Bellefonte, Pa., July 14, 1916.
A TRIBUTE TO CENTRE COUN-
TY, PA.
BY A NATIVE SON.
Hail, Hail! Renowned is Centre county,
Star of the Keystone Constellation!
Adorned with honor, and far famed art
thou!
Afar thy name is heralded in story.
Vast mineral wealth thy terra firma yields,
‘With forests thou art lavishly adorned;
Thy emerald vales are gems of nature, all;
Thou'rt grand and beautiful in every part.
How limpid are thy brooks and beauteous
streams,
Pure, deep and grand thy numerous foun-
tains are;
Great are thy caves, yea, truly wonderful!
In nature’s handiwork thou art sublime.
But nobler far, and long enduring
The many deeds thy sturdy sons have
wrought ; :
In war, none ever fought more truly val-
iant,
Yet no less able are thy Sons of Peace.
Thy heritage is rich in noted statesmen,
Among the foremost of the land are they!
No less thy pride are all thy charming
daughters!
Angelic souls,
homes.
blest guardians of thy
Thy Counsellors, Historians and Poets,—
Likewise thy famed Musicians and Com-
posers,
And Artists, Artisans and Teachers,—
All, all are ’mongst the foremost in the
a. land.
Thy schools are of the finest to be found,
Academies of thine are thy just pride;
“Twere vain a College to denote more famed
Than thine, since none exist within the
State.
\
In types of yeomanry “Old Centre” leads
Her sister counties, one and all;
They're first in poise and greater sturdi-
ness, :
True patriots, who their country well de-
fend.
Hail! Dear Old Centre county, Hail!
Thy fame among thy sisters is secure.
A gem art thou in Penn’s sylvania,
Thou standest peerless ’mongst thy
ters, all.
sR AN way eo.
sis-
Make felt thy power for progress and for
truth!
No deed too high and noble for thy aim;
From off thy throne thou canst not be de-
posed ;
A beacon light art thou throughout thy
State.
Proud mother of four famous Governors,
What endless honors, well deserved,
thine,
No other sister of Penn's Commonwealth
Such glory and renown may e’re acquire.
are
The years of honor in thy train mount high!
A million beauty bowers deck thy domain;
Thy glory all the ages will endure, )
Hail Queen! We lay fresh laurels at thy
feet.
We offer thee sincere, heart-felt devotion,
Our hearts unite to laud and honor thee;
For lofty is thy greater, nobler station,
Resplendent and enriched is thy domain.
Thy people are in truth highly renowned,
Great scholars thy full history adorn,
Thy patriots have proved themselves
valor,
And each one bears a proud and honored
name.
in
Hail, Centre county! Noblest gem art thou
Of Penn’s sylvanian, beautiful domain;
A Princess fair, art thou, of richest splen-
dor,
Exalted thus, mayest thou for aye endure.
- ALFRED BEIRLY,
Doctor of Music.
Chicago, Illinois,
June 24th, 1916.
THE GOOD LOSER.
Bam!—pop—Ping! . Bam!—
pop—Ping!”
Over and over again the tennis
ball, brown and frayed with usage,
thudded against the side of the barn,
rebounded to the ground and rose to
meet the meshes of the boy's rac-
quet fairly in the centre. The rac-
quet looked far too large and heavy
for his slender brown wrist; his fin-
gers stretched barely half way
around the thick handle, but the
S)rokes were free, full, precisely tim-
Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, nine-
ty-nine, hundred !—hundred’n one
hundred’ n’ two—" :
The boy had not heard the auto-
mobile pull up at the gate nor was
he aware of a stranger who stood
watching him a few yards behind.
“Hundred’n’ three, hundred’n’ four
hundred’n’ five!”
The ball hit some little protuber-
ance in the barn wall and bounded
over the boy’s head. He jumped,
swinging the racquet desperately
but missed the shot. Turning he
saw the man catch the ball deftly in
one hand.
