Beworail apan. Bellefonte, Pa., August 1S, 1913. THE COUNTY FAIR. The county fair is coming back— The poster sheets are everywhere, And almost everybody now Is whooping up the county fair. We've had our fill of aeroplanes— We want to see the big fat hog, The patent churn, the trotting dog. The new device that beats a cog, And work around through the catalogue At the county fair. We've always missed the county fair— Its inner and its outer track, The dancing saddler, and the bull About four feet across the back. We're weary of Chautauqua talk— We want to hear the whistle blow, The horses neigh, the roosters crow, The blooded cattle when they low, And the shrill-voiced starter shouting “Go!” At the county fair. It seems as if the world grows coid, And people nowadays don't care For other people in the warm Old manner of the county fair. We're tired of bowing here and there— We want to shout, “How are you, Dan?" “Hello there, Bill!"' and “Howdy, Ann!" And get a warm clasp of the hand From every woman, child and man. At the county fair. The county fair is coming back— And that is probably as well, A little more, and everyone Had disappeared within his shell. The good old plan was better far— We want to meet the human race In some well-decorated place, And be right human for a space Because of coming face to face At the county fair. —Clark McAdams in St. Louis Post-Dispatch. THE WAITING MAN. “When she comes back,” said Elam Crabill with a vague wave of his hand, “I'll have to git to it and fix up these fences and tidy up a bit.” So it was always. Everything was to |. be done “when she comes back.” Noth- ing could be accomplished now nor until the ha ing of the contingency, cer- tain in Elam’s mind, but never to occur so far as the judgment of his neighbors went. “When she comes back I'll begin cultivatin’ the back forty or buy a new hat or go to meeting or take an interest in politics or do anything else that might be suggested; but until then, well, until she comes back, nothing.” It was now fifteen years since she went away. For fifteen years things had been put off until she should return, an event expected every day. Consequently the accumulation of things to do was t. A farm on which things that ought to have been done for fifteen years remain things to do and a man of whom the same facts may be stated run largely to weeds and shabbiness. Elam and the farm divided the weeds and shabbiness about equally, the farm taking most of the former, and Elam the greater part of the latter. A farm that isn’t worked and a man that doesn’t work grow to be more or less alike in general appearance and effectiveness. You got the impression that things would grow on Elam, if he were carefully cultivated, and that the farm suffered from a dimming of the mind, a sort of softening of the brain. The longer matters continued the more the farm grew to resemble a shiftless man and the man to put you in mind of a neglected farm. Neighbors argued with Elam that she would never come back; but Elam was not to be convinced. “Some day she'll remember,” he insisted. “I was good to her, and she knowed me well enough to be sure I always would be. She thinks about me; yes, she does. Maybe she's thinkin’ about me this very minnit.” Here the old man stopped to consider this possibility, and his eyes looked far away at something that made them seem very kind and patient. “Folks always come home sometime,” he went on, “and this is home. She's been a long time comin’; but any day may fetch her now.” “More like she's dead,” Neighbor said sourly. “No,” Elam replied confidently. “Not without comin’ home. She'd come home to die. You don’t know much about women, Neighbor, not much to speak of. But I've been studyin’ them fifteen year mighty careful, and I've found out some mighty strange things, things that you wouldn't b'lieve was so if I was to tell you. And the strangest of all of them is that there ain't no bad women, is bad men all right, bad all the way through. but not women. Some does bad things, fearful bad; but most of the bad things done they're bad but because they're . Don’t sound reasonable, does it? ew you wouldn't put no credit into it; but it’s so. Thebad on a woman don’t set in. It's like the shell on the aig that there hen's braggin’ about layin’, all hard and coverin’ the outside; but the part of the aig that’s worth while is in- side, and so ‘tis with a woman. And, Neighbor, that inside don’t never spile. That there, Neighbor, is one of the rea- sons why I know she'll come back.” “But ‘your wife run off with some- body,” Neighbor insisted. “Maybe so, maybe so. I ain't never been sure whether she did or not. But if she