Bem Nidpan,
Bellefonte, Pa., January 23, 1914.
CHICKENS COME HOME TO ROOST.
(Recited by the Rev. W. A. Sunday at Pittsburgh !
in His Sermon to Men.) {
You may take the world as it comes and it goes
And you will be sure to find,
That fate will square the account she owes
Whoever comes out behind.
And all things bad that a man has done
By whatsoever induced
Return at last to him one by one,
As the chickens come home to roost.
You may scrape and toil and pinch and save
While your hoarded wealth expands
Till the cold, dark shadow of the grave
Is nearing our life’s last sands;
You will find your balances struck some night,
And you'll find your hoard reduced,
You'll view your life in another light,
When the chickens come home to roost,
Sow as you will, there's a time to reap,
For the good and the bad as well,
And conscience, whether we wake or sleep,
Is either a heaven or hell.
And every wrong will find its place,
And every passion loosed
Drifts back and meets you face to face,
When the chickens come home to roost,
Whether you’re over or under the sod,
The result will be the same;
You cannot escape the hand of God;
You must bear your sin or shame.
No matter what’s carved on a marble slab
When the items are produced,
You'll find that St. Peter was keeping tab,
And that chickens come home to roost.
—Ernest McGaffey.
PETER FREMWELL’S LEADING
WOMAN. !
Calling upon Margaret one evening,
she told me that the managers of the
Eagle Theatre had sent her two seats for
the opening night of a much heralded
play, “Count Your Change,” in which
Peter Fremwell was to appear, supported
by Alice Bennett, a youthful actress in
whose career Margaret said she had tak-
en much inserest ever since meeting Miss
Bennett at a reception and talking with
her on the subject of the drama.
“She seemed to regard her work with
such faith and seriousness that I have,
as the saying is, kept my eye on her ever
since. This play is, I believe, her first
big opportunity, and I am eager to see
her prove herself. Of course Fremwell
must have divined her quality or he never
would have taken her on. They call him
Attila the Hun, I believe, on Broadway,
because of the scourge he is at reher-
sals.”
“Did you ever meet him?” I asked with
a passing twinge of jealousy.
“Often! he is delightful to meet casu-
ally. I should say his fierceness was
only in the cause of art. Will you go
with me to this opening night?”
Seated in our chairs before that veil of
Isis, a theatre curtain, Margaret and I
confessed to each other on the opening
evening of “Count Your Change” that
we were still unjaded enough to be thrill-
ed by a first night. A play was such a
humen thing. To see it fail was to be
embarrassed as by the maladroft gesture
of a friend. To behold its success was
to rejoice as in a friend's triumph over
difficulties, each dramatic victory being
an affidavit that man was greater than
fate.
“I am afraid Alice Bennett is very
nervous tonight,” Margaret commented.
“She is a high-strung little woman, and
so much is at stake!”
“I should think Fremwell himself would
be a bit uneasy—since she has to justify
his discrimination as well as her own
talent.”
As eight o’clock, the hour for the cur-
tain, drew near, we saw that there would
soon be standing room only. By and by
a hush settled upon the audience prelim-
inary to the restlessness which marks
its consciousness of delay. Of course,
first nights do not always go smoothly,
so we settled ourselves for a wait.
Suddenly the orchestra stopped in its
hectic rendering of a popular melody to
permit someone to be heard who had
stepped before the curtain. This individ-
ual, who seemed an understudy or other
supernumerary, inquired if there were a
physician in the audience. A middle-
aged man sitting next to Margaret rose
at once in response to the summons.
My companion turned an anxious face
to me.
“Stage fright makes them ill some-
times,” she said. “I hope it isn’t Alice
Bennett.”
“Whoever it is—he or she is probably
holding the curtain, and that is a pretty
important thing.”
At the expiration of about ten minutes
the physican came back to his place with
a slightly puzzled air, and perceiving that
Margaret and I had observed his return
with interest he said to Mrs. Carpenter:
“Nerves are mighty queer things,
aren’t they?” .
This statement being too general for
other than a mild assent, he began to
relate the particulars of the case upon
which this remark bore.
“I've just seen an example of what can
be effected through an association of
ideas. There can be no harm in telling
you—since the congregation behind the
curtain, at least, is in possession of the
facts—that Miss Bennett is in a state of
extreme agitation because her sister, of
whom she is very fond, has left the thea-
tre without explanation. It seems that
Miss Bennett sent a note to this girl,
whose chair was C-112, asking her to
come to the dressing-room a moment,
and the girl, who is only eighteen, was
neither in her chair where Miss Bennett
had herself seen her safely seated nor
could she be found in any part of the
theatre.”
“This has just happened?”
asked.
“Ten minutes ago. Now it seems that
this sister has been in a state of great
anxiety over the plays, and her leaving
her seat just before the curtain is in
itself strange—but what put Miss Ben-
nett into a nervous collapse is not just
the disappearance but the association of
ideas of which I spoke. Five years ago
another member of her family dropped
suddenly out of sight. Do I make it clear
that what is passing in her mind now is
almost a photographic repetition of the
emotions evoked five years ago by the
other event. But those feelings of gradual
anxiety, then alarm, then suspense and
despair must have extended over a period
of months, while now they are, as if by a
focusing glass, concentrated in a few
moments—unlucky moments for Frem-
Margaret
well and the success of the play,” he
addad.
“She’s no better, then?” Margaret was
dismayed.
“l administered a simple restorative, | we can only clear this up before the
but her agitation will probably continue ! third act!”
| until her sister is in her place again, since |
| there was no reason on earth for her street, within a few doors of each other,
leaving it.”
“Perhaps,” Margaret said, “the sister
stray lock of hair.”
The physician shook his head. “They've
searched the theatre.”
Margaret pondered a moment, then ' her, and my masculine mind was slow to
| asked me for a pencil and a slip of paper. ' picture any flower that she could appro-
: Obtaining these she scribbled a note and
| passed it to one of the ushers, who dis-
appeared behind the boxes, returning a |
moment later and making a signal to.
Margaret, who turned to me, saying:
“I think you can come too.”
Wondering what her intention was I
followed her and soon found myself be-
hind the scenes, where the electric atmos-
phere which always prevails on a first
night seemed heightened to a forked
lightning blend of nerves and tempers.
We passed through an avenue of the
sullen and the agitated, finding refuge in
a quiet alley where the light streaming
from a dressing-room displayed the actors
in this unexpected crisis. I don’t know
how the impression came to me, but see-
ing the still group about Alice Bennett,
who sat like one devoid of life before her
mirror, her face chalk-white beneath its
make-up, I knew that the invisible lash
was being used to galvanize her into mo-
tion. The manager, his face cruel with
apprehension, was using it; Peter Frem-
well, who seemed suffering with Miss
Bennett as well as inflicting pain upon
her, was using it; her understudy was
wielding it, but with a wrist. robbed of
strength by a vision of opportunity.
Margaret went forward. “Alice,” she
said softly.
This voice from the laity seemed to
penetrate to that desert of anxiety in
which the leading woman was stranded,
forgetting even the great responsibility
of her evening. But Margaret received
no answer.
“Alice,” she repeated, “it’s I, Margaret
Carpenter. There's some very simple
explanation of your sister’s absence—and
I shall find her for you while you are
playing.”
She took Miss Bennett’s hand as she
spoke, looking down at her with a warm,
deep gaze, as if she were drawing to the
surface a soul near to its drowning.
“I understand,” she said; “you're over-
strung and suddenly half frightened to
death by a simple incident just because
you are overwrought. But I tell you it’s
all right! Come! They're waiting.”
Alice Bennett began to tremble, but
this visible agitation was the sign of her
return to life. - She spoke with a quiver-
ing lip.
“You see I never got over that first
trouble, which was so mysterious—and
Jean is all I have.”
“I know,” Margaret said soothingly.
“And you are just in a state to fancy the
worst. But the worst never happens
when we fancy it. This is to be a great
evening—and—you must think of others
besides yourself. Make the effort, dear
—at once!”
Her calm, authoritative voice seemed
to restore Alice Bennett’s balance. She
rose shamefacedly and, still holding
Margaret’s hand, turned to the manager.
“I'm better now. I can go on.”
Fremwell addressed Margaret, his
voice brusque with his gratitude and
strange new emotions.
“What good angel sent you here, Mrs.
Carpenter?”
“I had the impulse to come, for I had
been through a somewhat similar experi-
ence myself once. - The chair of the
physician you had a few moments ago is
next to ours, and he told us what was
holding the curtain.”
“You don’t think anything has hap-
pened to Jean?” Alice said pleadingly.
“No, I don’t!” Margaret replied with
emphasis. “Give me your house number
and telephone number.”
“They’ve telephoned already to the
apartment.”
“Give me the numbers anyway, and a
description of your sister. I'll find her
for you!”
Whatever the grounds of her confi-
dence, it was strong enough to restore
strength and courage to the trembling
young woman who, after she had com-
plied with Margaret’s request, faced
Fremwell as a soldier might his general.
“You'll play up,” he said kindly. “But
for heaven’s sake, don’t let your mind
wander once.”
“I daren’t,” she whispered, for she had
only just recovered from a vertigo over
the black gulf of malign possibilities.
She vanished from our sight, a crea-
ture suddenly divested of her attributes
and adjuncts as Alice Bennett in panic
over a missing sister to be that person in
the play whose problems she must at any
cost make real to the audience. With
her were swept away the whip-wielding
manager. Fremwell the caustic, and the
little understudy. We were left in the
glare of the incandescent lights in an
atmosphere smelling faintly of calcimine
and cold cream. The play was not for
us, though a distant thunder of applause
told us that the curtain had at last risen.
“Well,” I said, facing Margaret, “what
shall we do first?”
“I'm thinking,” she replied.
After a moment or two of silence she
began to think aloud. “I can only con-
jure up one good reason for her leaving
the theatre.”
“What?”
“Flowers.”
“Flowers!” I exclaimed. 3
“Yes. In the excitement all day she
probably forgot about them until she
was actually in her chair. Then, having
time to consider, she remembered that
Alice ought to have flowers after that
great climax in the third act.”
“How do you know there's a great cli-
max in the third act?”
Margaret smiled. “There always is—
or ought to be.”
“Ah, that explains her going out, per-
haps,” 1 said dubiously. “But,” I chal-
lenged, “why hasn’t she come back?”
“That is precisely what we have to dis-
cover. It may be an accident, but we
won't telephone the hospitals just yet.
Do you mind very much losing the
play?”
“We'll come tomorrow night again,”
I said, delighted that destiny was favor-
ing me. “Now, where are you going
first?”
“To the nearest florist’s on Broadway,”
she replied. “Naturally, having very lit-
tle time and being in evening dress, she
would go to the nearest flower shop.”
My smile was incredulous but Marga-
ret seemed unconscious of it. Ascertain-
ing first that seat C-112 was still unoccu-
pied, we proceeded on our errand, em-
erging from the stage entrance as two
people upon a vague quest—and certain-
ly an ambitious one—to find a mis-
sing girl in all New York before the last
curtain fell at eleven.
1
§
i
i
| went to the dressing-room to adjust a de.
|
“I hope poor Alice can keep her nerve |
through the evening,” Margaret said. “If
We turned into Broadway. Across the
were two florists for our choice.
“We'll go to both,” Margaret remark-
I was curious to know what would be
her procedure after entering. She her-
self was wearing violets that I had sent
priately ask for, but while considering
this problem I heard her inquire if they
had gardenias. She wanted a gardenia
to put with her violets.
Gardenia! Of course! How stupid of
me!
“I suppose you have a good deal of
trade for the Eagle Theaire’s opening
nights,” she was saying to the clerk. “I
mean complimentary bouquets for the
gear tied up with yards and yards of rib-
n.”
“Yes’'m—sometimes,” he replied. “Not
to-night, though. I guess they was afraid
of a frost, he added with a laugh.
On the sidewalk she turned to me with
asmile. “She wasn’t in there, you see.
New for our next one.”
“Another gardenia?” I laughed.
“No! I am going directly to the point
this time.”
The second shop was larger, with a
greater variety of flowers visible in the
cases and on the counters. Margaret
was looking about her asif searching for
some particular flower when a clerk ap-
proached us.
“Have you no American Beauties?” she
inquired anxiously.
“I'm sorry, but we sold the last two
dozen about half an hour ago.”
“To a young lady?” Margaret said
quickly. “A young lady in an evening
cloak—bare-headed!”
The clerk looked surprised, then con-
sidering a moment he replied, omitting
to subscribe to the description:
“Yes—a young lady. We could send
out—if you care to wait.”
Margaret thanked him, but said we
hadn’t the time. As we reached the
street I began to have a masculine im-
patience of following clues so delicate.
“Have you really proved anything?” I
inquired. “Think of the thousands of
young ladies in New York, the thousands
right here on Broadway.”
[Continued next week.]
FROM INDIA.
By One on Medical Duty in that Far Eastern
Country. Dark and Cold at 6 O’clock. A Pro-
fessional Visit to a Rich Indian’s House. Band
Concert, Etc.
JHANSI, DECEMBER 13th, 1912.
Dear Home Folk:
Life goes on, each day almost like the
one that preceded it and I get up protest-
ing against the world, myself and the
hospital, that I can’t be a lady of leisure
and stay in bed until it is really light, (it
is dark and cold at six o'clock in the
morning.) Then I am usually so nice
and “garm” (warm) in my bed; I almost
run into my clothes, eat my food on the
jump, and off I go to the hospital. After
I have finished the treatments at the hos-
pital I go to the dispensary, and there
the real work of the morning begins.
Such questions as these people ask; a
three year old child at home would un-
derstand easier. I am not trying to ex-
plain, Miss Josefson is speaking in their
own language. There are days when I
am so glad to see ten-thirty come I can
scarcely wait; then again I become so
much interested that ten-thirty comes all
too soon and I go on until eleven-thirty,
when the nurses protest and insist upon
my going home for food.
Days like this one I am taken down to
the city, through the narrow, winding,
glary streets, where every one is walking
barefooted and the “tonga-walla” shouts
to the populace to “make way.” The
“sacred” cows are lying along the side of
the road, silver chains about their necks,
upon which hangs a silver bell, horns
painted yellow, red and green, and they
are never disturbed. The jungle dogs,
scavengers truly, are hunting food from
the gutters. The naked children (cold
as it is) are playing in the dust and glare,
with eyes so sore that it really hurts you
to see them, knowing how soon they will
be blind; and the percentage of blind is
so high in this country. We pass pictur-
esque coolie women with their water jars
upon their heads, and finally we stop at
a “rich Indian’s house.” He is probably
fifty years old, had a dirty ‘“dhoti”
(cloth) around his hips, bare feet and
legs, a yellow padded jacket, that looked
like a vest with sleeves in it, greasy half
its length from the neck, silver buttons,
ear-rings of gold, and a dirty yellow cap
on his head. I would like to think he
had taken a bath recently, but I am afraid
to think. He rises from a bed upon
which he was sitting, smoking his “hook-
ah,” and “salaams,” and leads me through
rooms and rooms—I don’t know how
many—but all small, door little and low
that even I have to stoop to enter; floors
of pure clay, uneven and hard, not one
stick of furniture anywhere to be seen.
The walls are white-washed and native
pictures drawn in colors, crude, repulsive
and uninteresting, except that it repre-
sents the taste of the native owner. At
last I came to a little cupboard like place
and was passing on, when several wom-
en sitting there pointed to a dark cor-
ner and there, lying on a native rope-bed,
with a dirty “rhesi” (comfort) over him;
otherwise a duplicate, as to clothes, of
his father, is a boy of fourteen, the sole
heir of this man’s wealth and heart.
Poor child—thin, sick and dirty. I ex-
amined him and am afraid the germs
of tuberculosis have fastened their death
grip upon his vitals, and all our skill and
his mother’s love will not pull him back
from the journey we all must take. And
yet, the beautiful day, the sunshine of
God's best kind, air clean, clear and in-
vigorating, is all around us, and it is only
food of the best the child needs; but a
| Harrisburg Zelegraph, was written by
School.
Hindu may not eat of flesh nor fowl, so;
he can have no soup, meat, eggs, or
chicken broth, and he dislikes milk. '
What can I do? One thing in his favor,
he has an oil bath from head to feet
three times a week, and must have so
i much cod liver oil rubbed into his skin
three times a day. I hope to break up
his fever and may be—God being willing
—make him well. They are influential
folk and it would mean much to us to
hold their good will. Both my nurse and
myself were hungry and we came back
the way we had gone, riding backward
in the native vehicle, lurching along on
the springless wheels until we could read-
ily close our eyes and imagine we were
sea-sick.
And now I am told the bath is ready,
(hot, as usual, in a stone-cold bath room.)
It seems almost a sin to have to take
one’s clothes off daily in such weather,
but I think of the native smells and I am
eager to avoid even such resemblances.
We went to the club to hear a most |
excellent band. They do play well and I
can imagine that all the very newest mu- |
sic finds its way into India, for that is'
the only way that any music-loving folks
—and there are a few such souls here—
could ever have any desire satisfied.
This climate is so hard on a piano that |
all that I have seen are kept in cotton |
batting, and nearly every one has its cov-
ering of oil-cloth (the heavy, upholster-
ing kind) tacked on, and only raised
when the instrument is used. So really,
general playing is not heard around |
Jhansi.
The bugle from the Fort is sounding
“lights out” and the clocks are striking |
ten, and I am off to bed. You are just
eating your noon-day meal, at least New
York folks are and you are but little dif-
ferent. . I don’t know whatday it is with
you; it has been a most delightful Mon-
day here.
Next week is another big native holi-
day and I may go to see Benares and
Lucknow, although I do not like to be
away from home on such a strictly ob-
served religious festival, especially hav-
ing to go about alone.
The Episcopal “Padre,” Mr. Smith, has
invited us all to their house to dinner on
Christmas night, but I don’t think I will
be there; the others are going, but I
think, as they say here that I am “fed
up on dinners,” I will have mine alone if
I am in Jhansi.
(Continued next week.)
LAKE LUCERNE.
Clearly in thy limpid depths
Mirrored vou return
Snow-capped peaks—majestic mounts
That guard you, Lake Lucerne.
Your moonlit bridges span you like
So many silver beams,
And on a rise against a hill,
A monastery leans.
Where monks at close of toilsome days,
Sore tried and deep depressed,
Gaze down upon your waters calm
And gain a Heavenly rest.
The wearied tourist comes at length
To rest upon your shore;
And in the golden summer months
The city people pour
Into your many hostelries,
Whose lights at night make seem
Your shaded slope a Fairyland,
Lucerne! You glorious dream!
Julia Owen Stamm.
The above, which was taken from the
Miss Julia Owen Stamm, of Harrisburg,
when visiting Lake Lucerne, in touring
Europe with the Balderossi Travel
“The Bible of the Body.”
That title has been aptly given to Dr.
Pierce’s Common Sense Medical Advis-
er, because to the physical nature it is a
“light unto the path and a lamp unto the
feet.” In this book the physical life and
its mysteries are dealt with in the plain-
est English. From life’s Genesis, wan-
dering humanity is followed through des-
ert and wilderness, and before it is al-
ways set the Promised Land of perfect
health and happiness. This great work
is sent free by the author on receipt of
stamps to defray the expense of mailing
only Send 21 one-cent stamps for the
paper-covered book, or 31 stamps for
cloth binding. Address Dr. R. V. Pierce,
Buffalo, N. Y.
—The man who has perfect patience
with horses is the man who deserves a
note worthy of honor. Few of us have
patience enough but that we forget at
times. The young horse you are trying
to teach something needs to be shown,
and it requires a little patience. The
can who gets his temper up at once and
goes at it rough will always come out
loser in the game.
wonderful Runners.
Concerning the Tarahumare Indians
of Mexico, the London Chronicle seri-
ously observes: “These Indians, of
whom about 15.000 survive in Mexico,
are in great demand as government |
couriers. for they can easily cover 170
miles in a day on foot and have been
known to run 600 miles in five days.
‘When short of ammunition,” writes G.
C. Terry, ‘the Tarahumare Indians
will run down a deer. Half a dozen
men will take part in the chase. They
head off the animal, taking up the pur-
suit in relays until finally the poor
beast, running in ever narrowing cir-
cles, drops from sheer exhaustion.
They also chase and capture the wild
turkey in the same manner.’ ”
CONSCIENCE.
Why should we ever go abroad,
even across the way, to ask a neigh-
bor’s advice? There is a nearer
neighbor within us incessantly tell-
ing us how we should behave, but
we wait for the neighbor without to
tell us of some false, easier way.—
Thoreau.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
No man is born into the world whose work is
not born with him.—ZLowell.
Contrary to conservative predictions,
skirts for the coming season promise no
noticeable increase in width. Volumi-
nous draperies give an extremely full ef-
fect, but this is confined to the hips, the
material at the hem being as scant as
ever before. These features were shown
yesterday at the formal opening of spring
fashions at Gimbel Brothers, which took
place in the salons on the third floor,
where living models, on whom were dis-
played the latest suits and gowns, prom-
- enaded before crowds of women. Quil-
lings and more quillings seem to be an
indispensable adjunct of every costume,
and the styles tend, more and more, to
revert to the early Viétorian period. The
kimono sleeve shows no diminution in
favor and, with the tiny three cornered
piece set in under the arm, the bagginess
which has been such an objection in this
kind of sleeve is done away with.
One of the smartest suits worn yester-
day was a navy blue whipcord, a new
imported fabric. The jacket was cut on
bolero lines and fastened with a single
button. The collar, ending in a long
point in the back, formed a hood that
was laced with heavy black silk cord.
The inner collar was embroidered in Bul-
garian colors. The lining of the coat
was a dainty rose figured Pompadour
silk. A flounced skirt was worn with
this coat. The upper flounce was of the
material, the lower one being of black
taffeta, dipping sharply at the back.
Another smart trotteur was of bronze
green-wool crepe, which was given added
distinction by the short pleated peplum
attached to the coat, and held in place
under a short, narrow belt. The drapery
of the skirt was drawn to the left side.
A full circular tunic was held in under
two flat pleats in front and sloped away
sharply toward the back, where two short
flat sash ends completed the costume.
A third model of wool crepe was devel-
oped in violet. The short coatee opened
over a vest of embroidered taffeta and a
Paquin collar. The skirt was made with
two circular flounces, the top one form-
ing the yoke, with long sash ends tied
loosely in the back, a very new feature.
A pleat set in at the hem gave freedom
in walking.
In evening gown and dinner frocks one
observes row upon row of quilling. There
was a dainty little frock of baby blue
taffeta doubly flounced,the flounces edged
with quilling, which gave them the de-
sired stand out effect, almost as if they
were wired.
A summary of the coming styles ap-
pears to be a decided absence of the se-
vere tailored effect so much in vogue the
last few years, a still more decided widen-
ing of the silhouette at the waist line and
narrowing at the shoulders and feet, and
a tendency to return to the brilliant colors
and elaborate toilettes of 1830.
The custom of sending little gifts to
friends who are departing on a journey
is a pretty one in conception, but some-
times results in contrary fashion by over-
burdening the traveler with a multiplici-
ty of “conveniences” too bulky to carry,
in tI% aggregate, although the recipient
feels in duty bound not to leave a single
one behind. .
Take books for an example—the tastes
of a reader should be very well known
before one attempts to dictate their taste
in literature, as on board ship it becomes
a difficult matter to centre the attention
on an uncongenial subject. Especially is
this true of the traveler who is attempt-
ing his first sea trip. There are mo-
ments when the most beautiful box of
candy or the most delightful book given
by one’s dearest friend is absolutely un-
attractive before the devastations occa-
sioned by an attack of mal de mer.
There are many practical gifts which
are the greatest comfort to the traveler,
although many of them are exceedingly
prosaic.
There are a number of improvements
in the way of “housewives” and pocket-
ed toilet aprons suitable for gifts, among
which are to be found practical and in-
expensive articles made of Turkish tow-
eling, lined with rubber, and neatly bound,
to be used for brush, comb and hairpin
ags. :
When opened this object is tied around
the waist, proving to be an excellent
idea, especially when one considers the
limited rocking space of the average
dressing room or stateroom alloted one
whenn traveling.
These aprons are provided made of
gay-colored cretonnes and satins, lined
with rubber and replete with rubber
pockets.
A pair of stockings with a pocket wov-
en in the top is another nice gift of prac-
tical intention as well as a chamois en-
velope bag designed to be hung around
one's neck and wherein valuables may be
safely secreted. :
The chamois envelope should be in-
closed in a little case of hand-embroider-
ed linen, which in turn may be easily
laundered and so preserve its original
state of daintiness.
Air cushions and hot water bottles are
easily contracted into a small space when
not inflated and are invaluable traveling
companions. A fact toremember is, that
it never pays to buy a cheap water bot-
tle which will decide to leak at exactly
the moment it should not.
A canton flannel cover or hand-knit
case is a practical affair intended to be
drawn on over the rubber bottle or one
of the new aluminum bottles of light
weight and interesting possibilities.
Sponge bags of pure flexible gum, al-
most transparent, but waterproof and
bound with silk cost $3, while there are
all sorts of suggestions for holding tooth-
brushes and the like.
A comfortable, warm, but not bulky,
negligee and a becoming cap are indis-
pensable necessities to use on a journey |
of any length. The cap is especially use-
ful for wear on a sleeper or on a vovarge
when one is confined to one’s state-
room.
Since most people carry cameras when
travelling, a pocket film diary is an ac-
companying convenience. This is of
leather, resembling a flat pocketbook.
Inside there may be found oiled paper
leaves which separate the films and
which are dated and identified by a num-
bered index large enough to allow suffi-
cient space for pencil notes.
A daily calendar containing a message
or quotation from friends at home also
provides much pleasure for the recipient,
particularly if in addition to the messag-
es, snapshots and apropos jokes clipped
from magazines are also inserted.
For the hasty mending one of those
ribbon folds containing threaded needles
! is a splendid thing when traveling.
|
FARM
—Nothing has|contributed so much to
reduce the cost ¢f meat production as
the development! of early maturity in
meat animals. e most successful pro-
ducers now rushitheir hogs, and market
their beeves under two years, and
thus save cost ofimaintenance.
—The value the sunflower is not
generally recognized by our farmers. It
is easy to raise and the seed affords an
excellent food for all kinds of poultry.
The sunflower requires a reasonably rich
soil in order to produce a good crop. It
may be planted at any time in the spring
and up to the middle of June. Sunflow-
ers do not require any cultivation after
the plants get five or six inches high, as
they will outgrow the weeds and keep
the weeds down if planted pretty thick.
—The farmer, by virtue of necessity,
ought to be a breeder of domestic ani-
mals. But it seems the farmer in the
United States is the last man who pays
any attention to the improvement of his
domestic animals, and yet he should be
the most interested, as with him it means
prosperity.
The average cow found on the farm
does not make 125 pounds of butter in a
year. Is not such a cow the intelligence
of the man who stands behind her? What
she is, he has made her. If that cow
does not make profit, who is to blame
but the man who bred her and owns her?
That man never studied the meaning of
a cow, never looked into her physiology
and make-up, and very likely he com-
plains he is making no money, and the
revenues of the whole State are back be-
cause he refused to sanctify labor with
knowledge.
Is there a farmer who would think of
breeding horses for the race track by in-
troducing draft blood? Is not breeding
a cow subject to the same laws exactly
that the breeding of a horse is? Nobody
ever saw a horse that had a draft form
that was a trotter. Nobody ever saw a
foxhound that had the form and shape
of a bulldog, that was a runner. Nature
invariably gives to every animal the form
that is necessary for its function. There-
fore we must have dairy cattle if we are
going into the dairy business.
—Recently a man bought and moved
onto one of the poorest farms in the vi-
cinity of Barnesville, Belmont county,
O. To the surprise of his neighbors he
announced his intention of sowing some
alfalfa, They ridiculed the idea and with
good intentions insisted that it would be
folly to risk time and money in such an
experiment. However, as the newcomer
was anxious to grow some alfalfa, he
decided to find out if the handicap of a
poor, sour soil could not be overcome.
He had been told that the soil lacked in
organic matter so he hauled from a near-
by livery stable 15 loads of manure to
the acre. He would have preferred other
manure, because of the many timothy
and weed seeds commonly found in such
stable manure, but being a practical man
he took what was at hand. Experience
and observation showed the soil to be
acid. Accordingly, he gave it a heavy
application of some form of burned lime.
A liberal dressing of commercial fertiliz-
er and inoculation of the soil with the
proper bacteris helped still more to put
the soil, which was naturally well drain-
ed, in good shape for the crop desired. A
fine stand of alfalfa was the result of his
preparation and the second season, three
good crops of hay were cut and it gives
promise of many more. This incident
only seems to emphasize the fact that
alfalfa can be grown anywhere in Ohio
if the soil be well drained, sweet and
well supplied with organic matter, phos-
phorous and the proper bacteria.
—A cow gives an exhibition of her
ability, first, by the shape and condition
of her udder. Here is the object of her
existence. This cow lives, moves and
has being for the sake of this organ. She
is worth but little for anything else; she
is bred for this purpose. She is a moth-
er. The man who bred her did so with
the object that she would be a little bet-
ter mother than her mother. This cow
belongs to the nervous temperament and
shows it in her build; she has a lean
head, long from the eye to the brain. She
is an active animal. She shows a full
eye, and that causes a hollow in the face,
a dishing face. There is an alert, keen
expression in those eyes. That indicates
her temperament.
Milk is evolved from the blood, the
blood is affected by the breath, and so
she should have large, open nostrils. She
should be long in the head, because the
brain supports the whole nervous sys-
tem, and this udder is the final answer
to the long chain of nervous machinery.
The brain is the battery which operates
all the time to keep this nervous ma-
chinery running.
When the nervous system grows weak
it is an indication that the brain action
is weak. From the brain go all the nerves
of the body. The cow should show a
strong back. The first thing to look for in
a butter cow is a very strong expression
of the backbone, which indicates a large
spine; the large spine indicates a strong
nervous channel from the brain. Such a
cow has a powerful nervous machinery.
—Ex-Governor W. D. Hoard, a noted
dairyman, some years back, in an ad-
dress before a Wisconsin farmers’ insti-
tute, said:
“We need to know how to breed a
dairy cow, how to handle a dairy cow
and how to feed her, and the mostessen-
tial thing to start with is the question of
breeding. Men will stand up in a meet-
ing like this and sneer about breed and
pedigree. They don’t know what they
are talking about. An old fellow jump-
ed up in an institute once, and he says,
‘You may talk as much as you are a
mind to about poor breed, but I tell you
the breed is in the corn-crib.” That is
half a truth, the hardest kind of truth to
handle. I said to him, ‘My dear sir, by
that I understand you to mean that you
don’t pay any attention to breed, but
everything to feed.’ ‘Yes, that is it, sir.’
‘All right, you are the man I have been
hunting for. You have given me a short
cut to success. According to your doc-
trine it doesn’ make any difference what
kind of a horse 1 have, I can feed him so
as to make a trotting horse of him, can
I? Won't you give me a recipe so I can
make a Poland-China out of one of those
old razorback hogs that used to run in
the woods? How would you feed him to
make a Berkshire out of him! How
would you feed a Jersey cow to make a
Shorthorn of her? How would you feed
a Norman horse to make a race horse of
him? The old man stood and looked at
me a moment, and then said: ‘Well, talk
just as much as you are a mind to, I be-
lieve what I said.’ That is the position
of many farmers today. They see the
half truth and they don’t wan't to see
the whole truth. One old fellow said he
didn’t want to know any more, it might
make him uncomfortable.”