3 - ry
Bellefonte, Pa., August 30, 1912.
SERS.
THE LITTLE OLD MAN IN THE AU-
TOMOBILE.
You surely have heard of the oid Woman, 1
know
Who lived in a Shoe, so long, long ago!
She had such queer notions and terrible ways!—
What would we do if she lived in these days?
As all of her children were supple and young,
She packed them in closely, pulled up the shoe's
tongue,
And then laced the shoestring across, very tight,
And her children all slumbered until it was light.
A little old Man, who is popular here,
Has a way of his own, that is almost as queer—
His house is not mostly of leather—but steel;
And, instead of a Shoe, it's an Autombile.
And as for the children, there's room for each
one.
(They all are so happy. so brim full of fun!)
What sport by the roadside to picnic each day—
Pick berries and flowers—then up and away!
Some morning you'll see them—oh, such a big
load
Just flying along, like the wind, on the road!
You cannot mistake them, for all in the car
Are singing and shouting wherever they are.
Their laughter and noise can be heard half a
mile,
But every one nods or responds with a smile.
I'd far rather ride with this Man—wouldn't you?—
Than dwell with the "Woman who lived in a
Shave —St. Nicholas,
THE DARKEST HOUR
RERE
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men in black watched the
£3
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ier was there now. Only a few min-
before a tiny Pomeranian had escap-
m the house and run yelping its
m into the street. One of the by-
standers had picked it up and carried it
back, wriggling, to the entrance. It had
been passed into the house, from one
flunky to another; then the door closed,
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and again the silence of twilight settled |
Howh, It was for such events the crowd |
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“Er dawg,” said a man in a cabman’s |
coat. , “Hive seen it with ‘er often in the |
“What did she look like?” A woman
with a shawl over her head edged for-
ward eagerly. “Was she 'andsome?”
“She was that, and young.” A boy this
time. He sat on the railing and swung
his legs. "She was an American. My
cousin is a housemaid over there.” The
crowd looked at the boy. To be so close
to the nobility!
The half-light was almost gone. Against
the outer darkness there came a faint,
rose-hued glow fron four windows on the
second floor of the house. The windows
were open, and the curtains waved in the |
Jrosze. Once a woman's figure showed |
1 .
“Er moth~r,” the cabmam said. He |
seemed to be an authority. “Did you |
smell the lilies? They've taken in flowers |
by the cart-load.”
“Was it true, what the papers said, that
he married ‘er for her money?” The
woman with the shawl again. Her tone
was wistful, and somebody laughed.
But the crowd was tiptoeing again.
The door had opened, and a woman in
black crossed the pavement. Behind her,
bareheaded, was a fair, tall young man.
He put her ints the carriage deferential-
ly, and stood with his head bent listening
to some final word. For five seconds the
crowd did not breathe; then he closed
the carriage door, and, turning, went into
the house.
“The Dowager Dutchess of Belford,”
announced the cabman, “and the duke,
himself.”
It had seen a great moment. Nothing
$0 momentous could be expected again.
Night had come; the line of carriages
had gone. The crowd slowly dispersed
without speech. The little woman with
the She) Was the Is to go; she stood
one, locking up at the windows across,
and once she sniffled audibly. Then she
reached under the park railing and drew
out a rickety bulator. It was at
that moment she saw the American.
He was looking up too. The street |
lights had come on and showed him re-
spectable and elderly. He had been there,
unnoticed, unheeding, for some time.
Only once had he moved; when the duke
had come out, he had bent forward as if
searching the handsome face for some-
thing that was not there. Then—he had
back into the shadows.
woman with the shawl was loath
to go. She stood moving the perambula-
tor back and forward. Finally, by way of
conversation, she threw out a tentative
remark.
“These great folks have their troubles,
same as the rest of us,” she ventured.
He did not hear her. She moved closer
to him.
“Excuse me,” she began, on another
track. " "Ave you 'eard if the child is
still living, sir?”
That reached him. He had been back
in America, back a dozen years ago with
the little girl who was a woman now and
lay dead in a He muttered some-
i inar ate, hy sufficed. ’
mes a things,
even in the peerage,” A “I know
since this one came”+~she indicated the
pesambultor—Smy rans been comin’ |
ome regular, ‘e's t good to me,
sometimes I think it can’t be 'imself.”
. The American turned and stared at
er. i
“Do you mean,” he said, thickly, "that |
the—that the duke ill-treated his wife?” {
{
| ed for me, Helen.”
ing i to have snapped. He
knew a be wa in a sual
room, scent flowers, ‘
that an organ was playing softly not far
. Then the duke's secretary came |
in; he had a card in his hand. The older
man did not remember giving his card.
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RESEESS
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y.
“You know what country churches
are,” the familiar voice was saying. “The
organ is out of the question, but we are
taking down the choir boys from St.
Pancras. It is so good of you to offer
roses.”
“You are wonderful”; a nasal tone now,
“In your terrible affliction, to be so capa-
ble! It is the only thing American about
you—your resourcefulness. Roses for
the screen. and—oh, yes—you mentioned
lilies-of-the-valley.”
“She always loved them. Godfrey is
mending to Shat* 5
“Godfrey is like you, he keeps up quite
wonderfully. Only married a year, poor
boy. Well, I must not detain you. Lord
Avondale is well?”
“Quite well. Thank you so much for
your suggestions. The church has been
such an anxiety.”
“I am only too glad to be of use. Good-
bye, dear Lady Avondale. You have my
t sympathy. My heart aches for
you. Roses for the screen, you say, and
orchids everywhere else.”
The voice trailed down the stairs.
The woman in the hall stood for a
moment in Thought. He could see her
now, but the sight of her affected him
hardly at all; she was as unreal as the
flowers outside the church that had with-
ered years ago.
It was characteristic that the woman
did not start when she saw him. She
closed the door behind her, and they
faced each other. The lilies-of-the-valley
lay between them on the table. And
suddenly the man's rage left him. Far
apart as the years had brought them, this
one thing, this common grief, belonged
to them alone. He forgot everything
save that the mother of his child faced
him across the table, and he held out
both his hands.
“She asked for me, Helen, and—I am
too late,” he said, huskily. “Too late.”
There was no response in her face; she
did not meet his hands. Instead, she
turned and looked at the door; it was se-
curely closed. Then she turned and
looked at him, at his rugged, stricken
face, at the disarray of his dress, at the
Suivering hands that had dropped to the
table.
“Why did you come?” she demanded.
He did not comprehend.
“Come?” he repeated. “Why should I
not come? It was so many years—I
thought she had forgotten, but—she ask-
She closed her eyes. To live it all
again— this nethermost hell—and not to
shriek. "She was delirious,” she said.
Still he did not understand. He was
not subtle; he only stared at her. Then,
gradually, bitterness crept into his face.
“You couldn't leave me even that,” he
|
last ni
What
“There is very little to say to anyone,” |
the duke began. “If you want details, I |
don’t know any, except that it was a,
- ! the father of the duchess—if he comes
“Who was with her?”
oF, :
i the best in London; | The secretary hesitated. He had
‘our physicians,
they tell me rIviing Was done—"
ies tell you! erent you
“No. The child was not expected—so
soon. Do you think that just now we
need to go over all this?”
"1 do. So you were at the races, were
“Yes.”
“Was her mother with her?”
“Godfrey!” Lady Avondale turned ap- |
Eeahingly. The duke paid no attention,
and sharp as the questions came
the responses.
“No.
“I was in Paris,” she broke in. “The
ascouchement was not expected for a
Ww ”
“Your mother?” demanded the Ameri-
can. “Could she have been with her?”
“No.” But this time the duke flushed.
The older man put his hand to his
shaking lips. *“‘Alone!” he said, when he
speak.
would have left in trouble, and you let
her die alone, without her mother or her
shifted his ac- ‘just above the lens, as if into some one's
eyes. Her toes were turned in unmistak-
' ably, and because he had held the cam-
i her
| man. Vat Have you $0 say to her fath- | door.
i OF =
have you to say |
with
era crooked she seemed to stand on the
side of a hill. In the foreground was a
the secretary.
is going; do you wish to see him.”
“No.” The secretary turned to the
“You have made all arrangements
Lats Denham? :
“Everything is arranged.”
The duke seemed to have something
more to say. He glanced at the mantel,
where lay a stem of valley-lilies, broken
and drooping.
“If the man who was here tonight—
back, I wish to see him,” he said, finally. ,
gone
to Eton with the duke, and they had tak-
en their thrashings side by side for years;
! but this was different. The duke turned
his back, and the secretary went out. As
the door closed the duke wheeled.
“Dick!” he called. But the door was
heavy.
The secretary took the bishop to his
carriage. came out together, the
clergyman with the exaggerated light-
ness of the heavy man; the secretary
walked heavily with his head bent. Neith-
er one noticed the man who had emerg-
ed from the trees across, hatless, stag-
gering with weariness.
“I would suggest a touch of pink,” the
bishop was saying, “Lilies make me ill,
| and, besides, they are cold. Pink is not
|
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“Not one of you that she the American. Haggard as he was, the
only cheerful, emblematic of hope, and—
er—all that, but it would greatly improve
the color scheme.”
The secretary closed his eyes. :
As the carriage drove away he faced |
older man was more formidable now than |
he had been earlier. He had himself in!
husband, or even—God help her!—her | hand.
father.”
-| The duke was shaken out of his im- quietly.
passiveness. “I have told you,” he be- forgot.”
on, “it was unexpected—"
Tear to expect it. Alone!” The
t overcame him. The organ, which had
ceased, began again, and the quavering
nexpected hell!” thundered the fath- |
.|er. “You have had three-quarters of a
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ty of | infinite scorn in his voice.
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“I came back to see the duke,” he said, |
“There are many things that I |
“Not tonight,” the secretary protested. |
“It is late, and—" i
“Is he asleep—already?” There was |
“No—but you can understand—" :
“I understand too . much,” sternly, |
minor chords snapped the tension of his ' “There are things to say that cannot
nerves. He relinquished his
grasp of the chair, and stood upright. To
what seemed to him their colossal dis-
dain, he could only oppose his own inar-
ticulate rage. In his limited vocabulary
of commonplaces there were no words
for the storm in his soul. Hetried to ac-
cuse, to threaten, tell them that the Lord ' boy?
had given him this child, and that he
held them responsible. And, instead, he
I go myself.”
“In reply, the secretary led the way |
into the house. Half-way up the stairs the |
father laid his hand on the young man’s |
arm.
“The child!" he said, constrainedly. "A
y i
“A boy.”
The father drew his breath in sharply. | their cost is practically nothing. A piece other parts
babbled that she had asked for him and "God!" he said. “Think of the lonely |
he had been too late, and that she used ! little chap!”
to sleep in church with her head on his
arm.
The door into the hall opened impa-
tiently. Against the light beyond, a
heavy-faced man
ows of the room.
“That you, Helen?” he demanded.
“Aren’t you coming? I want some din-
ner.”
The duke had not turned; the Ameri-
can only glanced at the doorway.
“I do not wish anything,”
dale said, over her shoulder.
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The secretary protested loyally.
“He will have his father,” he said. "He | tWo bits of the stocking, sew them to. | Pends largely upon
i will love the boy for his mother’s sake.” | gether, leaving one end
They had reached the doorway of the |
peered into the shad- | little room again, and the American stop- |
ped there, a hand on the door-frame. |
“For his mother’s sake!” he repeated. |
“Why, man, they left her alone—they
If I thought they had loved her, that she |
had been happy, that any one under God's |
Lady Avon- ' heaven cared as I do—I1"
A door had been opened, and a faint, |
“You'd better come. You'll have a wailing cry came along the corridors.
headache tomorrow, and there'll be the
devil to pay. Then I want to get away.
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ITE 0 4% seme place wiry | gn be Fore gouty. they have made him like his | arms. The wire arms and legs permit of | shorttime. Thi
cheerful. Oh—you there, Godfrey!”
The interruption had been timely. It | father.”
gave the American a moment to gather
himself together, and now he stooped for | he looked from the flowers in the room
his hat. As he bent, he saw a cluster of | to the gray-faced man beside him.
lilies on the ground, broken by Lady
Avondale's clutching fingers. He picked | you are his grandfather,”
it up, crushed as it was, and looked at it.
It seemed to him so perfect a symbol of closed again. Two trained nurses were
Then he threw it | standing in the hall; one of them leaned
that other broken life.
on the ground in front of the duke.
“Step on it! Put your heel on it!” he
taunted bitterly. “Grind
earth. Damn you!”
He pushed the man in the doorway ! child's
aside, and went out.
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it into the tioned them aside.
The three people | wishes to see him.” And he opened the
The American listened.
| the familiar candlestic
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN
DAILY THOUGHT.
The religion of every man must be left to the
conviction and conscience of every man: and it
is the right of every man to exercise it as these
may dictate. This right is in its nature an in.
, rh, ing
A child's party affords almost unlimit-
ed scope to the ingenious hostess in the
way of table decorations, so many simple
and tasteful devices can be contrived at
slight expense, and so many unique ideas
can be worked out without much expense
for centrepieces and favors. A table with
central decoration a Jack Horner pie,
while the ever-alluring Brownies play a
conspicuous part in the general scheme. The
The pie is contrived from a large, rather
deep tin pan, covered with pink tissue-
paper. A sheet of the paper is fitted
across the top of the pan to simulate the
crust, while three additional sheets are
pleated around the sides to afford a cov-
ering as well as an attractive finish. A
plain band of the paper is placed around
the bottom of the pan to hide the edge of
the side covering. The pie serves as a
receptacle for the favors, which are hid-
den from view by the paper crust. Mys-
tery is ever alluring to little folks, and
the knowledge that the pie contains some
souvenirs of the occasion, which they
cannot have until the luncheon is over,
will keep their interests keen until the
party is at an end.
Arranged as though just emerging
from out the pie are a number of little
Brownies. A narrow pink ribbon extends
from each of these quaint figures to a
place-card, which represents a tiny maid
in white sunbonnet and pink pinafore,
with a little market basket on her arm.
Attached to the Brownies’ feet, and hid-
den within the pie, are the favors, which
consist of diminutive market-baskets
filled with pink and white candies.
In the centre of the pie stands a
large Brownie, holding in his right hand
a small candlestick equipped with a tiny |
pink taper. Grouped around the bottom |
of the pie are several additional Bownies,
some of them not more than two inches
{in height, and at intervals tiny walnut |
boats are placed, each provided with a |
small pink taper. These boats are made i
from ordinary walnut-shells, washed clean '
i ! wai i i and left undecorated, and the tiny candle |
quivering | wait. Will you take me to him, or shall | is held in place by d
ng a bit of seal-
ing-wax into the shell and fitting the
taper into the wax before it hardens, |
holding it firmly for a moment. The |
effect of these. taper-holders is unique, |
constituting a pleasing diversion from |
The Brownies are easily made, and
of an old brown stocking will serve as a |
covering for the body, and a bit of cham-
ois will make the head and hands. Take |
n, and stuff
with cotton wool. Then fasten securely
the open end. To the body thus contriv- | f
ed attach the head, made from a piece of
chamois, on which eyes, nose, and mouth
| have been sketched with pen and ink. |
didn’t care. That is what is choking me. | The head is stuffed with cotton wool, |
much in the same manner as the body. |
The ears are tiny bits of chamois, and |
the cap is a piece of the stocking, shaped |
in any manner desired and sewed to the |
The arms and legs are made from
three or four thicknesses of wire cover-
| cent.; available phospho
| cent.,
FARM NOTES.
—In giving medicine to a fowl, com-
monly speaking, what would be consid-
ered the dose for a child is about right
for a fowl.
—The small potatoes and other vege-
tables hat oe not Suitable for human
can to chickens to splen-
did advantage. 4
_—Lice increase very rapidly on the set-
ting hen. Thoroughly insect powder her
before setting, and a couple of times dur-
ing the setting period.
—If we use but one crop on the land
and cultivate it clean all the time the soil
will Quickly be Jokibed of its humus.
\herefore we must follow a proper rota-
tion in order to supply Bu
which we can do little. Some men have
never discovered this fact, however.
—Average fertilizer for corn: Use 800
to 1000 pounds per acre of a fertilizer
containing: Actual potash, 9 per cent.;
available phosphoric acid, 7 per cent. and
nitrogen, 2 per cent. The plant food in
a ton of the above formula may be sup-
plied by mixing 360 pounds of muriate of
potash, 1000 pounds of acid phosphate
and 260 pounds of nitrate of soda,
—Average fertilizer tor fruits: Use
600 to 1000 pounds per acre of a fertilizer
containing: Actual potash, 10 per cent.;
available phosphoric acid, 7 per cent.,
and nitrogen, 2 per cent. The plant food
in a ton of the above formula may be
supplied by mixing 400 pounds of muriate
or sulphate of potash, 1000 pounds of
acid phosphate and 260 pounds of nitrate
of soda. On thin, sandy soils use more
nitrogen.
—Average fertilizer for tobacco: Use
1000 to 1500 pounds per acre of a ferti
lizer containing: Actual 2a 10 per
A ic acid, 5 per
. nitrogen, 3 per cent. The plant
food in a ton of the above formula ma
be supplied by mixing 420 pounds of por |
phate of potash, 715 pounds of acid phos-
phate and 520 po of soda. In the
t regions of Connecticut much
larger quantities per acre have been
found useful.
—The earlier the colt is made used to
the harness, the better broken the ani-
mal will be when it comes time for him
to do some light work. It is easier to
keep colts from learning bad tricks than
to break them of such habits. For that
reason have every strap and rope used
by the colts so strong that there is no
danger of a break. Once a colt finds out
that he can get away from a halter or
of a harness there will be
trouble, perhaps for all time.
—Success in milk and buttermaking de-
s the feed given to the
cow in properly balanced rations. Cows
must have both protein and carbonaceous
oods to do well, and these may readily
be selected in due proportion. The pro-
tein foods are alfalfa, clover, cow peas,
hay, bran, oilmeal, cottonseed meal, oats,
barley, gluten meal and soybeans. The
carbonaceous foods are corn and corn-
meal, corn silage, timothy hay, corn fod-
der, carrots, sugar beets and other beets.
A good balanced ration may be made of
alfalfa or clover hay, silage, corn or corn-
meal. These may be fed in balanced
“I would like to see the boy,” he said, A ed with pieces of the stocking, and the | quantity and the dairyman will soon see
Again the secretary hesitated. Then
“Very well,” he conceded. “After all,
The door into the nursery suite had
forward against the panel, listening. But
everything was still. The secretary mo-
uiet,” he said. “The
—from America—
“We will be
grandfat
in the room stood staring at the broken , door softly.
flower.
Out on the street a fresh crowd had
gathered. He who had been an onlook
er with them before, now became
event. The Srowd surged forward as Be
came out throug the t door. It
watched him as he a street; it
fell back to let him through, and gaped
after as he plunged into the trees and
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The small room just beyond was empty. |
Through the archway could be seen the
A baby’s bed of silver and lace had
been drawn to the center of the floor. Its
occupant was not asleep, for a tiny red
fist waved in the air above the silk of,
the blanket. And on his knees beside
gloom of the park. It might even have | the bed, one arm thrown across it, his
identified him. But another carriage had
arrived; it forgot him, instead.
The house was quiet at midnight. On-
ly one carriage remained—that of the
who, earlier in the evening, had
found a Clovis Eve binding in the library
and had sat entranced ever since. The
book lay in front of him now on a satin-
wood table. The French clock on the
mantle struck twelve, and the good man
raised his head suddenly.
said. “You took her away from me; you | the
cut me out of her life. And now you cut
me out of her death. Have you no pity,
Helen?”
“Only for myself,” she said, dully.
She was looking past him, straight and
cold. Against the wall of her
grief fell back and choked him. He
own heavily and buried his face in
hands. He could not see that
his
sat
his Lady
Avondale had clutched the table for sup-
Bont, and that the lilies broke under her |i
ngers. After a moment he looked up.
a least you can tell me about it,” he
said.
“There is nothing to tell. She had
been perfectly well.
could be was done, but—she went away.”
“She asked for me.” Heseemed to hold
to that. “I—I would like to see her be-
fore I go.”
“You cannot,” she said, sharply. 'The
family is there now.”
He came around to her then and put a
heavy hand over hers, as it lay
the lilies. “The family!” he Tepes
“In God's name, Helen, what am I? The
family! If she was your child, she
mine, too. Can you forget, that?”
“The law gave her to me,” she said,
with gray lips. “I have done the best I
ression | p
Everything that | hands
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he placid face of the young duchess on
its flower pillow took on a
of animation, as a child smiles
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head buried in its laces, was the you
duke. Here, at last, he had thrown o
his mask. All his loneliness, all his love
and grief, all the h that had died, he
was sobbing out at child's bedside.
The bitterness died out of the older
man’s face. What was done was done.
Death was irrevocable; the thing that
had been unbearable was that she had
lived at all, unloved. In the overwhelm-
ing grief before him, his doubts were
swept away. This his child had been
loved and was mourned, and there before
him her child still lived. There was balm
in Gilead. He went through the archway,
and stood looking down at the bent figure.
Then he knelt, too, and put his arm
around the young duke’s shaking shoul-
outside. Over everything
and promise that precedes the early sum-
Ty dan. 's lips twitched, but his
e secre s lips
eyes were on A
“Do not go in,” he said to the nurses.
“Leave them together. If the child cries
Mary Roberts Rine-
oho, iden, of the prevslence of
- e” it is only to
Piserve {he Rumief and ey hoageaetY.
+ | for school wear.
was the hush | ¢
the arrangement of these members in i
any manner desired. Ot course, if one |
does not wish to take the time to fashion '
these queer little figures, they can be!
readily purchased; but if one has a little
leisure time, she will find the work fas- ;
cinating, and then, too, the expense will !
be considerably lessened by using the |
home-made ones. The honbon-dishes are |
simply white paper baskets adorned with |
narrow pink ribbons and fitted with small
ribbon-wound handles tied with tiny bows
in the centre. Small glass candlesticks, |
equipped with pink candles, adorn the ta- |
ble corners. e color scheme of the
whole is pink, brown, and white. |
The question of what to give the little |
folks to eat is one that bothers many hos- |
- | nursery—joyous, exquisite in its furnish- | tesses. Food that is appetizing and en- |
an | ings. The two men stood hesitating.
tirely digestible must be Provided, but |
what it shall consist of is often puzzling. |
Following is a simple menu that may be |
of some assistance in helping to solve .
this difficulty.
Orange punch. i
Sandwiches; olives. |
Creamed chicken; rolls.
Grape salad.
Lemon sherbet; fancy cakes.
Fruit glace. Chocolate.
School dresses just now occupy the
thoughts of fond mammas who are at
home and of not a few who are away, for |
daughters must be properly garbed for
the term's tussle with brain food. Ex- |
treme cases include the mother who gives |
an order for a suitable wardrobe for her
daughters and the one who first looks |
over her closets with the idea of deter-
mining upon what may be utilized and
then purchases other needfuls. A word
of caution may well be offered the too i
economical mother; school frocks must |
stand very hard wear, so that much worn
materials are seldom worth making over
A good serge or cheviot, not worn to
any extent, is likely to well repay altera.
on. i
One woman is to take her navy serge
suit with a five-gore skirt for her daugh-
ter of 15. Th
boon worn isle. Whole will be
pped, pressed on
side. poneed. breadth will be up
a kimono blouse, the lower parts of the
s
@ 2.
a
g
| ter is good cream.
“l would like to see him | hands are bits of chamois attached to the | the quantity required after feeding a
i rty-five to 40 pounds of
corn silage per day, according to the size
of the cow, are enough.
—Undrained soil, being the more com-
pact, remains moist on the surface, and
evaporation from it continues at full speed
long after it Los been checked on the
poro us, drained land. Loose land is
a poorer conductor of heat, and hence
carries less of it down to the lower layers.
The difference arising {rom these condi-
tions is accentuated by another cause:
Water is the hardest known substance to
heat, and, since during most of the time
it is too wet, the undrained soil has more
water in it than the drained, it follows
that it must be colder. With drained
land saving heat because evaporation is
checked, conducting less to the lower
layers, and at the same time being easier
to heat, the temperature of its seed bed
is easily maintained from 5 to 12 degrees
higher than that of the undrained.
magine what this means where land is
to be devoted to corn-growing p
The roots of this crop take most kindly
to a warm and congenial soil, and, indeed,
if the crop is to thrive and produce any-
thing like satisfactory returns, the roots
must have just that kind of surroundings.
To put the matter in the simplest form,
| it may be said that land drainage lessens
surface evaporation,
cooling process.
—Butter made from a single herd of
cows in a small dairy located on the farm,
says a Washi n State bulletin, should
command the highest price of any butter
on the market.
e first essential in making but-
To get simply
means to take ordinary precautions re-
garding clean cows and barn, clean at-
tendants and clean utensils and then
cooling the cream at once after separat-
which is always a
j ing, either by running it over a cooler or
by setting it in ruining cold water and
rring. Cream should not be stored
th any substance having an aroma.
Sweet cream churns hard and gives a
| butter having a fat taste. To sour or
ripen the cream, first, heat it to about 70
degrees F. (use a thermometer) and let
it stand until it has a mild but distinctly
acid taste, or, some sour
milk or buttermilk (starter) to start the
ripening, at the same time holding it at
70 degrees. The best cream for churn-
ing is that which tests about 30 per cent.
has been added.
adjoining. A good rule to fol-
to have the butter come about the
wheat kernels in about thirty or
35
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§2
oF
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