didn’t run off with nobody, then she’s been with somebody since and ma more'n one for all I know. It ain’t likely to have been no other way, Neighbor. But she ain't forgot me nor that I'll be keepin’ a home for her Never fear about that! And when she's had enough of doin’ without me, she'll be comin’ back. ’ “And you'd take her in?” Elam looked at Neighbor with the first surprise he had shown for a matter of six or seven years. “Take her in? Course I'd take her in. That's what I'm waitin’ for. Seems like I can't do nothin’ but wait. It's what I'm for, When I'm done § by women ain't because 3 H id :’ {Bl hs L g g ga : i : i : i Bs iil i i the post and instead of replacing it in i 8 58 ga 8 { =X Ee 0 g 2 approach- | g sprang it, and kicked her shoes against the trunk and spoke. The dust was in her very “I'd be much obleeged for a drink,” “Cert’nly, cert’'nly. Step tin and set. I'll fetch a pitcher and Step t in and set.” e woman sank wearily on the lower step and relaxed her body against the step above. To miss no breath of the scarce noticed breeze that played there in the shade, she removed her sailor and unconsciously fanned herself with it. Presently Elam returned with the water and pouring a glass held it out to her. Its coolness was so refreshing to her fingers that she clasped it in both hands before carrying it to her mouth. Then she drank deep and thirstily. “Walkin’ far?” asked Elam. His ques- tion was not from curiosity but from a sense that he ought to say something to his temporary guest. “I don’t know,” said the woman after a long pause. She did not look at Elam; but now and again her eyes turned up the road she had traveled, and when saw nothing the worried lines slip- for an instant from her forehead. “Lookin’ for work?” Elam was inspired by a desire to be of assistance if possi- ble. The woman shook her head. She shut her eyes and rested, and Elam asked no further question. After a while she opened her eyes again and looked in- reat up the road. “When can I get a train out of town?" she asked. “Which way?" “I don't care.” She spoke hurriedly, tremblingly. “Any way, just so I get away from here.” She sat upright. “I gol to get away, and I hadn't ought to be settin’ here.” She arose wearily and drew a deep breath. Elam watched her with aroused in- terest. “Better set again. You're p nigh done up, and there ain’t no train till six. Just set there and rest; there ain't no call to hurry.” She sank down again with a gesture almost of despair. “Not till six. Not i till six. That's hours, and he'll have | time—" She checked herself suddenly. Elam began to rub his cheek and to chew more aggressively on his spear of grass. When he spoke it was to utter something which seemed to have no con- nection with present events or previous conversation. “Ie there's lots of husbands set- tin’ at home waitin’ for wives to come back,” he said. The woman started erect and looked at him wide eyed. He seemed not to notice her, however, and went on as i though carryi on a conversation already well way. "It ain't no onusual thing for a wife to go away from her husband. Lots does it. [ don't s’ there's a town in the State where there ain't a man that’s waitin. Did you ever think about that—about the man waitin’ and waitin'?"’ The woman trembled violently and rested for against the porch. There was fear in her eyes. “How—how did you know?” she whis- pered. Elam smiled. “I ain’t had nothin’ to do these fifteen years but study about wom- en,” he said gently. “So you've made up your mind to leave him?” She nodded and bit her lips. “I got to. I can't stand it no longer. Prob py wine ; your any more, ain't you?” Again she nodded. * ” he said, “it ain't right. If you're sure think it's to you wrong with him then it's right to leave 2 Only want to be sure you think so. don't cut no figger whatever; it's wheth- er you think honest it is wrong.” The woman did not answer, but sat “Ain't he treated you RL “He—he’s always been good to me.” Elam nodded Es ¢ 2 FRE | > 3 7 Ii g husband “Would he force you to go him?” “No,” she said dully, “but he'd ask me “Yes,” agreed Elam, “likely he would. Bo back, but he wouldn't you go. t he shan't have a chance to ask you if you're certain sure don’t want him to. [I'll see to that. ou can get clean away and him never see al iRE iF wi you, and he'll have to go back home one. I s'pose there's lots of men goes back home alone and waits. Sometimes I git to thinkin, about all them men that’s settin’ to home or puttering around ‘ the farms or businesses just a-waitin’ and a-waitin’. Some of them understand and some of them don’t. Some is sore and angry, and the waitin’ is hard. Others understands and is just sorry and patient, but they're all waitin’, and wait- in’ is weary business. Did you ever do much waitin'—the kind of waitin’ that | matters?” She shook her head again. “l know how ‘tis with then waitin’ husbands In the mornin’ they git u and say to themselves, ‘Maybe she'll | come back today.’ they goes to bed at night they thinks that tomorrow is the day she'll be comin’ along. They git so they can’t do nothin’ but just wait. Maybe some is stronger willed than others and can hide it; but inside of them there ain't nothin’ but hard, don't it?" Elam looked at the woman covertly; but her face was turned from him, her eyes fixed on the road, and he could not to you. It will be a nice damp, even ked ic- | - i egan morn- of a tree. Finally she cleared her throat seg that her features wor! spasmodic- | musty-smelling letter, for these are wet, upon a very el t little lady this y. “I wouldn't never criticize no woman for leavin’ her h " he went on after a brief pause. “Nobody kin j them but mselves, ‘cause n knows what they know. Butif I was a woman and thought of leavin’ a waitin’ man behind me, I guess I'd try to be sure that I done right in goin’, en git notions, and none can blame them; but a notion ought to be turned into a sure certainty before it’s acted on. | It ought to be thought over real careful on account of the responsibility of leavin’ | had so many bugs and worms to devour top of the net waist and a pale pink | a man benind to wait till she comes * “Till she comes back,’” echoed the woman. “Yes,"” Elam said trustfully, “until she | comes back, for she'll come back when she’s got enough of things out there.” He gestured widely with his arms, signi- And every timea! woman comes up the road they shades their eyes and hopes its her, and when | | i i = £ : i : g § = = g for you, " said Elam, “that's what you'll n'—jest waitin’, and she'll come. i HE g 2 E t i 5 g § g to her cheeks limbs trembling; but in her ! a light—not a glitter now but a | glisten—the shining of a softened hard- ness. i ~~ wy bey. and leaned forward ly, but si ! “You—you needn't do no waitin’, . George,” she said softly. “I'm goin’ to i set in that extry seat. He's right,” she | said pointing to Elam. “I ain't bad, only | mistaken.” | Her husband supported her down the | walk and assisted her with tenderness ‘into the carriage. Neither spoke to the ' other; there was no need. Nether did . they speak to Elam. He smiled, and his - smile grew in contentment as they dis- appeared up the burning road—home- ward bound, and he returned to the porch.—By Clarence B. Kelland, in Pic torial Review. ' FROM INDIA. y One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern | Country. The Wet Season. Rain Every Day, and Mildew, Mould and Dampness Every- | where. This to Continue Three Young Bride's Qutfit. Much Sickness and Little Care Given the Suffering. ' Dear Home Folk: JHANsI, AuGusT 9th. | While listening to the shrieks of the ! children, andlet me inform you that, oth- . waitin’, always waitin’. Seems kinda er things being equal to their lung pow- , er, these Hindus would surely be a strong | race, I am going to try to write a little | wet days. Some days the rain falls all the i time, on others a few hours of sunshine Months. A time; of course the rain water here is warm. The Philadelphia paper comes regular- ly. fighting, but of course | knew long ago, from the Indian paper, who had been nominated; there are generally little squibs telling the biggest news of the States each day, | then wait for the de- At present Miss alone in the bungalow, but being a large place we don't really see much of each other except at meals; the others, Dr. McMillan with a felon, Miss McCums having fallen at the mountains and brok- en a wrist, her collar bone and badly in- juring her back, are not likely to come back for several months. Miss McLean is still in the hills but will return about the 17th. I just wish you could hear the amount of noise a frog, which is not much larger than a walnut, is making just now. I believe his jaws are of stone and he is trying to grit his ivory teeth; truly I never heard such a curious noise and he sits there blinking in the most uncon- cerned way at me. He hopped into my room two days ago and yesterday, seat- ing himself on the doorsill between Dr. McM'’s room and mine began this out- landish noise. I stood it for a time then rebelled and opening the door upset him backward into her room, but guess he loves me best for he has returned by way | of the hall and other door. I will have to return him to the out-doors where he will find myriads of others, not so far grown, True, but it rained