Bellefonte, Pa., June 2, 1916. . HELP A FELLOW FORWARD. Help a fellow forward, man; Help a fellow all you can, When he’s out of step and slow, Courage gone, and can’t say “No,” When despair comes sneaking in, When he feels he cannot win, And you know a little bit More of that and he must quit— WII you, heedless of his plight, Forge ahead with all your might? Will you take the lead, nor mind This poor struggler left behind? Nay, I'm sure you'll stop awhile— Stop to help him with a smile, Stop to lend a hand to him Who is up against the grim Problem that we all must face Somewhere in life's eager race. Help a fellow forward! Say Something cheering, something gay, Something that will stir his soul, Wake his will and self control. Bravest hearts will sometimes fail, Strongest spirits sometimes quail; And a friendly word of cheer, Oft transforms a whole career. Have you not yourself been stirred In the past by some good word To a stronger effort still As you climbed the weary hill?, So whene’er you see another Losing hope—well, he’s a brother, And a word, a deed, isdue To that brother-man from you. Help him! It is Christ’s own plan! Help a fellow all you can! ~Dennis A. McCarthy. COONEY ON THE WAR PATH. Hiram Ard placed his little basket of eggs packed in cotton-seed on the counter. “Cooney counted ’em,” he said. “There ought to be ten dozen. I'll go look after my team.” Brown, the cotton warehouseman and general store keeper, leaning on the counter, nodded as Hiram disap- peared, and continued his whittling. Bud Smith also was whittling, his chair tipped back against the wall, the “thin curls from his strip of white pine gathering on his knees and the floor. Brown glanced lazily at Bud some- time after Hiram disappeared through the doorway and Bud glanced lazily at Brown. A faint smile pass- ed over Brown’s face, and Bud’s round, drooping shoulders shook si- lently. Both ‘men were thinking of the sudden incursions and excursions of the young countryman, his aquiline face and pathetic, little, black ribbon cravat tied in the bow a woman ties. “Who’d he say counted ’em?” said Bud, after a prolonged silence, a slight frown puckering his deep-lined brows. “Cooney. Cooney is his wife, and a fine girl, too. Taught school over in Coldneck, and keeps Hiram keyed up all the year round. Don’t you remem- ber the row over the marriage? She’s a Gonder, and they were down on her pretty strong for marrying Hiram— all except the old judge, who thinks there is a good deal in Hiram, and that Cooney is going to make a man of him. “I do sort er remember,” said Bud, and fell back into silence, exhausted by the effort. “Hiram is a good farmer,” contin- ued Brown, reflectively, “but not pro- gressive. What he has he made by hard work. Two-mule farm seems to be his limit. Funny how many men never get beyond a two-mule farm and a bale of cotton to three acres! I believe I can spot every one of them at a hundred yards. They all look alike.” Brown closed his knife, and counted the eggs into his egg- box. “Cooney was right,” he added— “ten dozen.” * Then Brown had an inspiration. With something like a show of energy he took some paper sacks from his shelves and placed in them the cot- ton-seed from the bottom of Hiram Ard’s basket, and labeled the packag- es with a pen. “Ard will believe any- thing anybody tells him,” he contin- *ued; “most credulous human being I ever saw. Watch him when he comes back.” “Well,” said Bud, “I hear him com- ing.” The quick footsteps of the countryman sounded on the platform at the moment, and Hiram entered. Brown was standing as before, a shaving falling from the edge of his kinfe. But he did not look up. “Cooney was right, Hiram—ten dozen. Want the money.” Yes, sir. Got to buy some little things for Cooney.” “Your seed all in the ground, Hi- ram?” Brown was counting out the change, and his voice was curved with sympathetic interest. “Yes, sir; finished planting yester- day. Wouldn't be here if I hadn't.” “That’s good. Oh, by the way, Hi- ram, a fellow left some cotton-seed here a while back. They say it'll make two bales to the acre on rich ground. Like to try a little?” “Why, yes, sir,” said Hiram, ea- gerly. “Two bales! That’s a pretty big crop.” “Yes; sort er hard to believe. But it isn’t worth the time to plant the seed, my boy, unless you plant them on very rich ground and cultivate them right. This variety of cotton has got to have rich ground, and, if I were you, I'd cultivate it with a hoe as much as possible early in the mornings and as often as possible. Got any rich ground ?” “Why, yes, sir; there’s the old orchard that’s been layin’ out six years until last summer, when I sow- ed it down in peas.” “How big a place?” “About an acre.” : . “Oh, well, then, take all these pack- ages and try them. There ’ll be enough here to plant an acre, if you ‘drop’ them. But let me tell you what you do. Put all the stable litter in the fur- rows, and take about five hundred pounds of acid phosphate-got any acid 7” “Two sacks.” “Well, broadcast that. Give the seed a chance, Hiram, and let me hear from you.” latch, i “But, Mr. Brown, I ought er pay vou for them.” : “No, sir; they ’re yours without | pay. And they did n’t cost me a cent. | You re welcome to them. Let me hear : from you occasionally.” “I will, sir. And I ’ll get Cooney to look out for the patch from the start. If there ’s any good in the seed, she ’ll ' get it out.” | “Sure! Good-by.” | Hiram disappeared. Brown looked ! at Bud, and Bud looked at Brown. | “Ought to be ashamed,” said Bud, i shaking his head, but shaking his shoulders also. > | “It’s all right. He'll have just one more acre in cotton; and maybe it'll : be his best acre. iy | Bud Smith needs no description. He is part of the environment of the marked cotton-bale and attached to every warehouse in the south. Neither his face, the color of his beard nor his clothes stick to memory. He is just there in the warehouse, tipped against the wall when the weather is cool, and outside, tipped against the sliding-door, if the weather is warm. In midsummer he will be found tipped against a tree, if there is one out in front, revolving around its trunk dur- ing the day with its shadow. The whole color scheme of the cotton warehouse would be spoiled but for Bud Smith. J Brown had little to do while his cot- ton-growing customers were trying to win their annual bets against the sea- sons, the negro and the mule, a space of time covering about six months; but his sense of humor was busy all the year round. Nothing pleased him more than to perpetrate a sucessful prank on a country friend, something to which in the days to come he could refer gently—something that would stick to his victim like a nick- name, or a vaccination scar, or like an old colored woman who has sometime in her early life mammied him a bit and forty years after has to find her monthly rent. To the accomplish- ment of his purpose he brought the face of a professional mourner, or one who has eaten raw oysters a four days’ journey from salt water when the month had no “r” in it. * He al- ways insisted that he had too much respect for good jokes to laugh in their presence; that a good joke is the best friend a man can have at times, and he would as soon laugh at his grandmother when she was stopping his earache. When he was planning one, or had one under way, time was of little moment. He simply planted the seed well and let the crop come in its own appointed time and way, and was ready to gather it. Good old Brown! There had been too many bad years for the farmers—years when he tided them over happily— for any of them who knew him well to take him too seriously. Brown heard from the wonderful cotton-seed several times during the summer. Hiram’s enthusiasm knew no limit. According to Hiram, the acre patch was a marvel, and Cooney, who claimed it, was proud of her as- tonishing success. And Brown heard from it in October, when Hiram came with his wagon and dropped two bales of cotton by the scales. Their united weight was nearly one thousand pounds. Hiram held the certificate of his neighbors that the cotton was produced on one acre, and he was the hero of the hour. In Georgia towns a joke will out-travel even bad news, and before noon Bud Smith had inocu- lated everybody with the humor of Brown’s successful joke and every- body was laughing at Hiram. He leaned over the office rail, white and almost breathless. “Is it so, Mr. Brown?” he asked. “What, Hiram ?” Brown’s face was a blank. “About them seed.” “Yes, my boy; it was a joke. But it made you two bales of cotton, and taught you the value of thorough fer- tilizing and cultivation. You’re ’way ahead.” The color did not come back to Hi- ram’s face. There was no resentment in it, but he was thinking of the little woman at home who had labored hard in the orchard patch. “And Cooney was going to sell them seed for big money!” he whis- pered to himself. His throat twitch- ed. He turned suddenly and went away. That night Cooney Ard heard the story from Hiram. Her quick eye and intuition supplied the details. In an instant her hand lay in his. “Don’t worry, Hiram,” she said. “As Mr. Brown told you, we are a long ways ahead. And we have gain- ed a valuable experience.” “But, Cooney, if—it hadn’t been a joke, the seed would have sold for five dollars a bushel, and you could have had your parlor organ—" “They are worth that to us as it is. Don’t worry. We'll get the organ some day. Come and get your sup- per. Come on, dear, and forget all about the seed.” : But when Hiram had dragged his weary limbs off to bed, and the baby slept snugly in his little crib, Cooney sat thinking. And as she thought, her gentle