Deworlit Wc
Belletonte, Pa., October 12, 1917.
Dm —
A PARABLE.
I watched at eve, by the ocean—
The crowd was passing near,
But I gazed on its bosom, heaving,
With feelings akin to fear;
The day was dying, westward,
In a glory of crimson and gold,
And the flush of the sky and water
Was a poem of God untold.
I looked at the high waves rushing,
All crested, upon the shore;
I heard far out on the billows,
The ocean's muffled roar;
I thought of the silent thousands
Under the water's sheen,
And I seemed to hear them moaning,
Like phantoms in a dream.
My soul went out to help them
In pitiful, earnest prayer,
As I pictured those depths all jeweled
With the treasures lying there,
When a rush of the billows brought me
And laid at my frightened feet
A half dead, beaten lil,
Helpless and drenched and—sweet.
It lay there mute and broken,
But I fancied it seemed to say,
“For the sake of the sweet Christ, lift
me
Ere the next wave bear me away!”
Quickly I stooped and raised it,
I washed it from weeds and slime;
I carried it home and placed it
In a slender vase of mine.
I poured in crystal water,
I braced up the fragile form,
And saw, indeed, it was lovely
Before it had met the storm
But I sighed as I turned and left it,
And thought, had I passed it by,
A poor, wrecked flower on the seashore,
I might not see it die.
Time passed. The days wore slowly
Ere back to my room I went,
But I stopped on the very threshold,
Wondering what it meant;
There in its vase of crystal
Stood the lily erect and fair,
And a fragrance sweet as heaven
Was floating on the air!
I gazed and gazed in my gladness
At the pure brow lifted high,
When the sunlight touched its glory
And lingered in passing by.
The tears uprose to my eyelids,
I held them in no control—
Need I say it?—my storm-tossed flower
Was a beautiful human soul.
—Mercedes.
A CROESUS OF GINGERBREAD
COVE.
My name’s Race. [ve traued these
here Newfoundland north-coast out-
ports for salt-fish for half a lifetime.
Boy and youth afore that I served
Pinch-a-Penny Peter in his shop at
Gingerbread Cove. I was born in the
Cove. I knowed all the tricks of
Pinch-a-Penny’s trade. And I tells
you it was Pinch-a-Penny Peter’s con-
science that made Pinch-a-Penny rich.
That’s queer two ways: you wouldn't
expect a north-coast trader with a
conscience to be rich. But conscience
is much like the wind: it blows every
which way; and if a man does but trim
his sails to suit, he can bowl along in
any direction without much wear and
tear of the spirit. Pinch-a-Penny
bowled along, paddle-punt fisherman
to Gingerbread merchant. He went
where he was bound for, wing-and-
wing to the breeze behind, and got
there with his peace of mind showing
never a sign of the weather. In my
day the old codger had an easy con-
science and twenty thousand dollars.
Long Tom Lark, of Gingerbread
Cove, vowed in his prime that he’d
sure have to even score with Pinch-a-
Penny Peter afore he could pass to his
last harbor with any satisfaction.
“With me, Tom?” says Pinch-a-
Penny. “That's a saucy notion for a
hook-’an-line man.” .
“Ten more years o’ life,” says Tom,
“an’ I'll square scores.”
“Afore you evens scores with me,
Tom,” says Peter, “you’ll have t’ have
what I wants an’ can’t get.”
“There’s times,” says Tom, “when a
man stands in sore need o’ what he
never thought he’d want.”
“When you haves what I needs,”
says Peter, “I'll pay what you asks.”
“If ’tis forsale,” says Tom. :
“Money talks,” says Peter.
“Ah, well,” says Tom, “Maybe it
don’t speak my language.”
Pinch-a-Penny Peter’s conscience
was just as busy as any other man’s
conscience. And it liked its job. It
troubled Pinch-a-Penny. It didn’t
trouble un to be honest; it troubled un
to be rich. And it give un no rest.
When trade was dull—no fish coming
into Pinch-a-Penny’s storehouses and
no goods going outof Pinch-a-Pen-
ny’s shop-Pinch-a-Penny’s conscience
made un grumble and groan like the
damned. I never seed a man so tor-
tured by conscience afore nor since.
