Bellefonte, Pa., July 20, 1917. THE RED CROSS DOLLAR. Send me, send me, Do not hold me Take and fold me In Red Cross kit To do my bit As they see fit Who shall spend me. I'm a Red Cross Dollar. I'm a free man’s gift, Bent on going Where “Glory” leads; Bent on doing What soldier needs In war-bled land; Lending a hand; Giving a lift. I'm a Red Cross Dollar. Let me hie me; Don’t deny me. My country calls, My brother falls. To pay a debt I can’t forget— A debt ef honor Long overdue. I'm a Red Cross Dollar. Shot down by shell In foe-made hell In friendly France, My brother bleeds And waits and pleads. My only chance To heal my kin And help France win— I put my bit In Red Cross Kit. I'm a Red Cross Dollar. Don’t say me nay. Our nation’s way Is true devotion To each emotion Born of Liberty. Gives its Godspeed To each small deed That's done in love For Freedom's need. Is blesséd above I'm going. I'm a Red Cross Dollar. My mission’s high To amplify A soldier's care, To do and dare Mid aot battle, Rifles’ rattle And cannon’s roar. What both my purse And Red Cross nurse Can make much more. I'm a Red Cross Dollar. I'm glad first aid, I'm all home made. Clothing, dressings, Love-stitched blessings, Woll-knit sweater, Well wove letter For far off brother From sister, mother, Yes, I'm Surgeon's supplies Answering cries Of bleeding valor Mid war-made squalor. I'm going— I'm a Red Cross Dollar, 3y Rev. JOHN HEWITT. “LITTLE FELLER.” (Concluded from last issue.) So, with his rifle in his hand, he crept through the willows fringing the stream, looking for some living thing—anything that could be con- verted into broth. After about an hour he spied a ground-squirrel sitting upright be- side its burrow, its little paws folded across its buffy breast, its big eyes glistening in the sun. Three success- ive times the man drew a bead on it, but his hands—hands that were stran- gers to unmanly tremors, even where a fellow-being was his target—shook so that he dared not risk a shot. At last, however, gritting his teeth and rendering his whole body rigid, he re- duced the weaving motion of the front sight to a minimum, and pulled the trigger. At the same instant he clos- ed his eyes, like the rankest tender- foot. With infinite pains that nothing might be wasted, he dressed his pitia- ble quarry, built a fire, and soon had a stew going in the dipper. He held the vessel in his hands, not daring to trust it to a support of stones, which might crack from the heat and spill the precious contents. So, skimming and stirring and adding water almost drep by drop, lest he thin it too much, he watched the cooking with eyes which streamed and smarted from the smoke, now cursing his trembling fin- gers, now murmuring words that sounded like a prayer. At last, after allowing himself sev- eral infinitesimal tastes to test it, he judged the concoction to be done; and taking Little Feller on his lap, he anxiously offered him a few drops of the broth in a spoon. The babe ac- cepted the strange food—even tried to swallow the spoon itself, and fairly quivered in eagerness for more. Ken- tucky could not see to give a second helping until the mist cleared from his eyes. “Feelin’ pretty good now, eh, Little Feller!” he observed, when the child was satisfied. “Course you 2ir. You got a good nuss, though he don’t wear no lace cap. He ain’t none of your one-idee’d people. If there ain’t no milk he’s got sense enough to try sun- thin’ else, and he war bright enough to guess that gopher soup would just about hit the right spot. - Most people wouldn’t call me good company for a young feller like you. But I ain’t the worst you might have—not by no means. I won’t deceive you. I ain’t no Sunday-school boy. But I want to explain one thing. “I didn’t want to kill Lark Tolliver no more’n I did Gallinito. I had noth- in’ agin him—not a thing. In fact, I liked him. But we had a little quoll over cyards, and after he got good and drunk he made his brags he'd shoot me on sight. I knowed he'd think better of it when he sobered up, so I kept away from him—rid out of town. I didn’t come back till next day. But he hadn’t sobered up as soon as usual. I seen that as soon as he stepped out of the Hot Rivet with his face all flushed. So I watched him out o’ the tail of my eye. I waited till | he drawed his gun, which is the last second a feller kin wait. knowed it was him or me. “Little Pard, it was him. But could I ’a’ done anything else? You’d say plainer. prop’ty, paid taxes and helped elect the shureff. And me—well, I war just Kentucky Harrod. So the shureff in’ four Tollivers, sworn in as depu- ties, goes on a still hunt fer me. The babe smiled and said, “Gloo- gul-goo!” “That's it. up and talk politics any longer. got to git an