Swiftly the boy appraised the
stranger. He was a long, lean man,
neither young nor old, in a Norfolk
suit and motor cap, with goggles
pushed up over the visor. There was
rather a grim set about his mouth
and jaw, but the keen gray eyes
were smiling. The way the newcom-
er had ‘caught that ball proved him
one of the elect, with whom a fellow
, can discuss the important issues of
life sympathetically.
“Whew!” said the boy, wiping his
forehead with the back of his hand. y
“I broke the rec
dred’n’ Wea i
five.”
“Fine business.
Yo Swing a Facquet Like that 7”
y much, d i
to teach me—but he didnt iw
“How old are on
stranger. you pursued the
“Almost ’leven.”
“Your father Plays
1
e stranger lo
“How do You mean re ale
2 Got creditors,” explained the boy.
I heard him and Mother talkin’
about it lots of times. Gee! It must
be fierce to get creditor, . Daddy got
L, anyway—hun-
it’s a hundred’n’
Who taught you
tennis 7”
is
After that he most lived at the
factory. Never played tennis or
nothin’—jus’ worked all the time.
An’ las’ winter he used to tell Moth-
er he was goin’ to pull through
somehow. But I guess it’s gettin’
worse’n ever now, ‘cause jus’ before
we lef’ Boston an’ come up here 1
heard him say this summer would
prob’ly see him bankruptured.”
“Too bad,” said the stranger.
“Yes,” said the boy simply. “This
is Dad’s old racquet,” he added irrel-
evantly.
The stranger took the racquet, a
queer light in his eyes. He gripped
it, tested its balance, and swung it
| ago.
strokes.
“I bet you can play some,” ventur-
ed the boy admiringly.
“Used to,” grunted the stranger.
“Good old bat, this. But too big and
heavy for you. Ought to have a
light one with a small handle.”
“I know it,” said the boy. “But
we can’t afford it, Mother says. It’s
all we can do, now Dad has the
creditors, to make meat at both
ends, she says. That's why we
come to this old place, stead of a
big hotel like we used to. Gee! It’s
tough, ain’t it?”
“Let’s see you bat ‘em
more,” suggested the stranger.
some
The
he walked. :
“Bam! pop Ping! . . . Bam!
pop—Ping!” went the ball against
barn, ground and racquet while the
Sirenger stood watching the boy's
ay.
“Best natural stroke I ever saw in
a kid,” he muttered.
The boy missed a fair try at a
back-hand shot.
“You don’t take those back-hand-
ers right,” said the man, “Here let
me show youl!”
The stranger took the racquet,
turned his right side to the wall and
with full, graceful strokes drove the
ball again and again in straight
whizzing flight against the barn.
“Qh, sufferin’ Mike!” exclaimed
the boy. “Can I learn to do it like
that?”
“Sure. Practice, that’s all. No;
stand sideways, right foot out—
right foot—well out—farther. That
is it. Now start the swing from
above the left shoulder—that’s the
stuff. Let the racquet go right on
through. No—too close to the body
that time. Bounce the ball a little
farther away. That's the idea—
follow through—that’a boy, that’a
boy! Try it again.”
The stranger sat down on a wheel-
barrow and urged the boy on with
crisp phrases of criticism and en-
couragement. There was a new
glint in the man’s eyes, and the
grim set about his mouth and jaw
had relaxed. At times he almost
laughed.
“Rest a minute,” he called at last;
and the boy, his smooth round face
shining with exertion and happiness,
dropped beside him on the old bor-
row.
“Whew!” breathed the pupil; “I
bet you play a dandy game.”
“Not any more,” said the stran-
ger, the old grim look returning.
“Before you—hurt your ' foot,”
ventured the boy, hesitantly.
“Yes,” grunted the stranger. “It’s
all over now.”
“Won't your foot ever get well, so
you can play?”
“No,” said the man bitterly. “An-
kle’s busted. Never be much good.
Mustn’t run around on it too much.”
After a long silence he suddenly
rose.
“Well—I must be going on,” he
said.
“Are you stoppin’ down t’ the In-
tervale House?” asked the boy.
“No; I'm just touring around
through the mountains—not stop-
ping anywhere except to sleep and
eat. Well—so long, son.”
But he didn’t go. He stood as
though fascinated by the little
downcast figure on the wheelbarrow.
The boy had suddenly lost his vivac-
ity. He looked forlorn—and lonely.
“What's the trouble, son?” the
man asked at length.
“Nothin’, I guess,” said the boy,
coming out of his reverie. “I was
just iffin’, that’s all.”
“What’s iffing 7”
“Don’t you ever if?” Why it's
like wishin’, only you put ‘if’ before
everythin’. Like this—I was just
iffin’ if you was livin’ down to the In-
tervale House—an’ if you wanted to
—you could come over and play with
me lots of times—an’ teach me about
tennis—an’ if you did I could be-
come a good player—if you wasn’t
goin’ away.” ”
“Oh, I see,” mused the stranger.
“But it’s this way, son: Since I
broke my ankle and couldn’t play
tennis any more, I've been driving
around the country trying to forget
my troubles. Tennis is one of the
things I was trying to get away
from—altogether. You see it's
pretty hard on a fellow not to be
able to play any more—and—and—
Understand ?”
“I guess so,” said the boy slowly.
The stranger studied the ground
for a moment.
“I might stop over here a few
days—if you think they'd let me
have a room,” he said finally.
The boy Jumbed up with a shout.
“Gee! ould you? That'd be
swell! Sure, you can get a room,
Mrs. Fletcher—she’s the landlady—
she’ll do anythin’ for a friend o’
mine Come on—I’ll interdooce
“Say, Bill,” said Mr. Kendrick,
three days later,—he was no longer
the stranger—as they sat resting on
the barrow between bombardments
of the barn wall, “this old tennis
court wouldn’t take long to put in
some kind of shape.”
“Wouldn’t it?” The boy’s sensi-
tive face lighted with a strange
ope. : :
“You and I could fix it up in a
few days, if Old Man Fletcher
would get us a couple of wagon
loads of fine sand.”
“Gee! Could We?” :
“Sure. This back-stop practice is
all right as a starter; but you'll nev-
er learn to play tennis s way,”
pursued Kendrick. “Suppose I stay
on a while—send down to Boston for
this way and that in big sweeping | bo
boy noticed his new friend limped as |e
some tennis things, and make this{Th
—rrrr rr — = —
‘hard and learn the game?”
“Would I?” almost shouted the
boy. “Ask me!”
The man seemed to consider a
moment.
“All right,” he said.
on.” :
Whooping with delight,
dashed off to tell his mother, while
Kendrick limped over the lumpy,
grass-grown old court, testing the
soil with his heel. The years seem-
ed to have slipped from his shoul-
ders. His face was almost as boyish
as Billy’s when he lifted it to greet
the quiet, patient figure being drag-
ged toward him by the exuberant
“You're
Billy
vy.
“Billy tells me you are going to
stay over a while,” she said, with
the quick, warm smile he had noted
in both their faces so often.
“If you don’t mind.”
“Mind? Of course not. It’s awful-
ly good of you to take such an inter-
est in my lonely little boy.”
“Not at all; a pleasure! Er—er,
Bill, run over and ask Mr. Fletcher
—there he is in the barn—if he can
get us the sand,” said Kendrick.
“He’s got the stuff in him to make
a fine tennis player,” he added as
Bill scampered off.
“I hope he has the stuff in him to
make a fine man,” said Billy’s moth-
T.
“It takes the same quality of
goods, as a ruc,” said Kendrick.
“You think so?” she asked dubi-
ously.