frogs (?) one day last week and now one is afraid to | step anywhere for fear of feeling a little | soft squash under your foot. Wednesday morning —I made a call "ing; her father is assistant collector of | this district and a big man. This young | with heavy showers both day and night. | lady reads and writes and is not married, | Our clothes, bed, hair, books, in fact, our | although fifteen years old, so you see she ! very brains, (of which I doubt if I have any remaining) are always in a state of Lis quite in advance. But I wanted to tell i you of her clothing; next the skin was a I rather enjoyed the convention’s i { FARM NOTES. —A well-kept lawn about the farm- { house is a testimonial to the farmer's i and refinement. It makes | home life more cheerful. It adds a neat- | ess 4 she cee, i prompts ambition: to | keep all other surroundings in a at- | tractive condition. Rural Ig A i more tempting when there is order and ! neatness about the i A well | ment more than reckon. i i i | times Bee nd moisture supply, with | full power to handle an excess during a | rainy season by drainage, as well as to | store up moisture from its depths during a drouth. i A dense sod is obtained in clay soils | when productive; an excellent greensward , is secured in clay loam soils, when care- i fully handled and well drained; a silt | loam soil, if properly drained and amply | supplied with organic matter; the same | conditions in a loam soil will also main- | tain a good lawn. —In sandy soils there is a study. A coarse, sandy soil makes a very poor | lawn. A fine, sandy soil, when accom- | panied by a clay or clayey subsoil, such as is generally found in South Jersey, gives a good permanent lawn, when a | mixture of suitable grasses is used. Sandy | loam soils make excellent lawns if prop- , erly drained and amply supplied with or- | ganic matter. Such soils, with a clay or sandy clay subsoil, frequently produce : lawns that rival those made in a clay loam or a silt loam. It is important, for a good lawn, that | the subsoil be not too near the surface. | The soil itself should be from. six inches | to a foot or more in depth, for the rea- | son that a subsoil, however good it may be, is a poor substiute for a surface soil. It is not advisable to use a subsoil | in lawn making unless covered fully with | from six inches to a foot with good sur- | face soil. The subsoil in its general char- | acter should be very much like the surface | soil, but heavier in texture when under- i i | lying sandy soils. While the subsoil should allow drai yet at all times it should be moist. ing the wet season it should contain plenty of water which, later, during dry spells, it should be able to furnish to the surface soil and the roots therein. In the case of the subsoil being of a perty | dampress and mildew. The grass is up | thin, yellow, net-tight fitting waist, all | bad texture, as, for instance, an impervi- Hecially if the man had been good to me. | to one’s knees and the animals that feed | seams and a few cross places supported om upon it are now so fat I think they will | soon burst and, whereas the feathered | by yellow satin, orange silk skirt with a | broad band of purple about the bottom, | ous clay, the drainage will bebad and the | soil cold and wet, unmanageable and un- ! productive. If the subsoil consists of a | loose, sandy material, it will, being tuo | folk, or “logue” as they say here, have la pale blue silk scarf about the body on 'leachy, become too dry and therefore un- | they refuse common, ordinary fare and only get ina hurry when a particularly | fat, juicy one comes along. This morning I heard a great fussing { along the door-frame and going to inves- tigate the trouble (always on the look- | “chuda” or head scarf completed the out- fit. Her arms were covered to the el- bows with bracelets, and she had on a | few curious finger rings but neither nose | nor ear-rings except one thin hoop with a magnificent emerald swung in it, in fying the world at large. As he did so, | out for snakes) I found a little fat, green | each ear. Oh, that I could speak the he saw a new cloud of dust appear far down the road and paused to scrutinize it. “Does he drive a rorrel hoss?” “Yes.” “He's a-comin’ then. Now you got to make up your mind what you're goin’ to do. If you want to go away I won't lay a straw in your and I'll see to it he don't catch you. Jest step into the house outa sight. Remember, whatever you do is right, even if you do turn him into a waiter—a waiter like me.” The woman hesitated, let her eyes wander once more Along the yellow line of the road which seemed to quiver, al- most to bubble and