face grew white and set, and once or twice she shivered. “Oh, the wretches! the wretches!” she whispered. Then suddenly she buried her face in her hands and wept. Gradually the storm spent itself and when she lifted it again all the womanliness had returned. That night Cooney had an invisible visitor. Whence it came, and how, its shape, and its origin, are among the mysteries of life that even death perhaps will not solve. This visitor was something that flashed full grown into her consciousness. The shock caused her to sit bolt upright in bed and frightened slumber away for many an hour. It was not an un- welcome visitor. When sleep came it found her smiling. “Hiram,” she said next “morning, “if you can spare me a mule and the spring-wagon, I believe I will go over into Coldneck and see Uncle Tom to- day. I'll take the baby and get black Sally to drive me. Can you get along one day by yourself ?” “Why, yes, Cooney, if you want to go. I'll be out with the cotton-pick- ers ‘most all day anyhow. Don’t try to come back if it looks like rain.” She took his face in her hands and kissed him. The smile born of her midnight visitor was still on her lips, and she shared it with Hiram. Uncle Tom heard the story of the seed and began to laugh gently over the joke of the incorrigible Brown. But his laugh failed before the tense tones of the young woman as she reached the climax of the shameful treatment to which her husband had been subjected. " “Confound old Brown!” he mut- tered. “He ought to have better sense.” “No, you don’t understand,”—-Coo- ney had become eager and a little ex- cited,—“I want you, Uncle Tom, to move your mules out of their lot and little run, and let me have the ground for a year. Will you? And I want to have it planted and cultivated just as I tell you. Will you? Tell them after awhile, in town, you are trying a cotton-seed that, judging by its name, might be a Persian hybrid or something; I'll give you a name for it. And when the crop is gathered, have your neighbors to witness it, and give their affidavits as to weights. Do this for me, Uncle Tom, won’ you? You know I wouldn’t let you help me when I was married,—I wanted Hiram to make his own way, but you can help me now. They've combined against Hiram, and we'll combine too.” Uncle Tom looked out over his thousands of acres, and let his eyes rest on the lot that held his score of mules. “What the thunder are you up to, Cooney 7” Cooney leaned over and whispered; and as she whispered, a smile dawn- ed and broadened on the old man’s face, struck downward into laughter, and died out in tears. He was wiping his eyes as Cooney continued: “Mr. Brown claims that he taught us a valuable lesson, Uncle Tom. We can’t rest under obligations to him, can we?” “No, Cooney. We Gonders pay our debts.” And then his laughter came back. Spring saw Cooney a frequent visit- or to Coldneck, and also, under the blessings of sun and rain, and the pluck of the well-assisted young wom- an, Uncle Tom’s mule lot and pasture grew green and rank with an enor- mous crop of cotton.. About this time Uncle Tom began to find his way to Brown’s warehouse, and speak hopefully of an experiment he was making with a variety of cotton-seed that had been presented to him, the “Dramarih Prolific.” “I have been planting cotton, gen- tlemen, for thirty years,” he would say, “but I pledge you my word, I have never seen such a weed. It is as high as my head, and if it fulfils its promise, it will be a revelation. Fact is, if the cotton does all they claim for it, it may revolutionize the business. No,” he would reply to persistent inquirers, “I am under promise myself not to sell or give away any without the originator’s consent.” Time glided along until the sensa- tion of the season came, when the Gondor cotton results were all in and ‘verified not only by the judge’s un- doubted word, but by affidavits of his neighbors and weighers. The yield was sixteen hundred and thirty pounds of lint cotton per acre, and the Dramarih Prolific was figura- tively in every one’s mouth. ited at the State Fair, it won several prizes and secured an enormous ad- vertisement. The demand for Dra- marih seed was strong and active, but no seed could be had. The demand on Brown, who was Judge Gordor’s fac- tor, became so persitsent that he fi- nally rode out to Coldneck and offer- ed to buy all the Dramarih seed, one hundred and six bushels, at the judge’s price; but that gentleman was obstinate. “My promise is out, Brown. I can’t sell without my friend’s per- mission, and I won’t. But I'll give you the refusal on the lot, and see what can be done. Of course I shall want to reserve a bushel or so.” It did not take the old gentleman many days to ascertain the wishes of his friend. Six dollars per bushel was the price, if sold in small lots; five dollars, if to one party. The