And to ease his conscience Pinch-a-
Penny would go over his ledgers by
night; and he’d jot down a gallon of
molasses here, and a pound of tea
there, until he had made a good day’s
trade of a bad one. Twas simple
enough, too; for Pinch-a-Penny never
gived out no accounts to amount to
nothing, but just struck his bal-
ances to please his greed at the end
of the season, and told his dealers how
much they owed him or how little he
owed them.
In dull times Pinch-a-Penny’s con-
science irked him into overhauling his
ledgers. ’Twas otherwise in seasons
of plenty. But Pinch-a-Penny’s con-
science kept pricking away just the
same—aggravating him into getting
richer and richer. No rest for Pinch-
a-Penny! He had to have all the mon-
ey he could take by hook and crook or
suffer the tortures of an evil con-
science. Just like any other man,
Pinch-a-Penny must ease that con-
science or lose sleep o’ nights. And so
in seasons of plenty up went the price
of tea at Pinch-a-Penny’s shop. And
up went the price of pork. And up
went the price of flour. All sky-high,
ecod! Never was such harsh times,
says Peter; why, my dear man, up St.
John’s way, says he, you couldn’
touch tea nor pork nor flour with a
ten-foot sealing-gaff; and no telling
what the world was coming to, with
prices soaring like a gull in a gale
and all the St. John’s merchants cha-
ry of credit!
“Damme!” said Pinch-a-Penny;
awful times for us poor traders. No
tellin’ who'll weather this here panic.
i
i
“What?” cries Peter. “What! You' By that time the ice had begun to
are not knowin’, eh? That’s saucy | feel the wind.
“otis | talk. You had them there supplies?” | a bad promise: the pan srcunched and
“I low, sir.”
“An’ you guzzled your share, I'll be : The ice was going abroad.
I’d not be surprised if we got a war bound!”
out of it.”
Well, now, on the Newfoundland
north-coast in them days ’twasn’t
much like the big world beyond. Folk
didn’t cruise about. They was too
busy. And they wasn’t used to it,
anyhow. Gingerbread Cove folk
wasn’t born at Gingerbread Cove, rais-
ed at Rickity Tickle, married at Sel-
dom-Come-By, aged at Skeleton Har-
bor, and buried at Run-by-Guess; they
were born and buried at Gingerbread
Cove. So what the fathers thought at
Gingerbread Cove the sons thought;
and what the sons knowed had been
knowed by the old men for a good
many years. Nobody was used to
changes. They was shy of changes.
New ways was fearsome. And so the
price of flour was a mystery. It is,
anyhow—wherever you finds it. It al-
ways has been. And why it should go
up and down at Gingerbread Cove was
beyond any man of Gingerbread Cove
to fathom. When Pinch-a-Penny said
the prise of flour was up—well, then,
she was up; and that’s all there was
about it. Nobody knowed no better.
And Pinch-a-Penny had the flour.
Pinch-a-Penny had the pork, too.
And he had the sweetness and the tea.
And he had the shoes and the clothes
and the patent medicines. And he had
the twine and the salt. And he had
all the cast there was at Gingerbread
Cove. And he had the schooner that
fetched in the supplies and carried
away the fish to the St. John’s mar-
kets. He was the only trader at Gin-
gerbread Cove; his storehouses and
shop was fair jammed with the things
the folk of Gingerbread Cove couldn’t
do without and wasn’t able to get no-
where else. So, all in all, ‘Pinch-a-
Penny Peter could make trouble for
the folk that made trouble for he. And
the folk grumbled. By times, ecod,
‘| they grumbled like the devil of a fine
Sunday morning! But ’twas all they
had the courage to do. And Pinch-a-
Penny let un grumble away. The best
cure for grumbling, says he, was to
give it free course. If a man could
speak out in meeting, says he, he’d
work no mischief in secret.
“Sea-lawyers, eh?” says Peter.
“Huh! What you fellers want, any-
how? Huh? You got everything
now that any man could expect. Isn’t
you housed? Isn't you fed? Isn't
you clothed? Isn’t you got a parson
and a scheolmaster? Damme, I be-
lieves you wants a doctor settled in
the harbor. A doctor. An’ ’tisn’t two
years since I got you your schoolmas-
ter. Queer times we're havin’ in the
outports these days, with every harbor
on the coast wantin’ a doctor within
hail. You're well-enough done by at
Gingerbread Cove. None better no-
where. An’ why? Does you ever
think o’ that? Why? Because I got
my trade here. An’ think o’ me!