airly start in the mawn- in” So I'll just build you a little off that breeze, and we’ll turn in and git a good night’s sleep.” But again he could not sleep. A strange excitement pervaded him. His pursuers, oddly enough, scarcely crossed his mind. He kept thinking how nearly he had missed that ground- squirrel at thirty feet, and began to doubt his ability to hit the next one. About two o’clock he slipped his hand into the babe’s wraps and felt its feet. To his dismay, they were cold; so were the little hands. His first thought was to administer some more hot broth. Then it occurred to him that possibly the broth had not digested properly. For a moment his heart sank. A sick baby on his hands, alone on the wind-swept plains, leagues upon leagues from a human habitation, and no medicine! Then, like a flash of inspiration, there came to him a scene he had once witnessed in an Apache village, in which a mother and her child were the two actors. Taking the hint, he mended the fire until it was burning briskly, and laid around its edge a dozen or more stones the size of a cocoanut. Next he dug a bowl-shap- ed hole inthe earth and filled it with water carried from the stream in his hat. It took many hatfuls, for until the walls became soaked they absorb- ed the water almost as fast as he could supply it. By this time the stones were hot. He kicked them in- to the water, one by one, until it be- gan to steam. Then undressing Little Feller, he laid him in the bath. When his whole body was pink, Kentucky lifted him out, quickly dried him with his red neckerchief—the softest garment at hand—dressed him again, pinned him up in his planket, and laid him over in the poncho. His reward—ample enough indeed—was one of Little Fel- ler’s smiles. In stripping the roly-poly body Kentucky had noticed for the first time a chain and locket which had hitherto been concealed by the babe’s clothing. He tossed it aside at the time; but after the little one was asleep, having nothing else to do, he idly examined the trinket. On it was engraved the word “Willie.” This simple bit of information about the hitherto nameless babe af- fected the man strangely. It gave his charge a place in the world, as it were; definitely linked him with the great human family, from which he had been so isolated before, in his finder’s mind, as an aerolite out of the heavens. “Willie!” he murmured, gazing at the graven letters. ‘William’ is the hull of it, I s’pose, and some day mep- be, they’d ’a’ called him Bill.” Kentucky was not familiar with lockets, and it was some minutes be- fore he discovered that this one was hinged and jointed, and could there- fore be opened. Presently, inserting his thick thumb nail, he opened it. On the inside were two photographs —one of a man, the other of a wom- an—doubtless Willie’s parents. The man was Anson Tolliver. Kentucky stared at the likeness a long {ime, without the movement of an eyelash. Then he laughed, not mirthfully, but with a harsh, cracked note, like the tame magpie down at Gentryville. The joke was on him. He recalled seeing Mrs. Anson Tolli- ver and a hired man drive off in a buckboard the morning of his trouble with Larkin; and Lark, before the quarrel, had told him she was bound for Antelope, to visit her brother. Doubtless it was the news of Lark's death which had induced her to return to Gentryville by way of the short cut through the Ten Pins, where she had been attacked by the Indians. So Little Feller, for whom he had jeopardized his life, was the son of a man who would shoot him down as ruthlessly as if he were a sheep-kill- ing dog. In Anson Tolliver’s eyes Kentucky Harrod was of no more ac- count than a rattlesnake or a Gila monster; of less account even, for Anson shot these reptiles only as chance threw them in his path, while to shoot Kentucky he and his three brothers had abandoned business and all the ordinary pursuits of life, and had sworn to go unshorn until their man was under the sod. For seven days now Kentucky had led the life of a wild beast, fleeing be- fore his pursuers, hiding in solitary places, living on whatever food fell into his hands, often hungry, often thirsty, until at last the closing coils had forced him to play his last card— make a dash for the Wolf Den coun- try, a region so desolate that even the Indians dreaded it. By this time, had it not been for the delays which the little foundling had forced upon him, he would have been within the pur- lieus of that haven where no sheriff dared show his face. What was a babe’s life, after all? Left where he had found it, this one would have quietly sunk into that sleep from which there is no awaken- ing. It had not yet learned to love the game cailed life. When hungry, it puckered its lips; but food not forthcoming, it would gentlg slip in- to the great Unknown, with suffer- ing, without regret. But life, even such life as he had lived, was sweet to Kentucky Harrod. He joyed in its adventures and hair- breadth escapes. To overcome an en- emy, either by cunning or mere brute force, brought satisfaction. But be- yond and better than all this was the dream that some day he might come into his own; that some day, somehow, he might hold up his head among oth- er men, might stand on an equal foot- ing with the Tollivers, for instance, and others of their kind. placards the county, and the remain- | wickiup out of thes willers, to keep ! This life, these dreams, he had now Then I! put in jeopardy for the sake of this babe. To provide it with milk he had lost precious hours. chill of death he had built up a fire no yourself if you could talk a little | But Lark was a man of which might have emblazoned his whereabouts for miles across the level plain to a sleepless enemy. And this babe (the idea tapped at his brain over and over) was a son of Anson Tolliver. It would grow up—if it ever grew up—to remember him, not { as its savior, but as the slayer of its I see you git my drift. | But it’s too late fer you and me to set | We | i uncle Larkin. Dark thoughts flitted through his brain like ugly phantoms. Yet his in- nate nobility delivered him from the temptation. The smoldering spark of paternity in his breast had been fan- ned to a flame and was not easily ex- tinguished. And, presently, when he had parted the folds of the poncho and peeped at the innocent face within, an almost painful tenderness suffused him. What did it suspect of murder and revenge? It had laughed and cooed at him as at its own father; it had called him “Bah-bah.” It.clung to the hand that fed it. That the same hand had laid its uncle in the dust was of no significance. So, when the man mounted Petey To ward off its a chance shot, of course, for he was not exposed; but, deflected by a rock, the bullet had done its work. “The cyards are stacked agin me!” muttered Harrod. “I'm due to lose.” In his bones he felt that his end was near. Still he was not afraid— merely vastly puzzled. Though siroc- co and blizzard, alkali and whiskey, had given him the appearance of a man past his prime, he was only for- ty-two. He was young in both body and spirit. In spite of hard knocks, fortune had always smiled upon him. When it came to a show-down, he had always held the winning hand. Now he was due to lose. His injured arm was useless, and whenever he changed position it swung back ard forth with a curious creak. But it did net pain him much as ye;, and ne managed, shooting from a prone position, to manipulate . his rifle fairly well with one hand. He shot deliberately, for the Tollivers in their dusty clothes were almost the color of the tall grass, and it was only now and then that he discovered any- thing to draw a bead against. In- deed, he half wished they would “rush” him and give him a chance to at break of day, Little Feller was in i his arms—Little Feller. who required : see even less of him. One or more of milk and broth ir a land where men had sucked putrid bones; who wiltea under the noorday sun and chilled by night; who asked so much and gave so little. Yet that little was wonderfully sweet to Kentucky Harrod, whose do some fancy work with his revolver, which was his favorite weapon. The foe, on the other hand, could them usually fired when a shot of his “gave them a clue to his position. Now ‘and then they would pour ir a fusil- lade, trusting to luck for a hit. It was immediately after one of ! these broadsides that the sky sudden- motto had so long been, “It is more : ‘lions of rockets, shoals upon shoals of blessed to take than to give.” Now, when he was giving all and taking nothing, he was strangely happy. In-' deed, an ecstacy, a kind of delirium, possessed him. The way was smooth- : ed before him. No more doubts, no more temptations, assailed him. No shadow of regret tinged his reflec- tions. The hour when he had ponder- ed the abandonment of the little one semed to have receded into a remote past. That his refuge was still a hundred miles away seemed a trifle, not be- cause he believed Providence would reward his good deed by seeing him safely through, but because he now cared so little whether he got through or not. It was not his getting through, but the babe’s, which had become paramount. He was begin- ning to suspect that the babe’s way through was south, not north; and more than once he halted his horse with the half-formed resolution of turning back. Hence, when at noon, after feeding | Little Feller half the remaining broth, | he swept the landscape to the south with his glass and despied four horse- men, at a distance of perhaps fifteen miles, his pulse scarcely quickened. He had no intention, however, of sac- rificing himself. He still believed that justice was on his side, and he intend- ed to sell his life as dearly as possi- ble—to die by a bullet, not a rope. He considered the feasibility of leaving the child where the father would find it. Such a strategem would detach at least one of the party, and send him flying back to the land of baby-food. Yet the risk to Little Feller would be great. There was no trail here. The Tollivers, guided on- ly by the creeks and springs which they knew the fugitive would follow, might easily pass the baby by, for there was no way of conspicuously marking its resting place. Moreover, the finding of the baby would only whet their appetites for vengeance. The Tolliver’s had been out, on their man-hunt for a week now. Anson might or might not have learn- ed of the loss of his babe. If he had not, he vould naturally assume, on finding it here, that Kentucky had kidnapped it. If he had, he would as- sume that Kentucky had instigated the dastardly Indian attack. So Harrod rode on, without haste, until he came to a depression in the ground inclosed by a circle of bould- ers—an ancient site of Indian ceremo- nials. A better fortress could scarce- ly have been devised, and here he calmly made ready for his enemies. He built a hollow rectangle of stones in which Little Feller would be safe from stray bullets from any quarter. He led Petey inside, roped up a front foot, and threw him. Oth- erwise, the horse would be the first victim of the Tollivers’ fire, and with- out him Kentucky’s victory, should he by a miracle win, would be but a bar- ren one. Moreover, with the horse concealed there was a bare chance of the party not discovering him. Then he sat down to wait. An hour or so later his foes galiop- ed out frora behind a swell of ground half a mile away. Before they came within rifle-shot, however, they halt- ed, and one of them lifted a field- glass. They were veteran campaign- ers in this grim business, and the In- dian pow-wow place had evidently caught their attention. After a brief council they dismounted and proceed- ed on foot. They, too, realized the necessity of protecting their horses. Kentucky waited, rifle in hand. He could not afford to waste a single cartridge by firing at sn unduly long range; yet he wanted to get in one shot before the men dropped into the grass, as he knew they were likely to do at any minute. They had separat- ed as widely as possible without en- dangering one another, by cross-fire and finally Kentucky picked out the man whom the sun made the fairest target of and lifted his rifle to his shoulder. 0 “Bah-bah!” he heard the babe bab- e. The sound all but cost the startled man a premature shot. Lowering his weapon, he leveled his spy-glass upon his intended victim. It was truly papa—it was Anson Tolliver. “All right, Little Feller!” he mur- mured. “I’ll pick out your Uncle Bill, if it suits you better, though the sun air liable to blur my sights a lit- tle.” Ife shifted his position, aimed and fired. Big Bill Tolliver dropped, but not as a dead man drops, Kentucky perceived with a wave of chagrin. At the shot the other brothers had also dropped, and as the fugitive glanced about the field there was no sign of human presence. Nevertheless a rifle cracked a few seconds later and the besieged man’s left arm suddenly became as numb and helpless as a paralytic’s. It was iin their flight. ly streamed with what seemed mil- them, like minnows back in the mead- ow creek in old Kentucky, swinging gracefully through their appointed arcs, and dropping showers of stars Then quite as sudden- | ly came blackness, as if an invisible hand had drawn a jetty veil across the | empyrean dome. Stunned and bewildered, hardly conscious of the act, Kentucky crawl- ed over to the babe’s bullet-proof and | lifted him out with his one serviceable | arm. Then getting his back to a rock, for he was very weary, he closed his eyes. “Little Feller,” he murmured, sleepi- ly, “I just had a bad dream. If you'll put your hand agin my cheek I don’t believe it will come ag’in. I ain't troubled with dreams much, but it’s so dark, and somehoy so close to- night that—that I cain’t breathe good; and it seems—it seems—” He placed his hand over his aching chest, but it did not occur to him that the dampness there was from his own blood, for the Tollivers and his duel with them had faded from his cor- sciousness. Hours later—so he imagined—he awoke. It was still dark, but he could see figures moving about, now near, now far, now one, now a dozen. Final- ly one of them forced a flask betwen his teeth and he gradually became conscious of a piliow of some kind be- neath his head and a blanket spread over his cold body. But still he could not make out what one of the men was whispering in his ear. “Louder!” he exclaimed, impatient- ly The man still whispered, so it seem- ed, but after a second draught of | whiskey the dying man caught the words. “Kentuck! Kentuck! How did you i come by that baby?” “Little Feller?” he asked, with a supreme effort. “Found him in the Ten Pins. Injuns. He’s a Tolliver. Iv’e got to git him back home some way.” He moved his right arm, feeling for the babe. It was gone. “Where is he?” he cried. “Bring him back I say, or I'll pump you full of lead.” One of the men, sitting with his head between his knees, seemed to be weeping; but another one restored the babe to Kentucky’s side. “Now I'll teil you just how to take keer cf him, fer I’ve got to ketch some sleep, so we kin git an airly start. Make him some gopher soup. He likes milk best, but gopher soup will do. But it must be just so, not too hot ner not too cold, not too thick ner too thin. And feed it out of the tea- spoon, and not too fast And ef he gits cold, give him an Injun bath, and rub him down with your bandanner.” The man who was weeping now fairly sobbed aloud, much to Ken- tucky’s annoyance; but he was too weak to make any remonstrance. He was also too weak to figure out how he had fallen into this strange com- pany. So he went to sleep. * When he awoke he was rational. He recognized the four Tollivers. One by one they silently pressed his limp hand. Anson, with red eyes, tried to speak, but failed. “Just one request, boys,” said Ken- tucky, in a piping voice that he could scarce believe his own. “When he grows up and people tell him that Kentucky Harrod killed his uncle Lark, you—you tell him about—about this. I—I’d like to hold him just a minute, ef you don’t care. You know, him and me has been campin’ togeth- er fer sev’ral days, and he—he likes me. They again laid Little Feller by his side. A faint smile lit Kentucky's pale, dewy face. He turned his head slightly until his lips rested against the curls of the baby’s head, and then closed his eyes. “Little Feller!” he murmured, con- tentedly. Thus he passed into his long sleep. —By Elmore Elliott Peake, in Har- per’s Monthly Magazine. ——Cavalry horses have been dying in large numbers from a mysterious disease in different regions of the south of France. The mortality has reached 60 per cent. to 70 per cent. of new contingents arriving at Toulouse, Albi, Bordeaux, Narbonne and Per- pignan. Horses apparently sound and well when they are unloaded from the cars die so soon after being stabled that it is impossible to treat them. This situation dates from 1914, soon after the declaration of war. The mortality was the greatest in the spring of 1915 and it is still alarming. ——The kildeer is long-legged and long-winged; runs on ground, flies high and swiftly, and calls dee, dee; is larger than a robin. War Damage in French Forests. Paris, France.—In an interesting article appearing in La Renais- sance du Tourisme, M. Georges Caye reviews the damages which the war will have caused to the forests of France. He also considers the after war prospects both of afferestation of the land and of wood supply from abroad. France, he says, possessed before the war, 10,000,000 hectacres of wooded lands which was an ines- timable source of riches to her. Ur- bain Gohier remarked recently that war always destroyed men and beasts, factories and places of worship, farms, castles and cottages, but that this war was destroyirg trees also. The name of many a wood has figured in official communiques of fighting at the front; for instance, those of La Grurie, Le Pretre, de Mortmare, of Argonne and of Hartmanvillerskopf, these of Coucy and of Saint Gobian. It happens that the departments in which the operations have taken place ! have all possessed important wooded areas; taking the whole of the line from the Vosges to the Pas de Calais and from the Meuse to the Aisne, the extent of wooded territory involved amounts to 1,190,111 hectacres, that is about one-eighth of the entire for- est land of France. Besides the total | destruction caused by artillery, the ‘cutting down of woods for strategical | purposes, and the cutting of trenches involving the sacrifice of trees, as be- ! tween Roye and Belfort, where the en- tire forest land is ruined, the French | army needed an immense amount of | wood of all kinds for a variety of pur- | poses including stakes for the barbed | wire defenses. All this wood was cut from the neighboring forests, at first without method, and this caused great damage. But this waste was soon | ‘checked and an agreement was enter- | ed into by the Headquarters Staff of { the Department of Woods and For- I ests, by which a special service of | Woodsmen was ovganized for the ar- my. The amount of wood used in this {war is almost incredible, contiues M. { Caye, the quantity having, at the i present time, reached the enormous | figure of 672,000 cubic meters of ; wood (steres) for the front alone. But besides this amount there is the ! wood used in the factories for the | manufacture of millions of rifles, of i munition cases, of barracks, motor | drays, railway sleepers. It is true | that a certain amount has been im- ! ported into France from abroad, but | the greater part has had to be con- tributed by France herself, who has also provided for some of the needs of the British army in the east. It can be easily understood that in order to meet such a demand not only all ; existing reserve stocks have been ex- hausted, but that immense felling op- erations have had to be carried out in the French forests, even century old trees on the sides of the great roads and of the canals having been ruth- lessly cut down. If damage has been caused to the woods on the front and in the interior of th2 country, what will the condi- | tion of the woods be in the invaded de- | partments? There can be little doubt { that not only have ithe Germans help- ed themselves liberally for their im- : mediate military purposes, but they have also sent the finest trees into Germany. It is known that wood from French forests has heen sold in Hamburg, and it is thought probable that the wood referred to was oak from the fine oak forest of Mormal. The work of driving the Germans out of France will, as in the case of the forests of Saint Gobain and Coucy, cause terrible damage. The forests in Argonne and the pine woods of Champagne have already been totallv ruined, and since most of the land is unfit for cultivation unless it is reaf- forested it will remain waste. It will be essential that at the close of hostil- ities the owners of these woods should be encouraged to plant young trees, in fact it should be made obligatory for them to do so, with the help of State grants. M. Caye looks to Russia, Japan, Scandinavia, and more particularly to Canada for the supply of woods after the war, and of seeds, which France used to obtain from Austria-Hungary. He also asks whether the time has not come when stock should be taken of the riches of the French colonies, and opportunities given French col- onists to trade on easy terms with the mother country.—Christian Science Monitor. Busy Days for the Snow Shoe Y. W. C. A. The Snow Shoe girls of the Y. W. C. A. held a patriotic meeting Mon- day night, July 2nd. They took up as a study the condition at the present time of the allied countries of Europe, and what they are doing for the war. They learned the salute of the Amer- ican flag and the national anthem, and sang other patriotic songs. The orchestra kindly assisted and the meeting was much enjoyed and very instructive. An interesting feature of the even- ing was the exhibition of a beautiful flag made by the girls and presented to the base ball team for the Fourth of July celebration. The meeting July 9th was well at- tended. It is a pleasing sight to see twenty-five or more happy-faced young women and girls busily en- gaged in learning to knit, The study taken up this week was concerning the lives of great men who are making history today. The girls are planning for a wild flower hike over the mountains, for this week, led by two botanists of the organization. They are also planning a canning demonstration for the Slav- ish girls of the community, to be held during July. ——A new project of American en- gineers is a giant canal 250 miles long to connect the Arctic ocean and the Baltic Sea, extending from Kandalas- ka on the White sea to Tornea, near the Swedish frontier on the Gulf of Finland. The cost is estimated at $150,000,000. ——1If you find it in the “Watch- man” it’s true. FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN. DAILY THOUGHT Let me live in a house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by— The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner’s seat, Or hurl the critic's ban— Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend of man. —Sam Walter Foss. For mending . buttonholes in the neckbands of shirts, stitch pieces of tape flat along each edge of the but- ton hole, bringing them together at its ends. The tape on each side should be just wide enough to extend to the edge of the neckband, where it should also be stitched. This new button- hole will outlast the rest of the shirt. For the Woman Who Travels.— “Do let me show you my latest trav- eling convenience,” said the Woman Who Travels to her caller. “You see, my work takes me about so much that I am obliged to fit up what I call a regular housekeeping corner in my trunk. Now everybody, that is, every ; woman, knows that, ne matter how carefully she packs her blouses and gowns and collars and such things, they do wrinkle and, if she wishes to look neat always, she musi have some means of getting rid of these objec- tionable creases. So I have bought a small ironing board and have only just finished making this little cretonne case for it. Don’t you think it pretty ? I chose this material with the yellow chrysanthemums because it is so much like the hangings and bed set in my room here, which makes it seem more homelike when I am away. It is just a plain, flat case, as you see, cut along the lines of the board, but a little large at the open end, so that it may be gathered up by this stout tape. And I have made the tape drawstring | long enough to hang tke board up by in a hotel closet, if I choose. “Here at this end is a little pocket; I copied the idea from the pocket for balls on my tennis racquet case. In it I shall carry my iron holder—you see, it is made of cretonne to match the board cover—also a little bag fill- ed with bayberries for wax. How- ever, I shall not rub the hot iron on the cretonne; no indeed, it would soon be spoiled—in locks, I mean. If you examine the cover, you will see that it is fastened on by a button. I just slip out the plain white cotton bag of bayberries, use them, and, when I am through, put it back in the pretty case. So, altogether, this ironing ar- rangement is quite neat, I think. My iron is a smail electric one which I carry about in its own box. “With these treasures I can travel comfortably and be as neat as though I were at home, without being obliged to wait for a busy maid to put my clothes in order. Moreover, this case for my little ironing board is just one of a set of cases and bags which I am making for my trunk, one at a time, as I think of them. It is so much less work to pack and unpack a trunk when things are not only neatly, but prettily, arranged. As I like uniform- ity and harmony in these things, I am not using any of the shoe bags and things that have been given me from time to time; instead, I am making a whole set of bags of this one cretonne as fast as I think of uses for them. This long narrow one is for my fold- ing umbrella. Until I get all that I need made, and I make them as I dis- cover the need, I shall use tissue pa- per, as I did before. Of course, one always needs that for packing gowns properly so I make a point of carry- ing a roll of it in my trunk. This oth- er long case which opens out like one of those devices for keeping the din- ing-room centerpieces smooth, keeps the tissue paper in good condition. It is my firm belief that a woman enjoys her journeyings much more if she has a neatly, attractively packed trunk with accommodations for all her nec- essary belongings in it.” A little salt rubbed on earthenware pudding dishes will take away brown spots. A new clothes line, if boiled for a short time, will become tougher, will last longer, and will not tangle. Renovate patent leather by rubbing with a linen cloth soaked in milk. To remove ink from white clothes, alk Spa in sour milk, then wash as usual. Remove fresh coffee stains by pour- ing boiling water through the fabric. Polish mirrors with a cloth soaked a Heshel, followed by a soft, dry cloth. To cut new bread try using a knife which has been dipped in very hot water. To clean enamelware rub well with dry salt and rinse in cold water, then wipe dry with a piece of cloth. When preparing old, dry beans for baking, a little soda in the water in which they are soaked will render them tender and soft. Here is a diet list that one should follow closely if one wishes to reduce weight. You must not eat between meals. You may eat lobster, frogs’ legs, clams, unthickened soup, fresh, salt or smoked fish, but no ham, liver, or pork. Eggs any style but fried, are all right; chicken, duck, turkey, lamb and lean beef may also be indulged in moderately. Vegetables, tomatoes, asparagus, celery, watercress, onions, cauliflower (without sauce,) pickles of any kind and olives. Bread made of gluocse or gluten and unsweetened graham coffee without cream and wa- ter in any quantity, except with meals. Milk sparingly and no wines. No butter, sweets or cream, and boil- ed rice should be substituted for po- tatoes. : Although she is 85 years of age, Miss Eliza R. Hyde is one of the most efficient clerks in the office of the Comptroller of the Currency in Wash- ington. She has been in the employ of the Government for the past 52 years. AS
Significant historical Pennsylvania newspapers