seethe with the heat, and with her knuckles pressed to her mouth swiftly into the house. Elam refilled the pitcher with water from the well. As the horse came abreast of the gate Elam poured a brim- ming glass raised it to his lips. It was an a that the driver could not resist. e sight of that ccol, sparkling water caused his hands automatically to tighten on the reins, and he brought his horse to a standstill. “Have a glass?” called Elam. “Tie and come into the shade. Feller's throat gits drivin’ on a day like this.” Mutely the man alighted and secured his horse to the tree, and slowly he came | up the rickety walk to the porch. Elam was waiting for him, a full glass in hand. The man drank eagerly and the glass filled a second time before he spoke. “Seen a woman this way—walk- in’?” he said h , “What kind of a woman?” Elam in- glired with his eyes on the stranger's ace, taking stock of him and determin- what manner of man he was. svmarried woman,” said the stranger “H—m,"” said Elam. “Your wife?” “Yes.” The man looked at Elam with tired eyes and sank on the porch from which his wife had but now arisen. 1 WE husities > Cg AW expect I might as you; know it perty soon. She's leavin’ me, and I'm tryin’ to catch up with her. She left a note.” ‘Leavin’ with another man?” asked Elam with a t callousness. The man half rose to his feet, and his chin jutted out belligerently. ‘No, not th no other man. I want you to un- derstand that my wife ain't that kind of She may be leavin’ me, but she’s a good woman, Mister. There never was a better. I don't know, for fhe life of mo, why she's up and done thing; but there ain't no wrong-doin’ connected with it.” 3 bad—only | Jute tryin’ to catch up with The man considered. Evidently he had formed no plan and had no idea what he do if he overtook his wife. Fol- lowing instinct he had started in pursuit —that was all. When he spoke it was with care. His words were the result of 1 come up with her,” he said, “I'd first say to hor, Sus, there Zs fo harm there's a spare in this here buggy. It's for you if you want it." ” Elam nodded slowly and understand- BY: he don’t want it,” the man went on, “I'll ask her what I done to make her go away and leave me, and whatever the reason is, whether it's somethin’ I really done, or just ’ she or has had told to i somethin her, I'll do my best to ex- plain stand sake hes feu) that it won't “And if she won't come, no matter what you say?” “Then,” the man said with a break in hisvoice. “T'll say to her, ‘Susy, you lizzard trying to swallow a worm nearly as large as himself. I wondered how he | would breathe after he got his “tidbit” inside himself but later I saw him scram- ble for a fly and I decided he was made of | rubber. Truly nature is cruel and I never | seemed to see it so plainly as here where { numbers. | Squirrels sit up and wave a morning salute as I go to the hospital and were my arms a few inches longer I could eas- ily pick them up by their tails so tame they are; the hares come to see us each evening, great things with powerful back legs and extremely sensitive hearing, but they come right up to the door. The na- tives are especially fond of a tame quail and going along the road one often sees a man followed by one of them just like | a cator dog. i Later—The people began flocking in in such numbers that I did not get a chance to write longer and only took an occasional minute to put a fly back on a piece of sticky fly paper (from Ohio) on | our table in the dispensary, until ten o'clock came and I was free to come home for breakfast and then, being sleepy, left yqu wait until this evening, for last mght one of the very worst thun- der storms | ever saw roused me up about three o'clock and I am afraid I did not get much sleep after that. Strange as it may seem the heavens get inky | black and the wind roars; rain and dust storms are quite natural but thunder and lightning with a storm here is most un- usual and if that of last night was a sample I don’t want the real thing. We can also furnish nice white ants that have wings for a short time, and while having them they nearly beat your face sore for they have no sense of direc- tion so just bump around; the next morning your floor is simply covered with discarded wings and a short time later you are oyerjoyed to find nice large holes in your garments that are hanging in plain open sight. My books that have leather backs are all mouldy; I hope they will not mildew. Our most prized pos- session these days is an emery bag; our hat pins, needles, etc., all kept in tin boxes must, nevertheless, be treated to a dose of emery when you are about to use them. Thus far (August 