Damme, if ar a one o’ you had my
brain-labor t’ do, you’d soon find out
what harsh labor was like. What
with bad debts an’ roguery an’ failed
seasons an’ creditors t’ St. John's I'm
hard put to it t’ keep my seven senses. !
i
An’ small thanks I gets—me that
keeps this harbor alive, in famine an’
plenty. ’Tis the business I haves that
keeps you. You make trouble for my
business, ecod, an’ you'll come t’ star-
vation! Now, you mark me!”
There would be a scattered time
when Pinch-a-Penny would yield an
inch. Oh, aye! I’ve knowed Pinch-a-
Penny to drop the price of stick-candy
when he had put the price of flour too
high for anybody’s comfort.
Well, now, Long Tom Lark, of Gin-
gerbread Cove, had a conscience, too.
But twas a common conscience. Most
men haves un. And they're irksome
enough for some. ’Twas not like
Pinch-a-Penny Peter's conscience.
Nothing useful ever came of it. "Twas
like yours and mine. It troubled Tom
Lark to be honest and it kept him
poor. All Tom Lark’s conscience ever
aggravated him to do was just to live
along in a religious sort of fashion
and rear his family and be decently
stowed away in the graveyard when
his time was up if the sea didn’t cotch
un first. But ‘twas a busy conscience
for all that—and as sharp as a fish-
prong. No rest for Tom Lark if he
didn’t fatten his wife and crew of lit-
tle lads and maids! No peace of
mind for Tom if he didn’t labor! And
so Tom labored and labored and labor-
ed. Dawn to dusk his punt was on
the grounds off Lack-a-Day Head, tak-
ing fish from the sea to be salted and
dried and passed into Pinch-a-Penny’s
storehouses. :
When Tom Lark was along about
fourteen years old his father died.
"Twas of a Sunday afternoon that we
stowed un away. I mind the time:
spring weather and a fair day, with
the sun low, and the birds twittering
in the alders just afore turning in.
Pinch-a-Penny Peter cotched up
with young Tom on the road home
from the little graveyard on Sunset
Hill.
“Well, lad,” says he, “the old skip-
per’s gone.”
“Aye, sir, he’s dead an’ buried.”
“A fine man,” says Pinch-a-Penny.
“None finer.”
With that young Tom broke out cry-
ing. “He were a kind father t’ we,”
says he. “An’ now he’s dead!”
“You lacked nothin’ in your fath-
er’s lifetime,” says Peter.
“An’ now he’s dead!”
“Well, well, you've no call t’ be
afeared o’ goin’ hungry on that ac-
count,” says Peter, laying an arm
over the lad’s shoulder. “No, nor none
o’ the little crew over t’ your house.
Take up the fishin’ where your father
left it off, lad,” says he, “an’ you'll
find small difference. T’Il cross out
your father’s name on the books an’
put down your own in its stead.”
“I’m fair obliged,” says
“That’s kind, sir.”
“Nothin’ like business t’ ease sor-
row,” says Pinch-a-Penny. “Your
father died in debt, lad.”
“Aye, sir?”
“Deep.”
“How much, sir?”
“I’m not able t’ tell offhand,” says
Peter. “’Twas deep enough. But nev-
er you care. You'll be able to square
it in course o’ time. You're young an’
hearty. An’ Ill not be harsh. Dam-
me, I’m no gkinflint.”
“That’s kind, sir.”
“You—you—will square it?”
“I don’t know, sir.”
Tom.
“Yes, sir.”
"Twas restless.
creaked as they settled more at ease.
As the
farther fields drifted off to sea, the
floe fell loose inshore. Lanes and
“An’ your mother had her share?” i pools opened up. The cake-ice tipped
“Yes, sir.”
“An’ you're not knowin’ whether a man.
you’ll pay or not! Ecod!
you? A scoundrel?
rascal? A thief?
“No, sir.”