figures made the warehouse- man whistle, but he purchased, giving his check for $525. The judge had reserved one bushel of the Dramarih because he was afraid of Brown’s na- tive acuteness. And then Cooney Ard had her in- nings. She arrived before the ware- house one Saturday in October, when the crowd was large. Her brave, hap- py face was well known to many of the country folk. They loved her for her courage and devotion to her hus- band, who was one of them. And she had taught many country children be- fore her marriage. As she sat in the buggy, with flushed cheeks and spark- ling eyes, Cooney was receiving something like an ovation not only from her neighbors, but from the peo- ple of the town; for in the South woman is still the visable grace of God, and no finer type might be found than this little one. She soon had a party of men about her buggy, neighbors and storekeepers. ; Fixi her eyes on Bud Smith, tipped bac against the great warehouse door, as the object least likely to distract her attention from her narrative, she be- gan with a quaver in her voice that presently, however, passed away: “You asked me just now, Mr. Brown, how I am getting on, and I want to tell you I am doing nicely, thank you, and out of debt at last.” “You in debt? Why, I never heard of it,” “Yes, I wasin debt, and we Gon- ders”—proudly—“always pay our debts. I have paid mine at last! There is a little story behind it, my friends—one I think you will enjoy. You all remember when I married what a time we had, Hiram and I! How everybody, most, prophesied failure, and all that, and how I’d have to go to Uncle Tom for support. But I didn’t. I knew Hiram better than anybody else did, and I knew he had grit. He has worked, gentlemen— worked in the sun and rain and the cold, how hard God only knows, worked for me and the baby—" Her voice broke a little, but she looked away an instant, and let it go into a laugh. “I knew it was in him to suc- ceed. I put faith in him, and he has Exhib- | | been faithful. But I was mistaken and disappointed in one thing. I thought, girl that I was, that men were kinder than they are to one another. I thought everybody would lend Hiram a helping hand, and back him up, as you say. They didn't. They let him alone and laughed at him. He believes in me, and maybe because I haven’t deceived him, be- lieves in everybody. And so it came that last year Mr. Brown fooled him with a lot of cotton-seed from my egg basket into believing he was giving him a new*variety—one that he could make a fortune on—"’ “Oh, come now, Miss Cooney, that was ‘only a joke!” Brown was really unhappy. + ow it; but it made him the laughing-stock of the whole country. And the disappointment hurt him so much. He thought he had a small fortune in the seed—thought he had ' something as good as the Dramarih ' Prolific!” Cooney buried her face in her hands suddenly, and everybody ‘looked uncomfortable. But Cooney wasn’t crying. When she looked up, : she was speechless with laughter, and sympathetically everybody laughed with her—everybody except Brown, who was vaguely uneasy, as one ‘whose spinal column has received a | wireless communication from a Sep- tember chill, and Bud, who ceased to ! whittle, and fixed wide-open eyes on ‘the young woman’s flushed and joy- ious face. “And maybe he did have,” {gasped Cooney. “But laughing at him lwasn’t all. Everybody said Hiram | ought to be thankful for the lesson he had learned, and that he was indebt- ied to Mr. Brown. Well, gentlemen, {will some of you read that red pla- ‘card up there on the door—the new I seed at four dollars a peck?” { “The Dramarih Prolific Cotton- Seed,” shouted some one. ! “That’s it. The Dramarih Prolific is the variety of cotton-seed that ‘made 1630 pounds of lint cotton in Uncle Tom’s mule lot, with enough ‘fertilizer under them for a one-horse farm. And it was the same kind of | ‘seed Hiram got from Mr. Brown. | Why, ’Dramarih’ is just Hiram Ard i spelled backward! Gentlemen, if any of you want the Dramarih, get them from Mr. Brown. They were sold to him for five hundred and twenty-five dollars, and here,” said Cooney, al- imost hysterically waving a strip of | paper in air—‘“here is his check. He didn’t give it to me, but it reached "me.” | When Cooney had ended her ora- | tion, everybody had read the cotton sign. There was a moment of silence, followed by hand-clapping and shouts of laughter that brought merchants to their doors half a block away. Brown had received: the shock of his life. He was being pushed and pulled about by the hilarious crowd, and his hat was fatally mashed. Then rose from all a cry: “Brown! Brown! Brown!” Cooney had gathered up her lines, and was giving him her sweetest smile. “We Gonders,” she said, “pay our debts, Mr. Brown. We are Hardshell Baptists on that point. Good-by; we are even now; and, oh, save me a ipeck of the Dramarihs, please. I ;want them for my egg-basket.” { Then Brown rose to his full man- {hood. He strode out to the buggy and extended his dand. “No, we are not even, Miss Cooney. You are a long ways ahead. And, God bless you, I am glad of it!” She did not take the hand, but she dropped into it the fragments of a check. “I'm not quite ready to shake hands with you, Mr. Brown,” she said; “I’ve been on the war-path too long. Maybe I will after a while. Right now I'd feel like a hypocrite if I shook hands. And I didn’t want the check; I wanted a chance to laugh.” As Cooney drove away, the crowd escorted Brown toward a sign across the street. A few moments later Bud Smith suddenly shut his knife with a snap, thrust it into his pocket and said, “Well, I'll be hanged!” and fol- lowed the crowd.—By Harry Stillwell Edwards, in “The Century Magazine.” The Origin of Shaking Hands. Did you ever ask yourself why you shake hands with persons whom you know? Here is the reason: “In olden days, when every man who had any pretentions to being a gentleman carried a sword, it was the custom for men when they met, to show that they had no intention of treachery, to offer each other their weapon hands, or, in other words, the sword, and to hold back the hand was usually a signal for a fight. “This habit became so fixed that long after men ceased to wear swords they still offered the weapon hand to a friend and declined to offer it to an enemy. “To this day when you refuse to shake hands with a person it signifies that you are at war. Among savages who never carried swords the practice of shaking hands is unknown and it affords them a great deal of amuse- ment to see white men do it.” Dogs and Cats in Palaces. Princess Mary has a great fondness for cats and has dozens of them about her all the time. But when her moth- er, the Queen, stumbled over a cat and nearly fell to the floor, she ordered the number lessened. Queen Alexandra loves cats and dogs. Edward never went anywhere without Caesar, an Airedale terrier, even taking him to formal dinners, where he sat at the King’s feet and demanded a sample of every course served. He slept in the King’s room at the foot of the bed, or anywhere else it pleased his sagacious canine majesty. He claims the same privi- ‘lege now with the widowed Queen. Late pictures of Queen Maude of Norway are taken with her pet terrier in her royal arms. Wilhelmina of Holland and her idolized little daugh- ter are photographed with their pet dogs.—Our Dumb Animals. Osculation at Any Price. Bess—Why didn’t you slap Jim when he tried to kiss you? Tess—Because, dear, I'm too proud ‘to fight.—Chaparral. hand that would be used to draw the! - Caged. In the fall of 1830, Amos Wright, a pioneer of Michigan, returned on foot to his old home in New York State to obtain possession of a legacy that had been willed to him. In the same way he returned to Michigan, passing through the peninsula of what was called Upper Canada. On Cogswood’s Road, a rude highway through the wilderness, he had the one remarkable adventure of his long tramp. As dusk fell one afternoon Amos found himself within a couple of miles of the cabin of a settler named David Paterson, with whom he meant ‘to pass the night. The district was no- toriously infested by wolves, but Amos felt no alarm until he heard a faint cry. As he hurried on, he soon heard a louder cry, clearly from be- hind and this time it was answered by chorus. Evidently wolves were gathering in pack. Amos reflected that the creatures in crossing the road might have come upon his scent, and he hastened his step. The third pro- longed howl from behind made his conjecture almost a certainty. The man was on foot, and unarm- ed. If the wolves. were chasing him, they must catch him before he could , reach Patterson’s. But he was less than a mile from an abandoned hut that stood by the roadside. Toward it he ran as fast as he could. He had been counted a swift runner in his boyhood days, but his ears told him that the wolves were outrunning him. But he rushed forward at his best speed until he had gone so far that fear lest he had passed the hut began to trouble him. And now he could hear the scuffle of paws and claws in the dry leaves. In their eagerness the brutes had ceased to howl. Just then Amos reached a slight turn in the road and saw the hut in a little clearing. As he ran out of the woods into the starlight of the clearing the wolves began to howl again, with a peculiar angry or desperate note. They were so close behind him that if the door of the hut had not stood open, Amos could never have got inside. As it was, he had no time to close the door. Directly opposite the opening there was a ladder. Up this Amos sprang, although not quickly enough to escape a savage nip at his right foot. He fairly kicked his boot free from the brute’s fangs. The loft was laid with loose boards, but it served as a refuge from the maddening wolves, whose ‘howls of baffled rage were fearful. Again and again they charged against the lad- der, and leaped so high that Amos, hearing the thuds as they fell back to the floor, began to doubt the security of his position. Then a cunning strata- gem occurred to him. Standing above the door, he pushed the boards care- fully aside until there was room to slip down one foot, which he cau- tiously pushed against the open door. It swung into place so quietly that the wolves did not even look around from the foot of the ladder. But the door had no latch, and Amos dared not go low enough to put up the crossbar. That was not the. voice of his scheme, but he waited to hear the voice of the pack when they should discover themselves prisoners, as they presently did. There was no window in the building, and the door was the only way of egress. The wolves seemed to forget their intended prey when they found themselves caged, aud threw themselves furiously against the door, which of course helped to keep it tightly closed. There weight made no impression on the heavy slabs that composed the door. But was it safe to conclude that they might not accidentally open it? Amos must risk that. He was now ready for the second part of his stratagem. Quite easily he pushed aside the loose clap-board that made the roof, and crawling out on top, dropped to the ground. When he got to Patterson’s cabin and told his strange tale, the two men at the cabin armed themselves and went to the hut. They soon killed the wolves— seventeen in all. The other men told ‘| Amos that there was a bounty of a pound a head on the creatures, and invited him to stay and get his share. But as Amos was anxious to get home to his mother with the money he al- ready had, and as the collection of the bounty might take two or three months, he abandoned his 5 1bs., 13s. and 4d. although it was a large sum of money in those days.—Ex. Saying Good-By. A writer describes the different methods by which various nations say “good-by”’: The Turk will solemnly cross his hands upon his breast and make a profound obeisance when he bids you farewell. The genial Jap will take his slipper off as you depart, and say with a smile: “You are going to leave -my despicable house in your honorable journeying. I regard thee!” The German “Lebe wohl!” (fare- well) is sympathetic in its sound, but it is less embarrassing than the Hin- du’s performance who, when you go from him, falls in the dust at your eet. In the Philippines the parting bene- diction is given in the form of rubbing one’s friend’s face with one’s hand. The Fiji Islanders cross two red feathers. The natives of New Guinea exchange chocolate. The Burmese bend low and say, “Hib, hib!” The Cuban would consider his good- by anything but a cordial one unless he was given a cigar. The South Sea Islanders rattle each other’s whale- teeth necklaces. The Sioux and the Blackfoot will at parting dig their spears in the earth as a sign of confidence and esteem. This is the origin of the term, “Bury- ing the tomahawk.” The Russian form of parting salu- tion is brief, consisting of the single word, “Praschai,” said to sound like a sneeze. The Otaheite Islander will twist the end of the departing guest’s robe and then solemnly shake his own hands three times.—Selected. ——The man who has nothing to do is not happy. FARM NOTES. —Put an old horse collar on the cow that sucks herself. It’s a good and hu- mane cure. —Skim buttermilk is the equal of na- tural buttermilk in practically every im- portant respect. —Some persons plant their trees about the same as they do their fence posts, and the trees grow about as well as the posts. —Keep a lump of tallow handy when driving nails into hard wood. By dip- ping the points of the nails into it they will drive easily. — Approximately 25,000,000 pounds of dynamite were used for agricultural pur- poses in this country last year. Stump pulling is no longer a hardship. —Did you make systematic war on fruit diseases and fruit insect pests? Try leaving a tree, or plan to increase your faith in the protective treatments. —Lime has been found to be most beneficial in promoting legume growth, thereby building up the nitrogen supply and the general fertility of the soil. —Soil acidity seldom becomes suffi- ciently marked under ordinary farm con- ditions to affect noticeably cereals and grasses, although these may be indirectly affected by the failure of clover. —If the cow produces only enough cream to pay for her feed she still shows a profit. Remember the calves, the man- ure for the soil and the skim milk for the hogs. All are dairy by-products. —Learn to know our lady-bug friends and give them a chance to multiply as much as possible. There