Bellefonte, Pa., June 27, 1919.
THE LITTLE ROOM OF DREAMS.
Next to the shelving roof it stood—
My boyhood’s cozy bed;
So near I felt the serried storm
Go charging o’er my head.
Tis fifty summers, yet I hear
The branch against the pane,
The midnight owl, the thunder crash,
The rhythm of the rain.
cum—
The golden apples long desired
Fell thumping from the trees,
Till Dream transformed them to the fruit
Of fair Hesperides.
The owl within his chimney porch
Became Minerva’s own,
The lightning was the bolt of Jove,
Each tree a dryad’s groan,
from there the flames of Troy were seen,
There Salamis was won;
Now Hannibal would cross the Alps,
And now Napoleon.
On Valley Forge’s scene of prayer
My winter window gave;
Red Jacket there was eloquent,
And Osceola brave.
Who could divine that from my sill
Fought wounded Ivanhoe?—
That there I saw Sir Galahad
Gleam in the moon, below? . . .
I felt the last on Uncle Tom,
And mourned Don Quixote’s fall;
With David wept for Absalom,
With Dombey, Little Paul.
More oft a father’s bedtime lore
So filled with joy the night,
I woke at dawn from rosy dreams
Expectant of delight.
For I had roamed the enchanted wood
With Puck or Rosalind,
Or shared with dainty Ariel!
The virions of the wind.
—Robert Underwood Johnson.
THE MURDERER.
From the open door of the galley,
where the cross, sleepy cook was
coaxing his stove to burn, a path of
light lay across the deck, showing a
slice of steel bulwark with ropes coil-
ed on the pins, and above it the arch-
ed foot of the mainsail. In the dark-
ness forward, where the port watch
of the Villingen was beginning the
sea day by washing down decks, the
brooms swished briskly and the head-
pump clacked like a great, clumsy
clock.
The men worked in silence, though
the mate was aft on the poop, and
nothing prevented them from talking
as they passed the buckets to and
from the tub under the pump and
drove their brooms along the planks.
They labored with the haste of men
accustomed to be driven hard, with
the shuffling, involuntary speed that
has nothing in it of free strength or
good-will. The big German four-
master had gathered from the board-
ing houses of Philadelphia a crew
representing all the nationalities
which breed sailors, and carried offi-
cers skilled in the crude arts of get-
ting the utmost out of it. And since
the lingua franca of the sea, the
tongue which has meaning for Swed-
‘ish carpenters, Finn sail-makers, and
Greek fo’c’s’le hands alike, is not
German, orders aboard the Villingen
Jee given and understood in Eng-
ish.
“A hand come aft here!”
It was the mate’s voice from the
poop, robust and peremptory. Con-
roy, one of the two Englishmen in the
port watch, laid down the bucket he
was carrying and moved aft in obedi-
ence to the summons. As he trod in-
to the slip of light by the galley door
he was visible as a fair youth, long-
limbed and slender, clad in a serge
shirt, with dungaree trousers rolled
up to the knees and girt with a belt
which carried the usual sheath-knife.
His pleasant face had a hint of uncer-
tainty; it was conciliatory and amia-
ble; he was an able seaman of the
kind which is manufactured by a
boarding master short of men out of
a runaway apprentice. The others,
glancing after him while they contin-
ued their work, saw him suddenly
clear by the galley door, then dim
again as he stepped beyond it. He
passed out of sight toward the lee
poop ladder.
The silent, hurried sailors pressed
on with their work, while the big bark
purred through the water to the drone
of wind thrusting in the canvas. The
brooms were abaft of the galley when
the outcry began which caused them
to look apprehensively toward the
poor without ceasing their business
of washing down. First it was an
oath in explosive German, the tongue
which puts a cutting-edge on profan-
ity; then the mate’s roar:
“Is dat vat I tell you, you verfluch-
ter fool? Vat? Vat? You don’t
understand ven I speak? I show you
va
The men who looked up were on the
wrong side of the deck to make out
what was happening, for the chart-
house screened the drama from them.
But they knew too well the meaning
of that instantaneous silence which
cut the words off. It was the mate
biting in his breath as he struck.