A jail-bird 7”
i
What is , was no telling when
A dead beat? A | would cut a man off where he stood.
and went awash under the weight of
Rough going, ecod! There
open water
And the wind was whipping off-shore,
and the snow was like dust in a
“Mig for the likes o’ you that jails man’s eyes and mouth, and the land-
was made.”
“Oh, no, sir!”
|
|
{
marks of Gingerbread Cove was
nothing but shadows
“Doesn't you go to church? Isthat i snow to windward. Nobody knowed
what they learns you there?
science 7” : ,
"Twas too much for young Tom.
You sees, Tom Lark had a conscience
|
i
i
1
: I’m | where Pinch-a-Penny Peter was. No-
thinkin’ the parson doesn’t earn what : body thought
I pays un. Isn't you got no con-!| wherever
about him. And
poor old Pinch-a-Penny
was—whether safe ashore or creak-
ing shoreward against the wind on
his last legs—he must do for himself.
—a conscience as fresh and as young Twas no time te succor rich or poor.
as his years. And Tom had loved his | Every man for himself and the devil
father well.
father’s name.
And Tom honored his | take the hindmost.
And so when he had |
Bound out, in the morning, Lon
brooded over Pinch-a-Penny’s words ; Tom Lark had fetched his rodney
for a spell— and when he had maybe | through the lanes. By luck and good
laid awake in the night thinking of his ; conduct he had managed to get the
father’s goodness—he went over to | wee boat a fairish way out. He had
Pinch-a-Penny’s office and allowed he | beached her, there on the floe—a big
would pay his father’s debt. Pinch-a- | pan, close by a hummock which he
Penny zave un a clap on the back, and |
says: “You is an honest lad, Tom
Lark! I knowed you was. I’m proud
t’ have your name on my books!”—
and that heartened Tom to continue.
And after that Tom kept hacking
away on his father’s debt. In good
years Pinch-a-Penny would say: “She
is comin’ down, Tom. [I'll just apply
the surplus.” And in bad he’d say:
“You isn’t quite cotched up with your
own self this season, b’y. A little less
pork this season, Tom, an’ you'll
square this here little balance afore
next. I wisht this whole harbor was
as honest as you. No trouble, then,”
says he, “t’ do business in a business-
like way.”
When Tom got over the hill—fifty
and more—his father’s debt, with in-
terest, according to Pinch-a-Penny’s
figures, which Tom had no learning to
dispute, was more than it ever had
been; and his own was as much as he
ever could hope to pay. And by that
time Pinch-a-Penny Peter was rich,
and Long Tom Lark was gone sour.
In the fall of the year when Tom
Lark was fifty-three he went up to St.
John’s in Pinch-a-Penny Peter’s sup-
ply-schooner. Nobody knowed why.
And Tom made a mystery of it. But
go he would. And when the schooner
got back ’twas said that Tom Lark
had vanished in the city for a day.
Why? Nobody knowed. Where?
Nobody could find out. Tom wouldn’t
tell, nor could the gossips gain a word
from his wife. And, after that, Tom
was a changed man; he mooned a
deal, and he would talk no more of the
future, but dwelt upon the shortness
of a man’s days and the quantity of
his sin, and labored like mad, and read
the Scriptures by candle-light, and sot
more store by going to church and
prayer-meeting than ever afore. La-
bor? Ecod, how that poor man labor-
ed through the winter! While there
was light! And until he fair dropped
in his tracks of sheer weariness!
"Twas back in the forest—hauling
fire-wood with the dogs and storing it
away back of his little cottage under
Lend-a-Hand Hill.
“Dear man!” says Peter; “you've
fire-wood for half a dozen winters.”
“They’ll need it,” says Tom.
“Aye,” says Peter; “but will you lie
idle next winter?”
“Next winter?” says Tom. And he
laughed. “Oh, next winter,” says he,
“T’1l have another occupation.”
“Movin’ away, Tom?”
“Well,” says Tom, “I is an’ I isn’t.”
There came a day in March weather
of that year when seals was thick on
the floe off Gingerbread Cove. You
could see un with the naked eye from
Lack-a-Day Head. A hundred thous-
and black specks swarming over the
ice three miles and more to seal!
“Swiles! Swiles!” And Gingerbread
Cove went mad for slaughter. Twas
a fair time for off-shore sealing, too—
a blue, still day, with the look and feel
of settied weather. The ice had come
in from the current with a northeast-
erly gale, a wonderful mixture of Arc-
tic bergs and Labrador pans, all blind-
ing white in the spring sun; and twas
a field so vast, and jammed .so tight
against the coast, that there wasen’t
much more than a lane or two and a
Dutchman’s breeches of open water
within sight from the heads. Nobody
looked for a gale of off-shore wind to
blow that ice to sea afore dawn of the
next day.
“A fine, soft time, lads!”
Pinch-a-Penny. “I ’low I’ll go out
with the Gingerbread crew.”
“Skipper Peter,” says Tom Lark,
“you're too old a man t’ be on the
ice.”
“Aye,” says Peter; “but I wants t’
bludgeon another swile afore I dies.”
“But you creaks, man!”
“Ah, well,” says Peter, “I'll show
the lads I'm able to haul a: swile
ashore.”
“Small hope for such as you on a
movin’ floe!”
“Last time, Tom,” says Peter.
“Last time, true enough,” says Tom,
“if that ice starts t’ sea with a breeze
o’ wind behind.”
“Oh, well, Tom,” says Peter, “I’ll
take my chances. If the wind comes
up I’ll be as spry as I'm able.”
It come on to blow in the afternoon.
But twas short warning of off-shore
weather. A puff of gray wind come
down; a saucier gust went by; and
then a swirl of gaylish wind jumped
off the heads and come scurrying over
the pans. At the first sign of wind,
Pinch-a-Penny Peter took for home,
loping over the ice as fast as his old
legs and lungs would take un when
pushed, and nobody worried about he
any more. He was in such mad haste
that the lads laughed behind un as he
passed. Most of the Gingerbread
crew followed, dragging their swiles;
and them that started early come safe
to harbor with the fat. But there’s
nothing will master a man’s caution
like the lust of slaughter: give a New-
foundlander a club, and show wun a
swile-pack, and he’ll venture far from
safety. 'Twas not until a flurry of
snow come along of a sudden that the
last of the crew dropped what they
was at and begun to jump for shore
like a pack of jack-rabbits.
With snow in the wind, twas every
man for himself. And that means no
mercy and less help.
says |b’
marked with care. And ’twas for
Tom Lark’s little rodney that the sev-
en last men of Gingerbread Cove was
jumping. With her afloat—and the
pack loosening in-shore under the |
wind—they could make harbor well
enough afore the gale worked up the
‘water in the lee of the Gingerbread
hills. But she was a mean, small
boat. There was room for six, with
safety—but room for no more; no
room for seven. Twas a nasty mess,
to be sure. You couldn't expect
nothing else. But there wasn’t no
panic. Gingerbread men was accus-
tomed to tight places. And they took
this one easy. Them that got there
first launched the boat and stepped
in. No fight; no fuss.
It just happened to be Eleazer
Butt that was left. Twas Eleazer’s
ill-luck. And Eleazer was up in
years, and had fell behind coming
over the ice.
“No room for me,” says he.
"Twas sure death to be left on the
ice. The wind began to taste of frost.
And ’twas jumping up. ’Twould car-
ry the floe far and scatter it broad-
cast.
“See for yourself, lad,” says Tom.
“Pshaw!” says Eleazer. “That’s
too bad!”
“You isn't no sorrier than me, b’y.”
Eleazer tweaked his beard. “Dang
it!” says he. “lI wisht there was
room. I'm hungry for my supper.”
“Let un in,” says one of the lads.
“is even chances she’ll float it out.”
“Well,” says Eleazer, “I doesn’t
want t’ make no trouble—"
“Come aboard,” says Tom. “An’
make haste.”
“If she makes bad weather,” says
Eleazer, “I’ll get out.”
They pushed off from the pan.
"Twas falling dusk, by this time. The
wind blowed back. The frost begun
to bite. Snow come thick—just as if,
ecod, somebody up aloft was shaking
the clouds, like bags, in the gale! And
the rodney was deep and ticklish; had
the ice not kept the water flat in the
lanes and pools, either Eleazer would
have had to get out, as he promised,
or she would have swamped like a
cup. As it was, handled like dyna-
mite, she done well enough; and she
might have made harbor within the
hour had she not been hailed by
Pinch-a-Penny Peter from a small
pan of ice midway between.
And there the old codger was
squatting, his old face pinched and
woebegone, his bag o’ bones wrapped
up in his coonskin coat, his pan near |
flush with the sea, with little black
waves already beginning to wash
over it.
A sad sight, believe me! Poor old
Pinch-a-Penny, bound out to sea
without hope on a wee pan of ice!
“Got any room for me?” says he.
They ranged alongside. “Mercy o’
God!” says Tom; “she’s too deep asit
is.
“Aye,” says Peter; “you isn’t got
room for no more. She’d sink if I
put foot in her.”
“Us ’ll come back,” says Tom.
“No use, Tom,” says Peter. “You
knows that well enough. 'Tis no place
out here for a Gingerbread punt.
Afore you could get t’ shore an’ back
night will be down an’ this here gale
will be a blizzard. You’d never be
able t’ find me.”
“I ’low not,” says Tom.
“Oh, no,” says Peter. “No use,
“Damme, Skipper
Tom, “I’m sorry!”
“Aye,” says Peter; “’tis a sad
death for an ol’ man—squattin’ out
here all alone on the ice an’ shiverin’
with the cold until he shakes his poor
damned soul out.”
7 “Qh,
“Not damned!”
don’t say it.”
“Ah, well!” says Peter, “sittin’ here
all alone, I been thinkin’.”
“’Tisn’t by any man’s wish that
you’re here, poor man!” says Tom.
“Oh, no,” says Peter. “No blame
t’ nobody. My time’s come. That’s
all. But I wisht I had a seat in your
rodney, Tom.”
And then Tom chuckled.
“What you laughin’ at?” says Pe-
ter.
“I got a comical idea,” says Tom.
“Laughin’ at me, Tom?”
“Qh, I'm jus’ laughin’.”
“is neither time nor place, Tom,”
says Peter, “t’ laugh at an old man..”
Tom roared. Aye, he slapped his
knee, and he throwed back his head,
and he roared. Twas enough almost
to swamp the boat.
“For shame!” says Peter. And
more than Pinch-a-Penny thought so.
“Skipper Peter,” says Tom, “youre
rich, isn’t you?”
“I got money,” says Peter.
“Sittin’ out here all alone,” says
Tom, “you been thinkin’ a deal, you
says?”
“Well,” says Peter, “I'll not deny
that I been havin’ a little spurt o’ so-
ber thought.”
“You been thinkin’ that money
wasn’t much, after all?”
“An’ that all your money in a lump
wouldn’t buy you a passage ashore?”
“Qh, some few small thoughts on
that order,” says Peter. “’Tis per-
fectly natural.”
Continued on page 3 col. 1.
Peter,” says
cries Tom.
|
And |
in a mist of!
Health and Happiness
“Mens sana in corpore sano”
BOTULISM.
tables Canned by the Cold-Pack
Method.
| nest C. Dickson, of Leland Stanford
Junior University School of Medicine,
has made an investigation of food
poisoning caused by the presence of
the toxin Bacillus botulinus and calls
, attention to the importance of recog-
! nizing its existence owing to the fact
that the toxin may be found not only
iin foods of animal origin but also in
| certain vegetables and fruits. In all,
{ there have been at least twenty-two
| outbreaks of botulism in the United
iin which eighty-one persons have
| been ill and fifty-five have died, a
! mortality of 67.9 per cent. He thinks
| it extremely probable that there have
been many more outbreaks of botu-
(lism which have passed without rec-
| ognition.
An important feature of the re-
, corded cases is the relatively small
! number in which the poisoning was
' caused by food of animal origin. In
| eighteen outbreaks in which the
| source of the poisoning was recog-
| nized, one was due to spoiled beef,
| one to minced chicken, one to canned
| pork and beans, one to tamales, one
to sausage (wienerwurst), and two
to bottled clam broth; but in all the
rest, eleven in number, the food
which was responsible for the poison-
ing was of vegetable origin, one out-
break being caused by home-canned
pears, one by home-canned apricots,
one by home-canned corn, one by
home-canned asparagus, one by com-
mercially-canned beans or spinach,
and six by home-canned string beans.