“I know so. Tennis develops a
fellow’s self-control, courage and
sense of decency and, more than
anything else, it teaches him to be a
modest winner and a good loser.”
“A good loser?” repeated Billy's
mother, questioningly.
“How to lose gracefully—in life or
just in the game.”
“I’m afraid you overestimate the
value of any mere sport,” she
doubted.
“Maybe I’ll have a chance to prove
it to you with Billy,” said Kendrick.
For three long days the lame
young man and the: boy tilled the
soil of the old tennis court. Side by
side they spaded, plowed, harrowed,
and raked the surface. They spread
the wagonloads of sand, and with
the heavy stone road-roller they
found in the barn they went over
and over the plot, rejoicing as they
felt the ground grow firmer and
firmer to their feet.
Meanwhile, in response to various
telegrams and letters, mysterious
parcels and boxes arrived and were
deposited unopened in the barn. At
each end of the court, with the aid of
Old Man Fletcher and the “hired
man,” the back-stops were erected;
on each side the net posts were sunk
well into the ground.
“Now we'll see what’s in those
packages,” said Kendrick at last.
Billy was trembling with excite-
ment and Kendrick was almost as
eager as they ripped the covers from
the boxes and tore the wrappings
from the packages. Wonders were
unfolded: A new white net with
atent stretchers to lower or raise it
y turning an iron crank; a gor-
geously painted tin contrivance on
wheels to mark the lines with lime-
mixture; a couple of boxes of snowy-
white, wooly “Championship” balls,
and then—oh, frabjous day!—a
twelve and a half ounce “Gold Med-
al” racquet in a waterproof cover
and wooden press. The string of
white and black gut hummed to the
boy’s strumming fingers; the handle
felt slim and firm in his small, hard
grip.
In his joy Billy failed to notice the
i expression on Kendrick’s face as he
| bent over a battered leather racquet
case. He looked like a violin virtuo-
| so who had been kept away from his
i beloved instrument a long time.
i “Feels more like it, eh?” said Ken-
| drick, looking up at the boy, who
: swung the racquet to and fro in ec-
static abandon.
“Am—am—I goin’ to play with
this one?” asked Billy breathlessly.
“That’s what I got it for, kid. It's
yours for keeps.”
“Gee! S’pose Mother won’t let me
keep it.” There was sudden conster-
nation in his tone.
“Sure she will.
birth-day 7”
“Next month—sixteenth gasped
Billy, his face lighting.
“That’s the idea,” laughed Ken-
drick. “It’s your birthday present
in advance.”
The next day Kendrick began to
teach Billy the intricacies of lawn
tennis as ar art. “We've got to go
slowly at first,” he told Billy. “You
have already managed, Lo knows
how, to learn to swing at the ball.
The first thing I'm going to teach
you is a simple service, with some
‘top’ and spin on the ball. Speed will
come later, when you grow older and
get more strength.”
And so for hours at a time he
kept the boy hammering out over-
head service strokes, while he stood
in the outer court, collecting the
balls and making no effort to return
them. Then came days spent in
mastering the rudiments of the long,
low drives down the side-lines.
“Until you are old enough to put
speed on the ball, you must depend
on your accuracy in placing to win
your points,” he explained. “Half
the game is put-ghsming the other
fellow, catching him out of position,
When’s your
where he can’t reach it.”
He taught Billy the short, tricky
chop-stroke across the court close to
the net; how and when to play the
dangerous but effective lob; and
kept him plugging for many hours
on long back-hand drives and diffi-
cult back-hand half-volleys.
The days slipped into weeks and
the weeks into a full month before
‘| Kendrick responded to the boy's oft-
en repeated question:
“Aren't we ever going to play a
real game?”
Then one morning at breakfast, he
brought the boy to his feet in de-
lighted surprise by saying:
“lI guess we'll play a regular
game today, Billy.”
It ag seemed a regular
game to the , though Kendrick,
as he hobbled slowly about the court,
appeared to find no difficulty in an-
1pating the youngster’s returns.
e master, holding his power in
em something awful—mor’'n a year court over for you—would you work | constant reserve, maneuvered his
i
and slipping one down the court]li
' pupil across the net.
shots so as to bring into play every
variety of stroke he had so labor-
iously drilled into the ardent little
“That’s the stuff, Bill,” he would
shout encouragingly. “You picked
the right spot that time. Try it
again.”
Slowly as the days passed the boy
grew surer of his stroke, more accu-
rate in his placement, until before
the middle of August he could keep
Kendrick limping from one side of
the court to the other as fast as his
crippled ankle would permit.
“I beat him two sets this morn-
in’,” Kendrick heard Billy telling his
mother one noon as they were wash-
ing up for dinner.
“I'm sure he must have let you
win,” suggested the mother’s sweet
voice.
“No, Ma, honest he didn’t. You
see, he’s so lame that he can’t run
fast, an’ when I place ’em down the
side-lines I get him out o’ position
an’ pass him, really I do.”
Kendrick, drying his face on a
towel, smiled grimly to himself.
“Billy seems to be coming on as
a player,” said the mother at dinner.
“How’s the character-building work-
ing out?” She smiled teasingly.
“I'm going to give him his first
lesson in that after dinner,” said
Kendrick, looking seriously at the
astonished boy.
They finished the meal in silence.
After the hour’s rest Kendrick al-
ways ordered for the digestion’s
sake, he beckoned to the boy and si-
lently led the way to the court.
“Say, Bill,” he said finally, as they
took their places, “one of the worst
things a young player can do is to
get the swelled head and think he
can beat the world. Understand?”
“Yes—sir,” said Billy meekly.
“I Lope you do,” continued Ken-
drick, picking up three balls deftly
with one flick of his racquet; “but to
make sure, I'm going to give you an
object lesson. Ready—play!”
What followed was a revelation to
the bewildered Billy. He suddenly
found himself tied to the ground
waving a vain and useless toy in the
air. Tennis balls lost their accus-
tomed proportions and became mere
white streaks that whizzed by one’s
head like great angry hornets or
struck viciously in all parts of the
court where one wasn’t. Point upon
point, love-game after love-game,
Kendrick, hardly appearing to move
from one spot, piled up the score, un-
til, with a final lightning drive down
the side-lines that missed Billy's
frantic swipe by three feet, he end-
ed the object lesson at 6-0.
Kendrick stood quietly in his court
and watched Billy’s rueful, crimson
countenance. The boy wavered for
a moment, and looked toward the
house. He felt a big lump rising in
his throat and his eyes became mis-
ty. He wanted to run to his mother
—to bury his face in her lap—and
be comforted, as of old. But he
didn’t. Slowly he turned his twitch-
ing face toward the silent man
across the net. Then with a quick
gesture he drew his sleeve across his
eyes and dripping forehead. “I—
guess—I—was gettin’ stuck on—m-
my-self,” he blurted uncertainly.
Kendrick’s heart leaped and his
own eyes became strangely dim.
With a great laugh he climbed over
the net, grabbed the boy around the
shoulders and hugged him.
“You're all right, kid!” he cried.
“Don’t let that worry you for a min-
ute. I could do that trick with lots
of full-grown men who think they
can play tennis. I just wanted to
take you down a little. Now we’ll go
back to the regular stuff and give
some real practice.”
Billy pulled himself together. He
liked to feel his big friend’s arm
around him—but it seemed to weak-
en his resolve not to cry, and so he
drew himself slowly away. “What
—what shall I try next?” he asked,
a little quavering.
“That’s the boy!” said Kendrick.
“Cone on and try the reverse-twist
service a while. If you get that
down this summer you’ll have all the
kids your age whipped to a stand-
still.”
That evening, Billy, before the
good-night hug and kiss he had nev-
er known his mother to overlook,
made a little confession.
“Mother,” he whispered, “I guess
—you was right—when you said he
let me win. I had the swelled head,
all right. But he took it out of me
this afternoon. Gee! You ought to
see him hit that ball when he : wants
to.”
Billy’s mother looked tenderly at
the tired, healthy little figure in the
big feather bed. There was a special
fervor in the good night hug and
kiss that time, and then she went
down to the porch and told Kendrick
about it. :
“I'm beginning to see that tennis
isn’t all mere play,” she said.
One other lesson, and a more seri-
ous one, Kendrick found necessary to
instill into his pupil. He often no-
ticed a tendency on Billy’s part to
miscall balls. At first Kendrick at-
tributed it to lack of experience. But
this day there could be no mistake:
three times in one set Billy deliber-
ately called one of Kendrick’s art-
fully placed returns “outside,” when
Kendrick could see plainly that it
struck just inside, or dead on the
ne.
After the third offense Kendrick
smashed one down the side for the
winning point and turned on his heel
to leave the court.
“We won't Say any more today,
Billy,” he said quietly.
Without looking back Kendrick
limped around the house, leaving the
boy, racquet in hand, moodily bounc-
ing a ball up and down. Kendrick
immersed himself in a book on the
veranda and awaited developments.
Slowly, with dragging footsteps, a
forlorn little figure in khaki blouse
and knickers came around the house
and mounted the veranda steps.
Kendrick fastened his eyes on the
page before him, reading the same
paragraph over and over. The foot-
steps dragged nearer and nearer.
Kendrick felt the pressure of a small
shoulder leaning against his; a little
brown hand pulled at his coat
sleeve. Presently a weak, uncertain
voice spoke in his ear:
“I knew those balls was—was
good.”
The next instant Kendrick found
himself holding a quivering figure,
while a small round head buried it-
self on his arm and spilled big tears
on his hand. For a while Kendrick
silently held the shaken boy in his
arms. When he started to speak he
found it difficult.
“Billy,” he said at last, “I don’t
think I'll ever have to tell you this
again: Tennis puts a fellow on his
{ honor more than any other game—
when there’s no umpire or linesmen
to watch where the balls hit. It’s
good to play winning tennis, but the
next best thing to winning a square
game is to lose one. The worst
thing is to win by cheating, or tak-
ing a mean advantage of the other
fellow. Always remember that.
Anytime in a game that you are in
doubt as to whether the ball is in or
out, give the benefit of the doubt to
the other side of the net. Under-
stand 7”
From the huddled figure in his
arms came an inarticulate affirma-
tive noise.
“You’ll have lots of chances in
tennis to do the crooked thing—
when your opponent isn’t expecting
it and you can win a point by cheat-
ing. But you'll find it doesn’t pay.
Real tennis players don’t do it.
They're a clean lot of fellows. They
haven’t any use for a chap who
cheats. Why sometimes—it even
happens in a big match that the um-
pire or linesman will call a ball ‘out’
or ‘in’ and give you a point when you
know he is wrong. If you're a regu-
lar guy you won’t stand for such a
play, you’ll see that the point goes
to your opponent—or even it up on
the next point, anyway. Under-
stand ?”
There came another mumbled as-
sent. Followed minutes of silence,
broken only by those gulps and
retchings of the painful aftermath
of tears. Neither heard the screen
door shut softly and the quick rustle
of footsteps scurrying up-stairs. Up
in her room Billy’s mother found it
difficult to keep back the tears and
swallow the rising lump in her
throat.
(Concluded next week.)
Back to Vegetable Dyes.
A virtually forgotten industry is be-
ing revived with frantic haste as a
result of the discontinuance of Ger-
many’s world commerce in aniline or
coal tar dyes.
The United States, like many other
countries, is locking longingly once
more to Avignon’s madder root for
its “Turkey red,” to India’s indigo for
its blues, to Mexico’s cochineal for its
scarlets, to Central America’s logwood
for its blacks and browns, to our own
oak forests for their quercitron yel-
low, and—no, not to the peculiarMed-
iterranean seashell for its purple, for
the manufacture of the Tyrian shade
once beloved by emperors - is one of
the socalled lost arts.
But these ancient vegetable dyes,
some of which were in use when the
mummy cloths were being made for
the pyramid builders of Egypt, can
never replace the coal tar dyes, which,
during the sixty years since they were
accidentally discovered, have revolu-
tionized the art of adding color to our
clothes, our houses, our inks, our
shoes, our wall paper, our hats and our
book bindings. In fact, aniline dyes
furnish almost all of the modern tints
for which man is responsible.
It was in 1865 that a young English
chemist, while trying to produce arti-
ficial quinine, distilled from coal tar a
substance which had a beautiful
mauve tint. This was the first of the
aniline dyes, dyes which have now
been produced in nearly a thousand
commercial shades, 400 of which are
widely used. This young chemist,
William Henry Parkin, secured capi-
tal from his father and began the
manufacture of dyes, as a result of
which he was knighted and amassed
a fortune. His discovery immediately
attractived the attention of German
manufacturers, who aided by far-
sighted bankers, employed university
chemists, and established dye plants
on the Rhine and Main rivers, inaugu-
rating an industry which has enjoyed
phenomenal success. ‘At the outbreak
of the present great war twenty-one
manufacturing establishments, most
of them within an area of 130 square
miles, had a practical world monopoly
of the aniline dye trade.—National
Geographic Society.
Peach Tree Borers.
Reports from several sections of
the State indicate that peach tree
borers are unusually active at this
time of the year. One correspond-
ent'in writing to Zoologist H. A.
Surface, of the Pennsylvania De-
partment of Agriculture, calls atten-
tion to “many slender worms, white
and quite active, acting a good deal
like very minute, quick-acting angle
worms.”
' Professor Surface says:
“The slender white worms found
in the gum at the base of peach trees
are the larvae of flies. They feed
in the gum and do not attack the
trees. They do not cause the gum to
exude and therefore are not injuri-
ous. The presence of gum does not
mean the presence of borers, as gum
may come from several causes, but
when there are fine grains, like
sawdust in the gum, it is a sure evi-
dence of the presence of peach tree
borers.
“The only thing to do is to go
after them with a knife and cut them
out, or dissolve one ounce of cyanide
of potassium in two gallons of water
and pour this around the base of the
tree and cover it with earth. Begin-
ning about the latter part of June,
wash the base of the tree once a
month for three applications with
lime-sulphur solution containing
some sediment, and this will keep
other borers from entering.
Her Own Fault.
Mistress—Mary, don’t let me
catch you kissing the grocer’s boy
again,
Mary—Lor’ mum, I don’t mean to
but you do bob around so.—Boston
Transcript.
Courtesy Lessens Auto Accidents.
Virtually every automobile club in
every city in the United States has
this year adopted new and more
stringent rules with reference to
safety regulations in the driving of
motor cars. Some of the clubs
place more emphasis on one point
than the others, but the feature of
nearly all of the instructions to
members is the necessity of automo-
bile drivers being courteous to othre
drivers with whom they share the
road and also to pedestrians who
happen ta cross in front of them.
“There are thousands of driving
rules which have more or less sig-
nificance from a ‘safety first’ stand-
point, but if every driver would sim-
ply be as courteous to other drivers
and pedestrians as he should be to
his own mother at home, a great
many of the more complex regula-
tions could be dispensed with,” says
Morgan J. Hammers, general man-
ager of the Consolidated Car Com-
pany, of Detroit. Mr. Hammers,
who is personally an enthusiastic
tourist when he can spare the time
from his factory, has made a close
study of automobile traffic rules and
his opinion on the subject should be
of interest to all motorists.
“The danger of automobile driv-
ing is greatly exaggerated,” he says:
“The careful and courteous driver is
in no more danger of an accident
than the pedestrian who crosses the
street. The Wolverine Automobile
Club, of Detroit, has issued a list of
suggestions to its members which in
my opinion covers the situation as
fully as possible. Some of the
points it makes are to this effect.
“Be courteous at all times. Don’t
hog the road, give the other fellow
room to pass.
“When another driver comes in
from a side street, give him room to
turn the corner--don’t crowd. He has
as much right to turn a corner as
you have.
. “Do not dodge in and around cars
lined up in dense traffic. Remember
they were there first and are proba-
bly just as anxious to get ahead as
you are.
“When a pedestrian does not heed
your warning signal, remember that
hundreds of deaf persons use the
street as much as you do.
“When you have an almost insane
desire to speed, remember that the
fellows you pass have just as much
right to break the law as you have.
Think of the accident which may
happen by your hitting some other
fellow coming in from a side street.
Also be courteous to the passengers
in your own car, who, are filled with
fear, but are trying to be game and
not let you know it.
“When a pedestrian deliberately
pays no attention to your signal
think of the thousands of mentally
deficient. You' would not injure one
who is helpless to defend himself.
“Slow up when you see a child on
the curb. Remember that the child
can start quicker than you can stop.
“And, lastly, be courteous to po-
lice officials and in 99 cases out of
100 they will more than repay it.
You may not like their rules, but re-
member that the traffic officer him-
self had very little to do with mak-
ing those rules—he is simply there
to enforce them. He must do his
duty, the same as you would do it
if you were on his beat.”
rt
1
Arms Exports to Mexico.
Treasury Department figures on
the export of arms and ammunition
to Mexico during the present year
show the following valuations:
January—Firearms, $11,755; car-
tridges, $123,985; dynamite, $120,-
105; gunpowder, $1220; other explo-
sives, $10,386.
February—Firearms, $523; car-
tridges, $116,370; dynamite, $411,-
081; gunpowder, $400; other explo-
sives, $10,076.
March—Firearms, none; car-
tridges, $202,774; dynamite, $25,919;
gunpowder, $1099; other explosives,
$13,318. :
April—Firearms, $150; cartridges,
$51,875; dynamite, $61,143; gunpow-
der, $369; other explosives, $24,812.
Figures for May and June are not
available. Practically all the ex-
ports were for the Carranza Govern-
ment.
World Famine in Needles.
The world famine in needles al-
ready sorely felt in the United
States, China and Japan, has reach-
ed France, according to a dispatch
from Commercial Attache C. W. A.
Veditz at Paris to the Bureau of
Foreign and domestic Commerce.
He says the underwear and knit
goods industry of France is passing
through a critical period because of
the difficulties ercountered in obtain-
ing knitting needles. They were for-
merly purchased mainly from Eng-
land and Spain, but their exporta-
tion is now prohibited by these coun-
tries.
The situation is further aggravat-
ed by the fact that Switzerland has
also recently enacted a similar ex-
port prohibition.
Limestone Quarries are Deep and
Dangerous.
A limestone quarry which is about
a mile loess picturesque in appear-
ance, and dangerous to work in is lo-
cated near Rockland, Me. There 300
laborers, chiefly foreigners, toil in
chasms having perpendicular sides
500 feet high and no way of entrance
or egress except by means of the
derricks which hoist and lower about
a dozen men at a time. Approximate-
ly 1,000,000 barrels of lime are pre-
pared in the vicinity of Rockland an-
nually. Interesting views of these
quarries appear in the July “Popular
Mechanics Magazine.”
There Was a Reason.
Bridges—I wonder how Henpeck
came to buy an auto. Do you know?
Rivers—Yes. He said he thought
maybe his wife wouldn’t be so free
to find fault with him after she saw
how much trouble he was having
with his car.—Life.
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