Pemoreatic:Aatcyuon
Bellefonte, Pa., July 25, 1919.
AS WE NEAR THE JOURNEY’S
END.
A little more tired at close of day;
A little less eager to have our way;
A little less ready to scold and blame;
A little less anxious for things of fame;
And so we are nearing the journey’s end
Where time and eternity meet and blend.
A little less care for bonds and gold;
A little more zest in the days of old;
A broader view and a saner mind,
And a little more love for all mankind;
A little more careful of what we say;
And so we are faring a-down the way.
A little more leisure to sit and dream,
A little more real the things unseen;
A little bit nearer to those ahead,
With visions of those long-loved and dead;
And so we are going where all must go,
To the place the living may never know.
A little more laughter, a little more tears,
, And we shall have told our increasing
years;
The book is closed and the
said,
And we are a part of the countless dead.
Thrice happy, then, if some soul can say;
“1 live because he has passed my way.”
prayers are
THE PIN-PRICK.
That? That’s one of pcor May
Blissett’s things, the one she used to
say she’d leave me in her will, be-
cause, she said, she knew I'd be kind
to her. Her reasons were always
rather quaint. She spoke of it as if
it were a live thing that could be hurt
or made happy.
I've tried to be kind to it. I’ve
framed it as it ought to be framed,
and hung it in not too bad a light. I
—I've consented to live with it.
You needn’t look at it 1 ze that. Of
course I know it isn’t a bit alive in
our sense. She couldn’t draw, she
could only paint a little; her inspira-
tion was reminiscent, and she got
hung more than once in the Academy.
She was like so many of them. But
she had a sense of beauty, of color,
of decoration, and, at her best, a sort
of magic queerness that was suggest-
ed irresistibly even when the things
didn’t quite come off.
That this hasn’t come off—not quite
—is really, to me, what makes it so
poignantly alive. It’s a bit of her, a
little sensitive, palpitating shred, torn
off from her and flung there—all that
was left of her. It stands for her
mystery, her queerness, her passion-
ate persistence, and her pluck. To
anybody who knew her the thing’s
excrutiatingly alive.
It’s so alive, so much her, that
Frances Archdale wonders how I can
bear to live with it, with the terrible
reproach of it. She insisted that we
—or, rather, that she—was responsi-
ble for what happened. But that’s
the sort of thing that Frances always
did think.
Certainly she was responsible for
May’s coming here. She was with her
when she was looking over the studio
above mine, the one that Hanson had
—it had been empty nearly a year—
and she brought her in to me. I was
to tell her whether the studio would
do or not. I think, when it came to
the point, Frances wanted to saddle
me with the responsibility. There
were no other women in the studios—
never had been; they’re uncomforta-
ble enough for a man who isn’t fas-
tidious; there’s no service to speak of;
and May Blissett proposed to live
alone.
I looked at her and decided instant-
ly that it wouldn’t do. You had only
to look at her to see that it wouldn't.
She was small and presented what
Frances called the illusion of fragil-
ity—an exquisite little person in spite
of her queerness. She had one of
those broad-browed, broad-cheeked,
and suddenly pointed faces,. with a
rather prominent and intensely obsti-
nate chin. The queerness was in her
long eyes and in the way her delicate
nose broadened at the nostrils and in
the width of her fine mouth, so much
too wide for the slenderly pointed
face, and in the tiny scale of the
whole phenomenon. She was swarthy,
with lots of dark, crinkly hair. There
was something subtle about her, and
something that I felt, God forgive
pe as mysteriously and secretly ma-
ign. .
Even if we had wanted women in
the studios at all, I didn’t want that
woman. So I told her that it would
not do.
She looked at me straight with her
long, sad eyes, and said: “But it’s
just what I'm hunting for. Why
won’t it do?”
I could have sworn that she knew
what I was thinking.
I said there would be nobody to look
after her. And Frances cut in, to my
horror, “There would be you, Roly.”