In a series of experiments he has
been able to show that the botulinus
toxin may be formed in mediums pre-
pared from canned string beans and
canned peas, from green corn, arti-
chokes, asparagus, apricots and
peaches to which no trace of animal
protein was added.
The cold-pack method of canning
vegetables and fruits (heating the
filled jars in a wash boiler at the
temperature of boiling water) advo-
cated by the federal authorities, was
widely published in the daily press
and in magazines during the past
summer and was probably followed
by many persons in canning at home.
The efficiency of this method of can-
ning vegetables which may be con-
taminated with spores of the B. botu-
linus was tested as follows: A num-
tions described in the daily press.
Each jar was inoculated with an
emulsion containing spores of the B.
wash boiler.
peas and beans were left in the boil-
ing water for 120 minutes, and those
of corn were heated for 180" minutes.
The jars were sealed immediately
after removal from the boiler and
were inverted and placed in a dark
closet.
all the jars had undergone a fermen-
tation with the formation of gas, and
some of them were leaking. When
the jars were opened there was a
strong odor which resembled butyric
acid and cultures of the juice from
all the jars showed a mixture of B.
botulinus and B. subtilis. Portions of
the juice from all the jars were in-
jected into guinea-pigs and some of
the peas were fed to a chicken. The
guinea-pigs died within twenty-four
hours and the chicken died within
thirty hours.
The results of this series of exper-
iments prove that the cold-pack
method of canning vegetables is not
efficient if the raw material happens
to be contaminated with spores of the
B. Botulinus. A single sterilization
for the time recommended in the pub-
lished directions is not sufficient to
cause the destruction of spores. For-
tunately, the number of spore-bear-
ing bacteria which are responsible for
producing changes in food is small,
but the B. Botulinus belongs to this
small group, and since it is also an
obligate anaerobe, the conditions
which exist in the sealed jar or can
are ideal for its growth and toxin for-
mation. (the reader who is unfamil-
iar with the terms “spores” and “an-
aerobe” will find them explained in
numbers 21 and 23 of this series in
the “Watchman”).
It is probable that a very small
percentage of the total number of
cans or jars of food prepared in
homes, according to the widely dis-
tributed directions for the cold-pack
method, are contaminated with
spores of the B. botulinus, but the
fact that botulism has occurred so
frequently during the past few years,
makes it necessary that all suscepti-
ble foods which have been prepared
by this method should be regarded
with suspicion.
The botulinus toxin is easily de-
stroyed by heating, and all danger of
botulism will be removed from home-
canned products if the food is always
boiled before it is eaten or even
tasted. Under no circumstances
should home-canned vegetables which
have been prepared by the cold-pack
method be served as salad, unless
they have been cooked after their re-
moval from the container, and, until
it is established what fruits are suit-
able for the formation of the toxin,
it will be safer to reheat all fruits
which have been prepared by this
method, even though there may be no
|
i
{
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apparent evidence that the food has
spoiled.—American Medical Journal,
Sept. 22, 1917.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT
Leave not the business of tomorrow to
The Danger of Poisoning from Vege- be Son tomorrow ; for who knoweth what
be thy condition tomorrow? The
| rose garden which today is full of flow-
: ers,
: : la rose, may not yield thee one.—Firdausi.
Aided by a grant from the Califor- | .
i nia State Council of Defense, Dr. Er- |
tomorrow, when thou wouldst pluck
The uses of kerosene are many,
and all housewives are familiar with
| some of them. The best is worth sav-
Within three weeks the contents of |
a | together and formed woman.
ber of jars of peas, beans and corn |
were prepared according to the direc- |
botulinus before it was placed in the | and then immerse the egg.
The one quart jars of |
ing.
A cup of kerosene to a pail of wa-
ter will put a gloss on your windows,
oilcloth and linoleum. It will take
grease from woodwork.
A rag wet in kerosene will clean
the bathtub and washbasin. It will
take the smoke from granite kettles
and clean paint where soiled fingers
have smudged around the doorknob.
It will take off the rust from the
| on ki 5
| States during the past twenty years | Hohon gove
If your sewing machine runs stiffly,
saturate the parts with kerosene and
leave it on over night. In the morn-
ing wipe dry, then oil with a high-
grade machine oil, and the machine
will run like a breeze.
Cut the grease from your drains
and sink by using kerosene on a
brush.
Put some kerosene in your starch
and see what an easy ironing day you
will have. If your irons are rough,
wet a cloth with kerosene, and while
the irons are very hot, rub them on
the cloth vigorously.
When a knife becomes rusty, let it
stand in kerosene a few hours and
then thrust it into the ground several
times, and see the rust disappear.
Before giving up neglected ma-
chinery and tools as hopeless, try
Forosene to remove the rust from
them.
According to a Hindu legend, this
is the proper origin of woman:
Twashtri, the god Vulcan of the
Hindu mythology, created the world.
But on his commencing to create
woman he discovered that with man
he had exhausted all his creative ma-
terials, and that not one solid ele-
ment had been left. This, of course,
greatly perplexed Twashtri and caus-
ed him to fall into a profound medi-
tation. When he arose from it he
proceeded as follows: He took the
roundness of the moon, the undulat-
ing curves of the serpent, the grace-
ful twist of the creeping plant, the
light shivering of the grass blade and
the slenderness of the willow, the vel-
vety softness of the flowers, the
lightness of the feather, the gentle
gaze of the doe, the frolicsomeness of
the dancing sunbeam, the tears of the’
eloud, the inconstancy of the wind,
the timidness of the hare, the vanity
of the peacock, the hardness of the
diamond, the sweetness of honey, the
cruelty of the tiger, the heat of the
fire, the chill of the snow, the cack-
ling of the parrot and the cooing of
the turtle dove. All these he mixed
Then
he presented her to the man.
To determine the exact age of
eggs, dissolve about four ounces of
common salt in a quart of pure. water
If it be
only a day or so old, it will sink to
the bottom of the dish, but if it be
three days old it will float; if more
than five it will come to the surface.
The smartest thing of the minute
is the large black velvet hat, with its
high crown and soft brim, and one
sees it in many variations.
All milady needs to complete her
winter costume is one of the large,
handsome hats of the season, and it
can be of black velvet or panne vel-
vet or hatter’s plush, which is one of
the innovations of the winter. These
large hats, with their graceful lines
and draped crowns are a source of
joy to the feminine beholder.
Ostrich feathers, in the discard for
the last few seasons, can now be
brought from the attic and the cedar
chest, for they have come into their
own and will be worn extensively this
season.
The high-standing wing, represent-
ing nothing so much as the Indian
block-house, is used as the only trim-
ming for many hats and can be used
at any time desired. Goose fancies
are favored.
The shades that predominate are
brown, taupe and black, and a large
number of the black hats have color-
ed facings, which give a chic appear-
ance.
One charming model displayed is a
large hat of black panne velvet with
robin’s egg blue facing, while the
high crown is appliqued with formal
trimming of flowers and robin’s egg
blue velvet.
Some delightful turbans of draped
veil are shown for the matron. A
large hat, Gage model, displayed is
of taupe velvet with delft georgette
crepe facing and crown of blue and
taupe. The crown is soft and pliable
and can be arranged so that the lines
are at the most becoming angle for .
the wearer. This unusual hat can be
used for sport or suit wear.
For evening wear a Rawak model
of brocaded velvet is shown. The
face is of taupe and silver trimming
in the form of flowers is used.
The furs shown at the openings are
luxurious, and among them are Hud-
son seal, kolinsky, foxes in all shades,
including silver fox, rse taupe,
black, slate, Hudson sable, and Rus-
sian sable. Other delightful furs are
natural muskrats and wraps of er-
mine and moleskin.
After one has watched for hours
a procession of mannikins wearing
satin, then serge and satin, then sat-
in again and more satin, one comes
to the conclusion that satin reigns
supreme. But another line-in, as they
call it in the parlance of the trade,
of interesting taffeta frocks, recalls
the charm of taffeta and emphasizes
the fact that taffeta is today a sta-
ple, which means that it is always in
demand and always more or less
fashionable.
The consensus of opinion, however,
makes satin the silk of the hour,and
enjoying the same popularity as the
closely allied silks which, to the un-
initiated, pass as satin, though they
are sold under various names.
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