are a number of varieties of lady-bugs, and all of them make war on other harmful bugs, par. ticularly plant lice of various kinds. —Leguminous plants are of special value in feeding animals as well as for improving the fertility of the soil. The hay of leguminous crops is rich in pro- tein and also carbohydrates; hence is more economical for animals than hay made from the non-legumes. —Treating seed potatoes with a disin- fecting solution to prevent scab and oth- er fungous diseases is but little trouble, and the expense is small. An hour's time and a half dollar expended for the purpose will often add $25 to $50 to the value of the crop from an acre of pota- toes. —Five persons were recently made ab- solutely helpless by eating what were supposed to be mushrooms from an arti- ficial mushroom bed. Occasionally there are poisonous fungi resembling mush- rooms which develop from the manure used in making mushroom beds. Watch out! Vigilance is the price of safety where mushrooms are concerned. —The time to get the scalp of the cut- worm is before the crop shows above ground. This ever-hungry devastator is then keen for food, and will make a fatal meal of bran mash (an ounce of Paris | green mixed with two or three pounds of wheat bran moistened with diluted mo- lasses). Pinches of this mash placed under shingles or flat stones will put the cut worms out of business. —Lime is essential to the maintenance of fertility of practically all soils. Red clover fails when the lime requirement of a soil is 1500 to 1700 pounds of caustic or burnt lime (equivalent to 2700 to 3000 pounds carbonated lime or ground lime- stone) per acre seven inches of soil. A soil requiring 500 to 1000 pounds of burnt lime per acre to correctits acidity does not interfere seriously with clover growth. —Rose bugs are a dangerous diet for young chicks. This statement has been made before in Farm and Fireside. Now comes G. H. Lampson, an experimenter who fed 150 chicks of different ages, in small lots, rose bugs; also an extract made by soaking the crushed bugs in water. He found 15 to 20 rose bugs, when eaten by chicks a week old, pro- duced death; 25 to 45 rose bugs killed three-weeks-old chickens; ten-weeks-old chickens survived all the bugs they could eat, but the effect was injurious. —Much of the success of asparagus any year depends on the behavior of the crop the previous year. Barton Brothers, of New Jersey, whose operations are un- usually successful, have about thirty acres in this crop. Those growers em- phasize the following points: When the cutting has not been con- tinued late one year, and the season has ‘been favorable to growth of tops, and when there have been no severe droughts, the crop is earlier the following year than when reverse conditions have pre- vailed. Their practice is to cut from the opening of the season until the third week in June at latest. They shorten up . {when the market rules low and cutting becomes unprofitable. But they find that it is not wise to stop cutting much be- fore the second week in June, because there is too much of a chance for rust spores carried over winter to spread the disease. By the third week the spores will have germinated and died for lack ofjasparagus stalks to live upon. Another point is that the tops produce less seed when they start late—a strength- saving process since seed production re- quires more food and energy than does stalk-growing. greater than for the white or blanched asparagus. To grow this the crowns are planted only two furrows deep and ridged slightly. For white stalks the planting is deeper and the ridging extensive. For areas as large as half an acre or larger, it pays, in Barton Brethers® esti- mation, to grow crowns from seed rather than to buy them, because thorough cul- tivation may be given and the cost can be reduced to a minimum. Then, too, the inferior ones may be discarded and only the choicest transplanted. The distances favored are six feet be- tween rows and twenty inches between plants. Manure is not used by Barton Brothers, but the plants are given an application; soon after setting, of a high- grade general commercial fertilizer. In three or four weeks a top-dressing of 150 pounds of nitrate of soda is given, and in July a mixture of nitrate and tankage—about 100 pounds each per acre. These applications, especially the latter, help produce inter crops of an- nual trucks between the asparagus rows. Producing beds get the same care and an additional dressing of nitrate and tankage. Spring care consists of disk harrowing and slight riding over the rows. At the close of the cutting season the land is again disked, smooth-harrowed two ways, and the cultivator used thereafter till the tops interfere with the work. The demand for green “grass” is far .
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers