year,
CBE AE Cn
| unassuming in manner.
| But the new neckwear will soon right-
| fully represent her, as well as the too
| generously built woman who shies at so
| much i
| Stocks with jabots to match are the
fashionable thing in®neckwear, and in-
| stead of the lavishly fluted varieties, the
| simple, graduated pleat is shown. Hand
| embroidery and simple thread laces are
the favored trimmings, and a bit of color
| is occasionally introduced by means of
| ribbon and loops. .
| One-piece frocks for spring of white
corduroy, serge, blue serge and striped
| summer ratine have a short fitted petti-
| coat of twilled silk, which is cut off just
| above the knees.
Satin, which came in with such a
rush this winter, has gone over into the
| spring fabrics. If a costume is not of
satin it is trimmed with satin or largely
made of it.
Satin comes in plain and striped colors;
black and white, gray and bl and blue
and white are among the best choices
now.
The tailored costume does not demon-
strate this fact as markedly as dhe pope-
lar one-piece frock of sheer ma ,
The most authoritative French design-
the sin fear.
nge y to
disfavor.
skirts fall full from the
line, and unless treated in an artis.
manner are sad failures. If, Neyer,
tof -
any of these full
fashioned
of striped taffeta in tones of white, green
and black.
The shoulder line was extremely long,
the sleeves were close fitting and fell
over the hands.
frills of finely pleated tulle fin-
the neck, at the of the throat.
was continued down the
ti
hie Peat bodice, Siappcarig he
neath a high, snugly fitted rdle of black
sa
Considerable material was used for the
skirt.
The lines were st t. The fullness
from the flatly sti horizontal pleats
across the front was drawn softly down.
ward and back to disappear under the
straight-falling, full breadth.
and most
are bound to be received
with favor.
—One of the most important operations
lin the garden is tillage. It must be prop-
| erly performed, neglect resulting in fail-
| ure. No matter if the soil is naturally
‘very fertile, or that sufficient manure has
| been applied, and the seeds the best that
| could be purchased, if proper tillage is
neglected, the result will be very unsatis-
(factory. Of course, and it should £0
| without saying, the plot of ground should
| be fairly well drained.
| The plow should be used at once, if it
! has not been used in late autumn or dur-
| ing the winter. The furrow plow should
| turn over the surface soil to the depth of
' nine inches, a foot would be better, so as
to bury the stubble, weeds, or remains of
: clover crop, and allowed to remain for a
| time. A cultivator would clean the sur-
face and later on a harrow would break
! up the clods.
| But in a more limited plot of ground,
where the garden would be more for
home use, a spade would be more effec-
tive. With this the soil can be broken
into smaller portions, more of the hidden
soil will be exposed to the air and trouble-
some and deeply-| ting weeds will
y gotten rid of. For a
stiff soil it is best to n work early in
the autumn, but for light land, later in
he copes Leos fresh
in tilling is to expose
portions 2% le soil, which, Saving the
growth o previous crop, have been
somewhat deprived of air, and have in
consequence sour: to regain
some sweetness, and to allow the ele-
ments of the air, which are more power-
ful in winter than in any other season, to
do their to soften any particluarly
hard sul which, after
would lie on the surface. The ts
should continually receive nourishment
from the substances in Hie, Soll, and
these, though t, are ess unless
can be fh in water and ab-
by the root hairs.
1
=H
, in the lumps are hard they
can now be crumbled quite easily by the
jutch of a fork. But 0 hight and ridg-
u trenc or
simple GIEEINg Out 18’ resorted mor
trenching, however,