It was only one of her inconsider-
. ate impulses, but it annoyed me and I
turned on her. I said, “Has your
friend seen that studio next to
yours?” I knew that it was to let, and
Frances knew that I knew. I sus-
pected her of concealing its existence
from May Blissett. She didn’t want
her near her; she didn’t like the re-
sponsibility. I wished her to know
that it was her responsibility, not
mine. I wasn’t going to be saddled
with it.
Her face—the furtive guilt of it—
confirmed my suspicion as we stared
at each other across the embarrass-
ment we had created. I ought to
have been sorry for Frances. She
was mutely imploring me to get her
out of it, to see her through. And I
wasn’t going to.
And then May Blissett laughed, an
odd little soft laugh that suggested
some gentle but diavolical apprecia-
tion of our agony.
“That woudn’t do.”
I was remorseless and said in my
turn: “Why wouldn't it? You'd be
near Miss_Archdale.”
She said: “We don’t either of us
want to be so near. We should get in
each other's way most horribly—-just
because we like each other. I should
not be in your way, Mr. Simpson.”
She was still exquisite, but at the
same time a little sinister.
I remember trying to say some-
thing about the inference not being
very flattering, but Frances got in
first.
“She doesn’t mean that she doesn’t
RIG
like you, Roly. What she means is
wn
“What I mean is that, as Frances
knows me and likes me a little—vou
said you did”—(It was as if she
thought that Frances was going to
say she didn’t. She flung her a logk
that was not quite sinister, not sinis-
ter at all—purely exquisite—exquis-
itely incredulous, exquisitely shy.
And she went on with her explana-
tion)—*“I should be on her mind. And
I couldn’t be on your mind, you
know.”
I said, “Oh, couldn’t you!”
But she took no notice. She said,
“No, if I come here—and I'm coming”
— (She got up to go. She was abso-
lutely determined, absolutely final—
—“we must make a compact never”—
(she was most impressive)-—“never
to get in each other's way. It’s no
use for Frances and me to make a
compact. We couldn’t keep it for five
minutes.”
She had the air, under all her in-
credulity, of paying high tribute to
their mutual affection.
“I'm coming here to work, and I
want to be alone. What’s more, I
want to feel alone.”
“And you think,” I said, “I'll make
you feel it.”
She said, “I hope so.”
She had put herself between Fran-
ces and the door. She said: “You'd
better stay and explain it if he does
not understand. I'm going.”
She went like a shot, and I gather-
ed that her precipitance was to give
me the measure of her capacity for
withdrawal.
Frances stayed. I could see her
stiffening herself to meet my wrath.
“Frances,” I said, “how could you?”
Frances was humble and deprecat- |
ing—for her. She said, “Roly, she re- |
ally won’t be in your way.”
“She will be in it,” I said, “most
abominably. You know we are not
supposed to have women here.”
“I know; but she’s not like a wom-
an. She was trying to tell you that
she wasn’t. She isn’t. She isn’t—
really—quite human. You won't have
to do any of the usual things.” .
I asked her what she meant by the
usual things, and she became instant-
ly luminous. She said, “Well—she
won’t expect you to fall in love with
her.”
I’m afraid I said, Heaven only knew
what she’d expect. But Frances
walked over me with “And you need
not expect her to fall in with you.”
And she put it to me, if there’d been
a chance of that sort of thing hap-
pening, if May had been dangerous,
would she have risked it? (We were
engaged in those days). Would she
have gone out of her way to plant her
up there over my head? Would she
have asked me to look after her if she
had—well—required looking after?
And she reminded me that she wasn’t
a fool.
As for May, that sort of thing was
beyond her.
“Ig it,” I said, “beyond any wom-
an? I wouldn’t put it—"
“Past her?” she snatched me up.
“Perhaps not. But she’s past it.
Gone through it all, my dear. She's
utterly beyond. Immune.”
I said: “Never. A face with that
expression—that half-malign subtle- |
ty. She might do things.”
And Frances turned on me. You
know how she can turn. Malign sub-
tlety! Malign suffering. The ma-
lignity was not in the things she’d do, |
poor lamb, but in the things that had
been done to her. And then she sat |
down and told me 2 few of them— |
told me what, in fact, May had gone |
through.
First of all, she had lost all her
people—father, mother, brothers, and
sisters. (She was the youngest of a |
large family). That was years and
years ago, and she was only thirty-
two now, so you may judge the fran-
tic pace of the havoc. And by way of
pretty interlude her father had gone
mad—mad as a hatter. May had
looked after him. Then they lost ail
their money. (That was a mere de-
tail). Then she married a man who
left her for another woman. Left her
with a six months’ old baby to bring
up. Then the child died and she di-
vorced him—he dragged her through
horrors. Then, as if that wasn’t
enough, her lover—I beg her pardon,
the man who loved her—was drown-
ed before her eyes in a boating acci-
dent. Nothing, Frances said, had
happened since then. What could,
when everything had happened? As
for doing things, there was nothing
poor May wanted to do except pic-
tures. And if she thought she could
do them better here over my head,
wouldn’t I be a brute to try to stop
her?
Of course I said I shouldn’t dream
of stopping her, and that it was very
sad—it was, indeed, appalling. But
it seemed to me that, though Frances
had let out so much, she was still
keeping something back. And a bru-
tal instinct made me say to her:
“What is it, then, that you dislike
so much in her?”
She took it quite simply, as if she
had been prepared for it. She even
smiled as she answered: “Nothing—
except her obstinacy.”
1 asked her, wouldn’t that be pre-
cisely what would get in my way?
And she said, No; May’s obstinacy
would consist in keeping out of it.
Still, I objected, obstinate people
were nearly always tactless.
And Frances said, No, not always.
She said—dear Frances!—“I’m not
obstinate. But I'm tactless, if you
like. Look at the horrid mess I got
us both into just now. And look how
she got us out. She saved us.”
I admitted that she had.
And Frances finished up, triumph-
antly: “Can’t you trust her? Can’t
you see that she’s beyond? That she
really won’t be there? There never
was a more effaced and self-effacing
person, a person more completely
self-contained. I assure you none of
us exist for her. So she needn’t, re-
ally, be on your mind.”
And she wasn’t, not for a moment,
from the day of her coming till the
day—Though I must say, afterward—
To begin with she chose a week-end
for her installation—a Friday till
Tuesday when I was away. 1 literal-
ly didn’t know that she was there, so
secrev and so silent was she in her
movements overhead. I couldn’t have
believed it possible for a woman to
be so effacing and effaced. It was su-
per-feminine; it was, as Frances said,
hardly human. And yet she didn’t
overdo it. I had to own that the most
exquisite thing about this exquisite
EER ERA CA SL TR RRR
—
and queer little person was her tact. | pact, I went away, going rather
—
By overdoing it the least bit, by in- | slowly, in the hope that she'd relent.
sisting on her detachment, her isola- | I can’t tell you whether I realiy heard
tion, she would have made us disa- | her open her door and come out on to
greeably aware. When you met her |
on the stairs (she used to run up and |
down them incredibly soft-footed) '
she smiled and nodded at you (she
had really a singularly intriguing |
smile) as much as to say that she was |
in an awful hurry, life being so full |
of work, of a joyous activity, but still |
it was lucky that we could meet like
this, sometimes, on the stairs.
And she used to come in to tea,
sometimes, when I had a party. She
took hardly any room in the studio,
and hardly any part in the conversa-
tion, but she would smile prettily!
! the hall porter and his
, told me that Miss Blissett was not in
when you spoke to her; the implica-
tion being that it made her happy to
be asked to tea, but it was not so nec- |
essary to her happiness that you:
would have to
ask her often. She
used to come a little late and go a lit-
tle early—and yet not too early—on |
the plea (it sounded somehow prepos-
terous) that she was busy. Even the
poor art that kept her so was tact-
ful. It had no embarrassing preten-
sions, it called for no criticism, you
could look at it without sacrificing
your sincerity to your politeness. And
bred ever to refer to it. And it kept
her. It got itself hung, as I've said,
now and again. Supremely tactful, it
spared your pity.
In short, she made no claim on us,
unless, indeed, her courage called to
us to admire the spectacle it was.
For, when you think of the horri-
ble things that had happened to her,
the wonder was how she ever contriv-
ed to smile at all. But that was what
she had effaced more than anything—
the long trail of her tragedy. Her
reticence was inspired by the purest,
the most delicate sense of honor. It
was as if she felt that it wouldn’t be
playing the game, the high game of
life, to appeal to us on that ground,
when we couldn’t have resisted. Be-
sides, it would have hurt, and she
wouldn’t for the world have hurt us.
Her subtlety, you see, was anything
but malign. It was beneficent, ten-
der, supernaturally lucid. It allowed
for every motive, every shade. And
we took her as she presented herself
—detached, impersonal, and, as Fran-
ces said, immune.
I said to Frances: “We needn't
have worried. You were right.”
And Frances exulted: “Didn’t I
tell you? She’s quite kind to us, but
she doesn’t want us.”
She had made us forget that we
hadn’t wanted her.
She had made me forget that I had
ever said she’d do things. Even now
I don’t know what on earth it was I
thought she’d do.
She had been living up in that stu-
dio, I think, three years before
happened.
I can tell you just how it was. On
the evening, rather late, Frances
came to see me. She asked me if I
had seer anything of May Blissett
lately.
I said: No. Had she?
And she said, Yes, May had called
that afternoon.
I noticed something funny about
Frances’s face—something that made ,
me say, “And you weren't very glad
to see her?”
She asked me how I knew she
wasn’t, and I told her that her funny
face betrayed her.
Then, by way of extenuation, she
told me the tale of May’s calling. I
remember every word of it, because
over it again and again—afterward.
She told me that she was not really
at home that afternoon to anybody
but Daisy Valentine. Daisy had got
something on her mind that she want-
ed to talk about. I knew what those
two were when they got together—
they were as thick as thieves. And
as I also knew that the something on
Daisy’s mind was Reggie Cotterill, I
understood that their communion
would be private and intimate to the
last degree.
And it seemed that the servant had
blundered and let May Blissett in up-
on the mysteries before they had well
begun, and that she’d stayed inter-
minably. There they were, the two
of them, snug together on the sofa;
their very attitude must have shown
May what Daisy was there for. They
were just waiting for tea to come be-
fore they settled down to it. Poor
Daisy was quivering visibly with the
things she’d got to say. Couldn’t I
see her? I could. I gathered that
the atmosphere was fairly tingling
with suppressed confidence, and that
May, obtuse to these vibrations, sat
there and simply wouldn’t go.
1 remember I suggested that she,
too, might have had something on her
mind and have had things to say. But
Frances said: .No, she never had
things. She’d come for nothing—
nothing in the world. She was in one
of her silences, those fits which gave
her so often the appearance of stu-
pidity. (I knew them. They were
formidable, exasperating; for you
never could tell what she might be
thinking of; and she had a way of
smiling through them, a way that we
knew now was all part of her high
courage, of the web she had spun,
that illusion of happiness she had
covered herself up in, to spare us).
Frances said she wouldn’t have mind-
ed May’s immobility for herself. It
was Daisy who sat palpitating with
anxiety, wondering why on earth she
didn’t go.
I wondered, too.
her. I said so.
And Frances, who seemed to under-
stand May through and through, said
it wasn’t. It was most characteris-
tic. It was just May’s obstinacy. If
May had made up her mind to do a
thing she did it quand meme. Gener-
ally she made up her mind not to be
a nuisance. She’d made it up that
afternoon that she’d stay, and so she
stayed.
“I'm afraid,” Frances
weren't very nice to her.
see we didn’t want her.”
“And then?” I asked.
“Qh, then, of course, she went.”
I must say I marveled at the obsti-
nacy that could override a delicacy so
consummate as May Blissett’s. And
I thought that Frances’s imagination
must have been playing her tricks. It
did sometimes.
That night, about nine o’clock, I
ran up to May Blissett’s studio. I
knocked at her door three or four
times. I knew she was there. I'd
heard her come in an hour or two be-
It was so unlike
said, “we
We let her
the stair-head after I'd got down to
my own floor; whether I really
thought that she leaned out over the
banister to see what was there; or
whether I tortured myself with the
mere possibility—afterward.
It must have been about six o’clock
in the morning when they came to me,
son. They
her room and that they couldn’ get
her studio door open. It wasn’t lock-
ed, they said; it had given slightly,
but it seemed stuck all over, and an
uncommonly queer smell was coming
through. They thought it was some
sort of disinfectant.
I went up with them. You could
smell the disinfectant oozing steadi-
ly through a chink in the studio door.
We opened the big French windows
opposite, and the windows of the bed-
room and the stairs outside. Then
we began to get the door open with
knives, cutting through the paper that
sealed it up inside. The reek of the
sulphur was so strong that I sent the
men out to open the studio windows—
i they were sealed up, too—from the
if it hadn’t been, May was too well
! door.
outside, before we finished with the
One of them came back and
‘ told me not to go into the room.
it,
. wasn’t long).
But when the smoke cleared a little
I went.
Oh, it was all quite decent. Trust
her for that. She was lying on the
couch which she’d dragged into the
middle of the great bare studio, all
ready, dressed in her nightgown, with
a sheet drawn up to her chin.
the sulphur still burning. She had
set the candles, one con each side, one |
1
at the head, and one at the foot.
No, there’s nothing stately and cer- |
emonial ahout a sulphur candle.
Have you ever seen one? It's a little
fat, yellow devil that squats in a sau- |
cer. There’s a crimson ooze from it
when it burns, as if the thing sweat-
ed blood before it began its work.
One of those stinking devils would !
have done what she wanted,
there were four.
white nightgown, lighting her can-
dles, smiling her subtle and myster-
ious smile? The ghost of it was still
there. I am sure she was thinking
how beautifully she had managed and
how she had saved us all. The dear
woman couldn’t have had any other
thought.
Hven Frances saw that.
Frances nearly went off her head :
Just as she did afterward |
about it.
about poor Dickinson. She declared
that we, or rather she, was responsi-
ble. She’d had a letter from May
Blissett written that night.
It’s stuck in my head ever since (it
ping on like that.
skinned of me when I saw you so dear
and happy there together. But some-
how I couldn’t help it. And you have
, forgiven me.”
! entine away
: would have been
A perfectly sane letter. Not a word '
about what she meant to do. Evident-
ly she didn’t want Frances to connect
it with their reception of her.
But of course she did. She insisted
that if she had only sent Daisy Val-
and kept May, May
now. She had shown her that they
i hadn’t wanted her, that she was in
fore. Then, remembering our com-
their way, and May had just gone and |
jaken herself, once for all, out of it.
we went, she and I—she made me go | 5 Se stow a
I couldn’t do anything with her. I!
couldn’t make her see that the two
things couldn’t have had anything in
the world to do with each other; that
the affair of the visit, to May—after
what she’d been through—would be a
mere pin-prick; that you don’t
through such things to be killed by a
pin-prick.
But Frances would have it that you
do; that it was because of what May
had been through that she was so
vulnerable.
Besides, she maintained that her
responsibility went deeper and furth-
er back. It was that from the first
she had been afraid of May Blissett—
afraid of something about her. No,
not her queerness: her loneliness. She
had been afraid that it would cling,
that it would get in her way. She had
compelled her to suppress it. She had
driven it in, and the thing was poison-
ous. I reminded her that May didn’t
want us, and she wailed:
“We tried to make ourselves think
she didn’t. But she did. She did. She
wanted us most awfully all the time.”
If she had only known! And so on.
I did all I could. I pointed out to
her that poor May was insane. What
she did proved it. In her right mind
she would never have done it. She
would have been incapable of that
cruelty to us who cared for her. But
Frances stuck to it that that was just
it. She wouldn’t have done it if she’d
known we did care. It was the very
essence of her despair that she had
thought we didn’t.
And sometimes I wonder whether
Frances wasn’t right. Whether, if I
had run back that night and caught
May Blissett on the staircase—
But, you see, I wasn’t really sure
that she was there. I mean, she may
have lit her candles before that.—By
May Sinclair, in Harper’s Monthly
Magazine.
The Low Cost of Health.
We hear very much of the high cost
of living, but we overlook the fact
that many of the best things of life
can be had for nothing.
It costs nothing to stand up and
walk and breathe properly.
Fresh air in the home is free.
No expense taking a few simple ex-
ercises every morning.
It costs nothing to chew the food
thoroughly.
It costs nothing to select the food
best suited to the body.
It costs nothing to clean the teeth
twice a day.
It costs no more to stop using pat-
ent medicines.
It costs no more to read good books
than trashy literature.
It costs nothing to have a cheerful,
happy disposition, and stop having
grouches.
These things cost nothing, yet they
will bring content and reduce the doc-
tor’s bill to nothing a year—for you.
~——For high ciass job work come
to the “Watchman” office.
The |
whole place was dim with the fog of |
and |
2 Can’t you see her
going softly round the couch in her
“Forgive me for stop- |
It was very thick- |
living and happy !
DOGS ON THE FARM MAY BE
MADE USEFUL.
In Fact, if Gone About in the Right
Way, They May be Converted
Inte an Asset.
The dog on the farm can be made
a most useful acquisition, and he can
be A nuisance and-a detriment. Much
depends upon the training began in
early life. It is hard to teach an old
dog new tricks, and therefore his ed-
ucation should start in puppyhood.
Even a mongrel puppy can be taught
to be useful. Some dogs show a great
deal more good judgment and hard
common sense than do some men.
CHOOSING A FARM DOG.
The most popular farm dog is the
Scotch Collie. He is probably the
most intelligent animal, and when
properly trained is a companion ever
ready to do one’s bidding. He is de-
cidedly the most sagacious of the ca-
nine race. As a rule he is always in
good humor, a jolly good fellow, ready
for a romp at any time, and never for
a cross word or a blow. If the human
face is a key to character, if expres-
sion tells what is in the soul, truly it
may be said that the face of the col-
lie indicates his dispesition. His eyes,
ears and nose seem to tell whether he
is gentle or vicious, submissive or vin-
dictive, kind or brutal, dull or intel-
ligent.
In purchasing a pup look at its
physical condition; be sure he is in
perfect health. Then look up its
breeding—whether he comes from a
line of ancestors noted for their size
and intelligence. As a rule the timid
dog is the brightest, and can be
taught almost anything except to
talk.
SAMPLES OF DOG INTELLIGENCE.
One year we lost a large number of
young chickens by the daily visits of
hawks. Our collie dog “Pat” noticed
that whenever a hawk was about
alighting we would pick up a stone
{and throw it in the direction of the
| bird. He seemed to grasp our inten-
tion, and afterwards stood guard.
. Whenever a hawk or any bird about
| that size, would come down near the
chickens, Pat would begin to run and
bark, and thus scare it away. From
the time he started to keep watch we
never lost a chick. ;
One day, however, while Pat was
apparently asleep, a hawk descended
within 50 feet of him and made a dive
for the crest of one of our young
Houdan chicks, and then the dog look-
ed up. Quicker than it takes to tell
denness of the alarm made the hawk
loosen its grip, although it had its
victim about five feet in the air, and
down tumbled the poor chick. Then
Pat sat down beside it, lapped the
| blood from its head, and began bark-
ing in the direction of the house until
some one came out. The entire per-
| formance was witnessed by one of the
household.
Noticing that we never permitted
| fighting among the poultry, this same
dog of his own accord always sepa-
rated combatants. A neighboring
. farmer owned a cock bird that made
daily visits to our poultry yard, and
. would fight our birds through the
wire fencing. It kept Pat busy driv-
ing him away, but the bird would per-
gist in repeating his visits. At last
Pat became vexed, and before the of-
fender reached the fence the dog
dashed after him. The bird was us-
i ing all haste to get away, while the
dog closely followed, barking all the
while. He kept this up until the fowl
reached home, when he returned to
the farm, evidently pleased with his
work, and the visits were never re-
: peated.
| THE COLLIES BECOME RATTERS.
Being considerably annoyed with
i
o | Fats on the farm, and the collies not
| being classed as ratters we purchased
| a dog for that purpose. We had three
| collies at the time—Pat, Colonel and
! Nellie. One day while the hired man
{ was feeding the stock, he saw several
| large rats run under the pig pen. He
{ called Tip, the ratter, who came ac-
companied by the collies. The pig
pen was raised at one end, and out ran
a rodent, which was dispatched by the
ratter in quick order. While he shook
the rat to death the collies stood
around and watched the performance
with the greatest interest.
Putting some blocking under the
pig pen we raised it a little higher so
the rat dog could make further
search. Presently out came another
rat, and before it got very far Pat
grabbed it and shook it to death in the
very same way that Tip did. Then
dropping it, he looked up as much as
to say: “Did I do that right?” Out
came two more rats, and Colonel made
a good chase after one and caught it,
while Nellie leaped over a three-foot
fence and grabbed the other, just as
it was about entering a hole in a
building. They all followed Tip’s
style in killing them. From that
time on the occupation of Tip was
gone, for the collies became ratters,
and Tip had nothing to do but eat and
sleep.
BEGIN TRAINING IN PUPPYHOOD.
While dogs are not human, they are
not far from it. They are capable of
reasoning, and even while yet a baby
puppy can tell the mood of the master
by the tone of voice and expression of
face. If gentle, loving words and tone
are used the puppy plays every antic
known to him for expressing joy; but
should the master be surly, the poor
little animal will slink away, creep
under the house, anywhere to be out
of sight.
_ Puppies are as susceptible to train-
ing and correction as children. Use
one word to express command, ex-
pressing these when possible by a
chasacteristic move of the arm, al-
ways the same in both instances so
they became a simultaneous thought.
Then, too, always be near enough to
the puppy when giving these early
commands to enforce obedience.
Use a collar now. If the puppy
does not understand, go to it, take it
gently by the collar and draw it to-
ward what has been ordered done. Do
not scold. Encourage it to do the bid-
ding by kindness. No other animal is
endowed with so affectionate a nature
nor so great a desire to please.
TEACHING WORDS OF COMMAND.
The puppy must first be taught to
lead, placing a string about his neck.
He will soon learn not to try to get
away, and to come on hearing the
word “Here,” or whatever word is
chosen, pulling on the string until he
learns to come promptly. Lessons of
it, he went to the rescue and the sud-
| half an hour a day are enough, and
| this first lesson should be learned very
thoroughly, so that the dog will come
from any part of the yard instantly
on hearing the word.
Next he is taught the meaning of
the word “go” by using the word
when sending him through an enclos-
ure, continually repeating the lesson
until he acts promptly. As a part of
this lesson he should be taught to stop
anywhere on the word “Halt,” empha-
sizing at first by pulling on the string,
which should still be attached to his
neck. The word “Ho” is also used by
some trainers to indicate the teacher
is through with him for the time be-
ing, and the dog soon learns to under-
stand it.
While driving sheep it is convenient
to have the dog understand the word
“speak,” which means that he is to
begin barking, and he can be taught
every word easily by holding up some-
thing which he wants to eat and us-
ing the word. The meaning of “out”
is easily taught when the dog is in
the house by opening the door and
pronouncing the word.
After this preliminary education he
may go out with an old trained sheep-
dog. By running with him the pup
soon learns much of the business, and
should be prevented from going to the
heads of the cattle. After letting him
try with the older dog for a few times
he should be taken to the sheep or
cattle without the other dog.
_ If the cattle have been used to be-
ing driven by dogs, they will not turn
upon him, an occurrence which might
injure his driving qualities for some
time to come. He should learn the
meaning of “steady,” when inclined
to drive the cattle fast, and if this
first training is well done will stop
promptly when told to halt. The word
“fetch” is commonly used when send-
ing the dog to drive sheep, and the
word “go” for cattle, and the dog will
learn to understand which his master
wants him to drive. He should be
taught to know the left from the
right, obeying the motion of the hand
in iad direction.—Philadelphia Rec-
ord.
New Automobile Laws.
Harrisburg.—Approval of the two
automobile regulation bills was an-
nounced from the Governor's office.
One is a code governing the licensing
and operation of all motor vehicles,
and the other regulates the sale and
transfer of second-hand cars. Both
are effective at once.
The code allows a speed of 30 miles
an hour on open roads and 15 miles in
built-up communities. Use of cut-outs
is forbidden. The registration fees
are to be 40 cents per horse power
with a minimum of $10 for automo-
biles. Motor trucks are licensed by
classes according to weight from $20
to $150, the latter being for 10,000
pound classes.
Truck lengths are limited to 28
feet, width to 90 inches and weight to
28,000 pounds. Trucks are also lim-
ited to speed by classes, ranging from
10 miles per hour for heavy grades to
20 miles for lighter grades.
Sworn statements that applicants
for license are physically able to
operate cars are required.
The “second-hand-car” bill requires
complete description with bills of sale
statements as to ownership and
changes made in the car, all to be
sworn to.
Another new feature is that all
dealers in used cars must take out a
state license at an annual fee of $100
and each dealer must be vouched for
by two persons. Various other pro-
visions for tracing cars are made.
No one may have a car from which
the identifying mark has been re-
moved.
Highway Commissioner Sadler
gave notice that the State would re-
quire observance of the act requiring
lights on all moving vehicles at night,
including farm wagons but not agri-
cultural machinery, hay wagons, or
wheelbarrows. He also called atten-
tion to the operation of the law for-
bidding the use cf traction or porta-
ble engines within 300 feet of a build-
ing unless equipped with spark ar-
resters. :
Shut Your Eyes ana Answer These.
What are the exact words on a two-
cent stamp? In which direction is
the face turned?
In what direction is turned the face
on a cent? On a dime? On a quar-
ter?
What are the words on the face of
your watch?
What color are the eyes of your
employer? Of the man at the next
desk ?
How many teeth have you?
What are the words on a police-
man’s shield ?
How many buttons have you on
your waistcoat ?
How many toes has a cat on each
forefoot, and each hindfoot?
What is the name, signed in fac-
simile, on any $1, $2, $5 or $10 bill
you ever saw,
Which way does the crescent moon
turn—to the right or to the left ?—
Cartoons Magazine.
Cincinnati Sells Eggs by Weight.
Cincinnati.—As a result of a con-
troversy that has arisen in the Pro-
duce Exchange of the Chamber of
Commerce, classification of eggs has
been changed. The term “prime
firsts” has been discontinued and a
new designation has been adopted—
“fresh gathered extra firsts.”
Weights will be enforced hereafter,
which is an innovation here. “Fresh
gathered extra frst” eggs must weigh
forty-five pounds net, or (fifty-six
pounds gross; firsts, forty-three
pounds net, or fifty-four pounds
gross; ordinary firsts, forty-one
pounds net, or fifty-two pounds gross,
and seconds, thirty-nine pounds net,
or fifty pounds gross. .All of these
weights are considered on crates.
Of Infinite Variety.
“My wife is a woman who always
speaks her mind.”
“Her conversation must be monot-
onous.”
“Not at all. She is continually
changing her mind.”
His Job.
“Pa, what is it the censor does?”
“Oh, just incense everybody, my
son.”
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