They heard the smack of the fist’s im-
pact and Conroy’s faint, angry cry as
he failed to guard it; then the mate
again, bull-mouthed, lustful for cru-
elty: “Vat—you lift up your arm to
me? You dog!” More blows, a rain
of them, and then a noise as though
Conroy had fallen or been knocked
down. And after that a thud and a
scream.
The men looked at one another, and
nods passed among them. “He kick-
ed him when he was down on the
deck,” the whisper went. The other
Englishman in the watch swore in a
low grunt and dropped his broom,
meeting the wondering eyes of the
“Dutchmen” and “Dagoes” with a
scowl. He was white-haired and red-
faced, a veteran among the nomads
of the sea, the oldest man aboard, and
the only man in port watch who had
not felt the weight of the mate’s fist.
Scowling still, as though in deep
thought, he moved toward the ladder.
The forlorn hope was going on a des-
perate enterprise of rescue. ;
It might have been an ugly busi-
ness; there was a sense in the minds
of his fellows of something sickening
about to happen; but the mate had
finished with Conroy. The youth
came staggering and crying down the
ladder, with tears and blood befouling
his face, and stumbled as his foot
touched the deck. The older man,
Slade, saved him from falling, and
held him by the upper arm with one
gnarled, toil-roughened hand, peering
at him through the early morning
gloom.
“Kicked you when you was down,
didn’t he?” he demanded, abruptly.
“Yes,” blubbered Conroy, shivering
and dabbing at his face. “With his
sea-boots, too, the—the—"
Slade shook him. “Don’t make
that noise or he might kick you some
more,” he advised, grimly. “You bet-
ter go now an’ swab that blood off
your face.”
“Yes,” agreed Conroy, tremulously,
and Slade let him go. .
The elder man watched him move
forward on shambling and uncertain
feet, with one hand pressed to his
flank, where the mate’s kick was still
an agony. Slade was frowning heav-
ily, with a tincture of thought in his
manner as though he halted on the
brink of some purpose.
“Conroy,” he breathed, and started
after the other.
The younger man turned. Slade
again put his hand on Conroy’s arm.
“Say,” he said, breathing short, “is
that a knife in your belt?”
Conroy felt behind him, uncompre-
hending, for the sheath-knife which
he wore, sailor fashion, in the middle
of his back.
“What d’you mean?” he asked, va-
cantly. “Here’s my knife.”
He drew it and showed it to Slade,
the flat blade displayed in his palm.
The white-haired seaman thrust his
keen old face toward Conroy’s, so that
the other could see the flash of the
white of his eyes. :
“And he kicked you, didn’t he?”
said Slade, tensely. “You fool!”
He struck the knife to the deck,
where it rattled and slid toward the
scupper.
“Eh?” Conroy gaped, not under-
standing. “I don’t see what—"
“Pick it up!” said Slade, with a
gesture toward the knife. He spoke
as though he strangled an impulse to
brandish his fists and scream in a na-
sal whisper. “It’s safe to kick you,”
he said. “A woman could do it.”
“But—" Conroy flustered, vaguely.
Slade drove him off with a wave of
his arm and turned away with the ab-
ruptness of a man disgusted beyond
hearing.
Conroy stared after him and saw
him pick up his broom where he had
dropped it and join the others. His
intelligence limped; his thrashing had
stunned him, and he could not think |
—he could only feel, like fire in his
mind, the passion of the feeble soul
resenting injustice and pain which it
cannot resist or avenge. He stooped
to pick up his knife and went forward
to the tub under the head-pump, to
wash his cuts in cold sea-water, the
cheap balm for so many wrongs of
cheap humanity.
It was an accident such as might
serve to dedicate the day to the serv-
ice of the owners of the Villingen. It
was early and sudden; but, save in
these respects, it had no character of
the unusual. The men who plied the
brooms and carried the buckets were
not shocked or startled by it so much
as stimulated; it thrust under their
noses the always imminent danger of
failing to satisfy the mate’s ideal of
seaman-like efficiency. They woke to
a fresher energy, a more desperate
haste, under its suggestion.
It was after the coffee interval,
which mitigates the sourness of the
morning watch, when daylight had
brought its chill, gray light to the
wide, wet decks, that the mate came
forward to superintend the “pull all
round” which is the ritual sequel to
washing down.
“Lee fore-brace, dere!” his flat,
voluminous voice ordered, heavy with
the man’s potent and dreaded person-
ality. They flocked to obey, scurry-
ing like scared rats, glancing at him
in timid hate. He came striding along
the weather side of the deck from the
remote, august poop; he was like a
dreadful visitation upon his faithful.
Short-legged, tending to bigness in
the belly, bearded, vibrant with ani-
mal force and personal power, his
mere presence cowed them. His gross
face, the happy face of an egotist with
a sound digestion, sent its lofty and
sure regard over them; it had a kind
of unconsciousness of their sense of
humility, of their wrong and resent-
ment—the innocence of an aloof and
distant tyrant, who has not dreamed
how hurt flesh quivers and seared
minds rankle. He was bland and ter-
rible; and they hated him after their
several manners, some with dull fear,
one or two—and Slade among them—
with a ferocity that moved them like
physical nausea.
He had left his coat on the wheel-
box to go to his work, and was mani-
festly unarmed. The belief which had
currency in the forecastle, that he
came on watch with a revolver in his
coat-pocket, did not apply to him now;
they could have seized him, smitten
him on his blaspheming mouth, and
hove him over the side without peril.
It is a thing that has happened to a
hated officer more than once or ten
times, and a lie, solemnly sworn to by
every man of the watch on deck, has
been entered in the log, and closed
the matter for all hands. He was
barer of defense than they, for they
had their sheath-knives; and he stood
by the weather-braces, arrogant, ty-
rannical, overbearing, and command-
ed them. He seemed invulnerable, a
thing too great to strike or defy, like
the white squalls that swooped from
the horizon and made of the vast Vil-
lingen a victim and a plaything. His
full, boastful eye traveled over them
absently, and they cringed like slaves.
“Belay, dere!” came his orders,
over-loud and galling to men surging
with cowardly and insufferable hate.
“Lower tobsail—haul! Belay! Ub-
ber tobsail—haul, you sons of dogs!
Haul, dere, blast you! You vant me
to come over and show you?”
Abjectly, desperately, they obeyed
him, spending their utmost strength
to placate him, while the naked spirit
of murder moved in every heart
among them. At the tail of the brace,
Conroy, with his cuts stanched, pull-
ed with them. His abject eyes, show-
ing the white in sidelong glances,
watched the great, squat figure of the
mate with a fearful fascination.
Eight bells came at last, signaling
the release of the poor watch from
the deck and the tension and the offi-
cer’s presence. The forecastle receiv-
ed them, the stronghold of their brief
and limited leisure. The unkempt,
weather-stained men, to whom the
the shifting seas were the sole arena
of their lives, sat about on chests and
on the edges of the lower bunks, at
breakfast, while the pale sunlight
traveled to and fro on the deck asthe
Villingen lurched in her gait. Con-
roy, haggard and drawn, let the cof-
fee slop over the brim of his hook-
pot as he found himself a seat.
“Well, an’ what did he punch you
for this time?”
It was old Slade who put the ques-
tion, seated on a chest with his back
against the bulkhead. His pot was
balanced on his knee, and his vener-
able, sardonic face, with the scanty
white hair clinging about the temples,
addressed Conroy with slow mockery.
Conroy hesitated. “It was all
over coilin’ away some gear,” he said.
Slade waited and he had to go on. He
had misunderstood the mate’s order
to coil the ropes on the pins, where
they would be out of the way of the
deck-washing, and he had flemished
them down on the poop instead. It
was the mistake of a fool, and he
knew it.
Slade nodded. “Ye-es,” he drawl-
ed. “You earned‘a punch an’ you got
it. But he kicked you, too, didn’t
he?”
“Kicked me!” cried Conroy. “Why,
I thought he was goin’ to kill me!
Look here—look at this, will you?”
With fumbling hands he cast loose
his belt and flung it on the floor, and
plucked his shirt up so as to leave his
side bare. He stood up, with one arm
raised above his head, showing his na-
ked flank to the slow eyes of his ship-
mates. His body had still a boyish
delicacy and slenderness; the labor of
his trade had not yet built it and
thickened it to a full masculinity of
proportion. Measured by any of the
other men in the watch, it was frail,
immature, and tender. The moving
sunlight that flowed around the door
touched the fair skin and showed the
great, puffed bruises that stood on it,
swollen and horrid, like some vam-
pire fungus growing on the clean
flesh.
A great Greek, all black hair and
eyeball, clicked softly between his
teeth.
“It looks like a hell!” he said. soft-
ly, in his purring voice.
“Dem is kicks, all right—ja!” said
some one else, and yet another added
the comment of a heavy oath.
Old Slade made no comment, but
sat, balancing his hook-pot of coffee
and watching the scene under his
heavy white brows. Conroy lowered
his arm and let the shirt fall to cover
the bruises.
“You see?” he said to slade.
“I see,” answered the other, with a
bitter twist of his old, malicious lips.
Setting down the pot which he held,
he stooped and lifted the belt which
Conrow had thrown down. It seemed
to interest him, for he looked at it for
some moments.
“And here’s yer knife,” he said,
reaching it to the youth, still with his
manner of mockery. “There’s some
men it wouldn’t be safe to kick, with
a knife in their belts.”
He and Conroy were the only Eng-
lishmen there; the rest were of the
races which do not fight bare-handed.
The big Greek flashed a smile through
the black, shining curls of his beard,
and continued to smile without speak-
ing. Through the tangle of incom-
prehensible conventions, he had arriv-
ed at last at a familiar principle.
Conroy flushed hotly, the blood ris-
ine hectic on his bruised and broken
ace.
“If he thinks it’s safe with me.” he
cried, “he’ll learn different. I didn’t
have a chance aft there; he came on
me too quick, before I was expecting
him, and it was dark, besides. Or
else—"
“It'll be dark again,” said Slade,
with intent, significant eyes fixed on
him, “and he needn’t be expecting
you. But—it don’t do to talk too
much. Talk’s easy—talk is.”
“I’ll do more than talk,” responded
Conroy. “You'll see!”
Slade nodded. “Right, then; we’ll
see,” he said, and returned to his
breakfast.
His bunk was an upper one, lighted
and aired by a brass-framed port-
hole. Here, when his meal was at an
end, he lay, his pipe in his mouth, his
hands behind his head, smoking with
slow relish, with his wry old face up-
turned, and the leathery, muscular
forearms showing below the rolled
shirt-sleeves. His years had ground
him to an edge; he had an effect, as
he lay, of fineness, of subtlery, of
keen and fastidious temper. Forty
years of-subjection to arbitrary mas-
ters had left him shrewd and secret,
a Machiavelli of the forecastle.
Once Conroy, after seeming to
sleep for an hour, rose on his elbow
and stared across at him, craning his
neck from his bunk to see the still
mask of his face.
“Slade ?” he said, uncertainly.
“What?” demanded the other, un-
moving.
Conroy hesitated. The forecastle
was hushed; the seamen about them
slumbered; the only noises were the
soothing of the water overside, the
stress of the sails and gear, and the
irregular tap of a hammer aft. It
was safe to speak, but he did not
speak.
“Oh, nothing,” he said, and lay
down again. Slade smiled slowly, al-
most paternally.
1t took less than eight hours for
Conroy’s rancor to wear dull, and he
could easily have forgotten his threat
against the mate in twelve, if only he
had been allowed to. He was genu-
inely shocked when he found that his
vaporings were taken as the utter-
ance of a serious determination. Just
before eighty bells in the afternoon
watch he went forward beneath the
forecastle head in search of some
rope-yarns, and was cutting an end
off a bit of waste-line when the
Greek, he of the curly beard and ex-
travagant eyeballs, rose like a demon
of pantomime from the forepeak.
Conroy had his knife in his hand to
cut the rope, and the Greek’s sudden
smile seemed to rést on that and
nothing else. ’ :
“Sharp, eh?” asked the Greek, in a
whisper that filled the place with dark
drama. : 5
Conroy paused, apprehending his
meaning with a start.
“Oh, it’s all right,” he growled, and
began to saw at the rope in his hand,
while the Greek watched him with his
fixed, bony smile. ;
“No,” said the latter, suddenly.
“Data-a not sharp—no! Look-a ‘ere;
you see dis?”
He drew his own knife, and showed
it pointing toward Cenroy in a damp,
swarthy hand, whose knuckles bulged
above the haft. His rough, spatulate
thumb rasped aleng it, drawing from
it the crepitation that proves an acute |
edge.
“Carve him like-a da pork,” he
said, in his stage-conspirator’s whis-
per. “And de point—now, see!”
He glanced over his shoulder to be
sure that none overlooked them; then,
with no more than a jerk of his hand
beside his hip, threw the keen blade
toward the wooden door of the bo’-
sun’s locker. It traveled through the
air swiftly and stuck, quivering on its
thin point, in the stout teak. The
Greek turned his smile again for a
moment on Conroy before he strode
across and recovered it.
“You take ’im,” he whispered.
“Better dan your little knife—yais.”
By the mere urgency of his proffer-
ing it, the exchange was made, and
Conroy found himself with a knife in
his hand that fell through the strands
of the manila line as though they had
been butter, an instrument made and
perfected for a murder. ;
“Yes, but look here,” he began, in
alarm.
The broad, mirthless
turned on him.
“Just like-a da pork,” purred the
Greek, and nodded assuringly before
he turned to go aft.
The bull-roar of the mate. who was
awaiting his return with the rope-
yarns, roused Conroy from a scared
reverie over the knife. He started;
the mate was hustling furiously for-
ward in search of him, full of uproar
and anger. :
“Dam’ lazy Schwein, you goin’ to
schleep dere? You vant me to come
an’ fetch you? You vant anodder
schmack on de Maul to keep you
avake—yes 7”
He stamped inte view around the
forward house, while Conroy stood,
convicted of idleness by the rope in
kis hand only half cut through. At
the same moment a population of
faces came into being behind him. A
man who had been aloft shuffled down
to the rail; a couple of others came
into view on the deck; on top of the
house, old Slade kneeled to see under
the break of the forecastle head. It
seemed as though a skeptical audi-
ence had suddenly been created out of
his boast of the morning, every face
threatening him with that shame
which vanity will die rather than en-
dure. In a panic of his faculties he
took one step toward the mate.
“Hey?” The mate halted in his
stride, with sheer amazement written
on his face. “You vant yer head
knocked off—yes?”
“No, I don’t,” said Conroy, out of a
dry mouth.
According to the usage of ships,
even that was defiance and a chal-
lenge.
He had forgotten the revolver with
which the mate was credited; he had
forgotten everything but the fact that
eyes were on him. Even the knife in
his hand passed from his mind; he
was a mere tingling pretense at for-
titude, expending every force to main-
tain his pose.
“Put dat knife avay!” ordered the
mate, suddenly.
He arrested an automatic move-
ment to obey, fighting down a grow-
ing fear of his opponent.
“I’ve not finished with it yet,” he
answered.
(Concluded in next issue).
smile was
IMPATIENTLY AWAITING GREAT
NEW CIRCUS.
Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey
- Combined Shows Arouse Keen
Interest.
“Circus Day,” the big holiday for
which young and old impatiently wait
at this particular season promises to
eclipse all other events of the calen-
gor year at Altoona, Monday, July
th.
It would seem as though everybody
in this locality were planning to at-
tend. The very name of the great
new circus—Ringling Brothers and
Barnum & Bailey combined—has been
sufficient to arouse far more interest
than has ever before been shown in
the coming of any amusement enter-
prise. And word from the Ringling
Brothers, who are the directors of this
gigantic super-circus, is to the effect
that those who attend the perform-
ances will witness the greatest pro-
gram ever presented in America.
This is likewise true of the mammoth
street parade, which will positively
take place showday morning, the
mammoth menagerie and all else con-
nected with this biggest of all amuse-
ment institutions. The famous show-
men have made a complete survey of
both the great circusses and merged
the finest and best of each into one.
Hundreds upon hundreds of perform-
ers will appear in the gigantic main-
tent. There will be scores upon
scores of the cleverest dumb actors.
A gorgeously costumed pageant, of
stupendous size, will open the pro-
gram. Great companies of charac-
ters, representing the best-loved stor-
ies of fable and nursery lore, will ap-
pear. They will be splendid and many
groups of beautiful horses in jewel-
ed trappings. The army of clowns
exceed all past records for fun and
numbers. All contribute to the big-
gest circus in history.
Love and ‘Common Sense.
“No, Herbert,” she said in a low
tone, “it is impossible. I fear to trust
my future with you.”
“And why?”
“I have watched your conduct very
closely. It lacks the mark of such de-
votion as my soul craves.”
“Do I not come to see you four
nights in the week?”
“Yes, but I have detected a calcu-
lating selfishness in your nature
which I fear.”
“What do you mean?”
“You have never yet failed to leave
in time to catch the last bus.”
“But that is only common sense.”
“I know it is Herbert, and there-
or it is not love.”—Chicago Jour-
nal.
Nervy.
“What are you writing, old man?”
“An article entitled ‘Advice to
Graduates.’ ”?
“Eh! Advice to grad— Well, of all
the presumption!”
be
The Tie That Bound.
Lawyer—On what grounds madam,
do you wish a divorce from your hus-
band ?
Client—Why, I married him for his
money and he has lost everything.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
Not only through heroes the world lives
and thrives,
But through its sweet commonplace moth-
ers and wives.
They are daisy and buttercup women of
earth
Who grace common things
sweetness and worth.
—Ella Wheeler Wilcox.
with their
Look over your supply of towels,
both kitchen and hand towels of linen
crash, and if you find some very thin,
but not worn out, take two of them of
like pattern and stitch them together
all the way around and they serve as
well as a heavier or new towel.
Hot weather always brings to mind
two things when one’s thoughts turn
to clothes—one is bathing suits, than
which nothing could be much cooler,
and the other is thin and dainty un-
derwear to lighten the weight under
the thin summer frocks. Of the first,
much can be said in favor of their
coolness. Almost all the season’s
suits are sleeveless and V-necked, a
pretty style always, but especially so
when developed in changeable taffeta,
as so many of the beach suits are,
with elongated shoulder points that,
instead of meeting with a seam, tie
in a knot and two perky ends. This
particular suit was of a rich brown,
shading into gold, and the shoulder
knots as well as the hem of the skirt
were faced with gold silk.
All the bathing suits are bloomered,
with cuffs that fit tight just below the
knee. One pretty model of plain taf-
feta in a lovely shade of deep sea
blue, or maybe you would call it
green, was neatly trimmed with ver-
tical tucks to the sides of the long-
waisted tunic top, while the edge of
the tunic was cut much shorter on one
hip than on the other and showed gen-
erous glimpses of the silken bloom-
ers, which had cuffs tucked to match.
But about those other cool things—
summer underwear—the best and
nicest thing to be said is a return of
the flowered vogue. If your purse is
long and your tastes luxurious, you
may indulge in flowered chiffons and
Georgettes, or even dainty sprigged
wash silks, crepe de chine, satin, or
pussy-willow. hey are so lovely in
themselves, these silks, that little
trimming other than hemstitching or
tucks is necessary, and, if you make
them yourself, are not such an awful
extravagance after all. But if your
practical soul rebels at silks and chif-
fons, try voile, of flowered cotton
crepe. Just head your camisoles or
chemises with bias folds of net and
run them with pastel shaded ribbons.
You have no idea how lovely these
are going to look under a thin organ-
die, Swiss or voile frock.
Those hints about short sleeves for
summer seem to have been -vretty
well founded. One even sees blouses
of a sober lingerie turn of mind cur-
tailed to above the elbow. Well, let
her with white, dimpled elbows enjoy
the vogue while she may, but if freck-
les and a tendency to scrawniness
make her sister hesitate, let her adopt
one of the many compromises, such
as long transparent cuffs of organdie
attached to what would have been a
tiny voile sleeve, or stick to the wrist-
length sleeve, of which there are a
goodly number. fae
Speaking of color and summer
clothes, the organdie dresses this year
are exquisite as to tint and tone, not
that this is their only charm, for cer-
tainly nothing could be daintier and
more charming than the dresses one
sees in the shops. As for printed
voiles, the colors are striking, and a
dress—or dresses—will come in han-
dy at almost any time.
White hats are here in much evi-
dence. For sports wear, for seashore
wear, for dress wear—although pas-
tel shades to match the frock and hats
made of the same material as the
frocks are much the rage. Then there
is always black tulle, the joy and
comfort of many a fair damsel.
There is nothing so coveted by the
average woman as a slender youthful
figure. Indeed, judging from the
deep interest taken by the fair sex in
outdoor sports of the most vigorous
sort, it would seem as if women were
seriously endeavoring to take as much
natural exercise as possible to keep
the figure trim.
Of course outdoor sports, such as
horseback riding, golf or “hiking”
are naturally most beneficial. as there
is everything to promote vigor and
energy in these athletic pastimes.
Any one of these sports will liven up
the circulation and bring a healthy
complexion.
Many women find it impossible to
take time to indulge in these outdoor
sports, but a series of the right sort
of exercises taken in one’s home will
prove a tremendous help in improving
the circulation as well as the general
health.
Of course all the exercise imagina-
ble will be little or no avail if cone is
not careful of diet and digestion, and
the woman who wishes to reduce as
well as build must be most careful of
this factor.
It would be useless to exercise
strenuously with the intention of re-
ducing weight and then follow this by
eating rich and fatty foods. Nor
would it do for one to over-exercise
and then not take sufficiently nour-
ishing food. This should be gauged
carefully, so that it will be unnecessa-
ry to go to either extreme.
Those fond of living in the open
during the summer vacation days,
and cooking their meals over a fire
built among the rocks on some moun-
tain top, may find bacon stew a wel-
come addition to their menu. It is
simply and easily made. The amount
of bacon and other ingredients must
be gauged by the camp cook, in pro-
portion to the number in the party.
When the fire is going well, set the
camp kettle over it and put in the ba-
con, which has been cut into tiny
cubes. Cook it, being careful not to
let it burn until the bacon is well
browned; then drain off the fat from
the cubes of meat and set them aside.
Add some water to the fat and also
carrots and potatoes diced, and an
onion sliced thin. Of course, sprinkle
in a little salt and pepper for season-
ing. Let it cook together until the
vegetables are done, then return the
cubes of bacon to the stew, stir them
in well and serve. One should be
careful not to have the fire so hot
that the liquid will evaporate.
ZA
FARM NOTES.
—Cows are nervous, timid and sen-
| sitive and they suffer with homesick-
ness. The newly-purchased cow is
apt to fall off in her milk flow for a
time until she gets used to new sur-
roundings.
—7Young pigs are often afflicted
with chorea or St. Vitus damgce. It
usually follows where a lack of vital-
ity is found. The symptoms show
mostly in the hind legs, which kick
out orten. Inbreeding is the common
cause, but this is not well understood
by veterinarians.
—If your horse is found to be ail-
ing while in harness do not continue
to work it until quitting time, with
the idea that it is liable to get well in
a short time, or that the continued
work will not make matters any
worse. Such treatment has caused
the death of many good horses that
would have recovered in a short time
had they but had the opportunity to
rest from the outset of the attack.
—Lime is not a direct fertilizer.
While it frequently makes a marked
difference in corn yields if broadecast-
ed, its best showing is in legumes,
such as clover and cow peas. While
lime makes plant food available, loos-
ens up light soils and firms loose soil,
its most valuable purpose is correct-
ing soil acidity and making it friend-
ly to the growth of legumes. It is a
mistake in not following the use of
lime with legumes.
—Extreme care is necessary in se-
lecting cows, for no amount of skill in
feeding and handling will stimulate a
profit from a truly poor cow. A good
dairy cow is one with a large capaci-
ty for using food above the mainte-
nance and requirement, and one that
uses this food for milk production. In
determining the most desirable breed
one must consult his own likes and
dislikes first. The man who likes a
Holstein cow and dislikes a Jersey
will be more successful with the for-
mer.
—In order to reap the full benefit
of lime, it must be given a chance to
do what it delights in doing—growing
legumes, which in turn stores up fer-
tility and humus in the soils. The
farmer who will not carry out this
slight rotation in crops where lime has
been applied will never get the full
value of lime.
It is not uncommon to find two far-
mers using lime under apparently the
same conditions—their farms merely
divided by a public road, and the na-
ture and composition of their soils
practically the same—and one will
have excellent results, while the oth-
er will have little or no results at all.
There is a reason for this. The one
farmer possessed some knowledge of
lime, knew of its chemical action on
soil and applied it as an indirect fer-
tilizer, following its use with legume
plants, which in turn stored up nitro-
gen in the soil and added humus that
was badly needed.
The other farmer lacked knowledge
of lime and its chemical effect, and
applied it as a direct fertilizer to his
crops, which at best gave only a slight
showing. He is then thoroughly con-
vinced that his soil is not in need of
lime and goes on farming an acid soil
for years and years, when lime intel-
ligently applied would have given him
the most gratifying results.
'. The efficiency of any form of lime
is primarily measured by the total
percentage of calcium and magnes-
lum oxide contained, no matter
whether it is in the form of oxide, as
in burned lime; hydroxide, as in hy-
drated lime or carbonate, as in ground
limestone, shells or air-slaked lime.
Calcium and magnesium oxide may
be considered of about equal value,
says Professor J. B. R. Dickey. The
chief difference in the efficiency of
the different forms is in their concen-
tration, since 1120 pounds of burned
lime is chemically equivalent to 1480
pounds of hydrated lime, and to 2000
pounds of ground limestone. Tests
on practical as well as on a scientific
basis have repeatedly proved that, if
applied in equivalent amounts, the
different forms of lime give practical-
ly equal results, and any one of them
will do the work required.
There is no occasion to worry over
the assertion that caustic lime burns
out the organic matter in the soil.
The richest farms of Lancaster coun-
ty have been very heavily limed with
caustic lime for the last 100 years or
more, and with a magnesian lime at
that. If the organic matter supply is
kept up by sods and manure, caustic
lime wisely applied in moderate
amounts will not damage soil, crops
or soil bacteria. In cases where the
freight rate is high and the haul to
the farm is long, the most concentra-
12) form of lime is often the cheap-
est.
Professor Dickey says the efficiency
of lime is also influenced largely by
the evenness of spreading and the
thoroughness with which the lime is
mixed with the soil. The more soil
particles in contact with lime parti-
cles, the better and quicker will be re-
sults. Therefore it is desirable to
have a lime drillable, and at least
reasonable fine. Extreme fineness in
ground limestone, however, is not
necessary, especially if it increases
the cost greatly. If all the fine dust
1s present, a limestone that will all
pass “a 10-mesh screen is so much
cheaper that it can be applied in larg-
er amounts and will give more last-
ing results. Because it always con-
tains some lumps, and because it can-
not be spread by machinery, lump
lime is generally considered about
equal in efficiency to hydrated lime.
Increased labor in handling, slakin,
and spreading lump lime also adds
materially to its low first cost.
Ground, burned lime is the most
concentrated drillable form of lime,
but cannot be held in sacks long on
account of slaking and swelling. The
discomfort to men and teams in hand-
ling caustic lime is also an argument
for ground limestone. The latter has
no burning effect, and can be held for
any length of time without loss or
change of form.
When purchasing lime, it is better
economy to buy a simple form of lime
alone, rather than any vaunted com-
bination of lime with some other
plant food. Lime combined with a
fertilizer is in too small amounts, as
generally applied, to be of much prac-
tical value in correcting soil acidity.
If the soil is sour the full efficiency of
manure and fertilizers cannot be se-
cured and the great value of good clo-
ver sods and legume cover crops in
keeping up and improving soil fertil-
ity cannot be taken advantage of.
ut