9th) from July 8th, we have had about 22 inches of rain fall; we are due to have thirty inches, but if it keeps on coming as it has it will far exceed that figure. These rains are suppos- ed to break off about the first of October, and I am told that this is the very best rain fall that Jhansi has had for five years, so all are rejoicing. I hope I'll not be a mud cake before October. If you want palms to grow stand them in a bright spot and simply soak them all the time in water. The ones on our come very beautiful and they are soak- have sent out three or four leaves ing this last month. During the weather stand your palm out under trees and let them be soaked all front porch, fifteen in number, have be- | 33 ing constantly. I think that all of them | 125 dur- 27 language; I get along allright so far as medicine goes but I miss so much that I want to know, talking through an inter- preter. | 1did a little operation today and do ! hope it will help the poor woman to see | a bit better than before. This is the , Ma'am, that | all forms of animal life are found in such | weather for all sorts of colds, rheuma- | tism and cholera so that the most of our sixty-five patients this morning had some symptoms of dysentery, or else the real thing. The cases come in groups; today intestinal, tomorrow eye, next probably abscesses, etc. I never in my life saw such neglected cases; would think themselves too ill to even move and these poor souls come stagger- ing into the dispensary moaning, maybe dying in a few hours, or if the eyes, both so far gone you can only hope to stop vital part, and really I sometimes think perhaps to die is easier, when to live means poverty, blindness and suffering, live if we can. (Continued next week.) —A supply of water is necessary to a A a or 1 : = i g H & : | 3 gad 8 £ 4 siEE | I ‘ 7 3 g § § 3f i; : il : ] i &F ; i : | 282 at home folks | the process before it attacks some more | but you know we have to make them ' able to store up water in it, or draw up through it from greater depths. This will be especially so during dry spells. Hardpan formations are other bad soil conditions, and are usually layers of soil cemented together by lime or iron com- pounds, thus acting as an effectual bar- rier to the movement of moisture, either upward or downward. Such conditions, which, however, are not by any means common, can be used for lawns. —The growing grass secures, through the medium of the soil fluid, the pro- ducts of solution of the soil materials, inorganic and organic, good and bad. Potassium, calcium, magnesium, phos- phorus, nitrogen and other elements re- quired for its nutrition are obtained from soil fluid. It takes these away from the soil fluid by the process of absorp- tion by the growing root, and when the seil is in a healthy condition this ab- Sorption proceeds in a normal manner. If, however, it should be imperfect the absorption of the plant is seriously in- terfered with. The water of the soil fluid itself is the most important, for this | is absolutely required for grass It must be remembered that the greatest | drawback to the establishing of a good lawn is an inadequate supply of water | during periods of prolonged dry weather. | A heavy retentive subsoil acts as a soil i | reservoir to Supply the sod on the sur- y needed. | face with water wi A soil that is moderately moist and contains a considerable percentage of clay is the best suited for a good lawn. A strong clay loam, or a sandy loam under- laid by a clay subsoil, is an ideal soil for ‘a lawn. ! Fall planting in many sections of the | coun preferred to spring. Seeding LO latter part of August or the month of September, for latitudes be- . tween Washington and Boston, has pro- duced excellent lawns, where all other | i i - | matters were equal. The work must be thoroughly done, the seed bed made very fine, and every precaution taken to give ideal conditions for the germination of the seed. It is best to do the sowing at a time when the fall rains are most plen- tiful. Grass seed should never be sown a dry |, unless means for watering are at There is an advantage in fall planting in allowing a number of weeds in the area to germinate and be killed by the frosts and the freezes of the winter. There is little of loss of grass by severe weather if it attains a height of ! about three inches before winter sets in. | = tion of cli a newly | establ lawn should not be delayed As soon as 3 o88 { i : ] a § | 2 ; 2 ® @ g : : 58 : i : # £ g8E5 g I : g ah 11 fi i g : £5 i g % 2 § : E : i ! i : i i : : 2g i i! is ' ti 935 £ ; ; i i i : hE | i L g g | i Fi B g
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers