Dow itd |
Bellefonte, Pa., August 8, 1919.
sat
JUNE.
H. T. K.
Beautiful, peaceful June,
Was ever a month like you?
Filled with fragrance from morning dew;
Scattered everywhere violets so blue,
Beautiful June, no month like you.
Charms come from you, sweet June.
Creeping through highways and byways,
too,
Glistening grasses of sweet perfume.
Filling the heart and soul all through,
Beautiful June, no month like you.
Glorious days of June—gone so soon,
Fairy Queen of the flowery hue.
Come again dear month of June,
With regret we bid you adieu.
Beautiful June, no month like you.
I DON'T KNOW YOUR NAME.
Mr. Holden leaned forward in his
seat and regarded Doris Leigh with
covetous eyes. He was a very well-
preserved man in spite of his sixty
years, and in the rich amber lights of
the restaurant he might readily have
been taken for fifty.
“I want you,” he whispered, his
voice husky with emotion.
Doris gave a mental yawn and pok-
ed at her jellied chicken. The remark,
she thought, lacked originality. Men
had been telling her that they wanted
her, over softly-lighted restaurant ta-
bles, ever since she came to New
York. She smiled prettily, but said
nothing, having learned the wisdom
of looking upon such remarks as com-
pliments rather than as insults.
Mr. Holden, still leaning forward,
moistened his lips with a mouthful of
vichy.
“1 want
ry me.”
Doris continued to smile only be-
cause her features had become tem-
porarily congealed in that position.
Mr. Holden’s words left her speech-
less. He had known her for less than
a week, and was worth, so one of the
girls in the company had told her, at
least twenty million.
By some subtle chemistry of life
her father, an up-State school-teach-
er, who could by no possible stretch
of the imagination have been consid-
ered an Adonis, and her mother, who
came of a wholesome but dismally
plain farming stock, had contrived to
produce that rara avis, a really beau-
tiful woman. When Doris Leigh—
her real name was Mary Stevens, but
she had changed it when she entered
the world of pretense behind the foot-
lights—came to New York some two
years before at the pleasant age of
eighteen, she weighed 124 pounds,
was five feet four inches in height,
had hair as golden as the cornsilk on
her mother’s ancestral farm, and eyes
so velvety violet and mysterious that
all the neighbors predicted for her a
sad and doubtful end. And yet Mary,
or rather Doris, was neither sad nor
doubtful. If men had a way of be-
coming mad about her, she did not
share their madness. In fact, she
made up her mind, at an early age, to
marry for love and raise a family of
agreeable and attractive children. It
was a bourgeois ambition, perhaps,
but at least it possessed the merit of
sincerity. Most of her friends in the
profession talked mysteriously about
their “careers.” Doris was honest
enough with herself to recognize her
limitations; she held the small parts
she played because she was good to
look upon, not because she possessed
any great histrionic ability, and the
men she met liked her all the more
because she did not pretend to any.
Hence she was never without invita-
tions for dinner and supper; her
breakfasts she prepared herself, over
a tiny gas stove. After paying her
room-rent she was able to devote
quite a considerable sum each week
to the agreeable business of making
herself attractive. She did not insist
that the world owed her a fortune, al-
though any number of front-row
males seemed anxious to discuss that
matter with her. Without being con-
ceited, however, she felt that what
she had to offer in return was worth
more than a six-months’ adventure.
If Doris had been a student of the
“Arabian Nights” she might have
found therein a counterpart of the as-
tounding series of adventures through
which she was about now to -pass.
The first had been her unexpected in-
troduction to James Holden, at a tea
given in the studio of a celebrated il-
lustrator who was trying to get Doris
to pose for him. One look from her
wide, velvety eyes had upset Mr. Hol-
den’s reason—or restored it. Either
view of the matter is possible. He
had been a slave to business for thir-
ty years; perhaps there was more
sanity in his sudden infatuation for
Doris than there had been in his thir-
ty years of devotion to the intricacies
of the coal-tar business.
The tea had taken place on Sunday.
Now, on the following Saturday, be-
tween the afternoon and evening per-
formances, Mr. Holden was asking
her to marry him. Doris sat, smiling,
still quite unable to reply.
“T’ll make you the happiest woman
in the world,” Mr. Holden went on,
thinking of his millions, his small but
perfectly equipped house on Madison
Avenue, his gorgeous place up the
Sound, his cars, his schooner yacht.
The only thing he did not think of
was youth, something not numbered |
among his possessions, although Dor-
is would doubtless have preferred it
to any of the others. Then he took
from his waistcoat pocket a small
leather-covered case and opening it,
pushed it across the table. Within
was a diamond almost as large as the
tip of Doris’s little finger. She gazed
at it, enchanted.
you,” he went on, “to mar-
“Qh—isn’t it a beauty!” she ex-
claimed. Cit .
There was nothing insincere 1n
Doris Leigh’s nature. If there had
been, James Holden, who was an in-
fallible judge, would never have ask-
ed her to marry him. She was as nat-
ural as a spring day, and as madden-
ing. No shrewd calculation was
going on in her shapely head as to
the advantages of marrying a man
worth twenty millions; she was think-
ing, quite frankly, whether she could
.care enough about this rather elderly
person to make him a good wife. Mr.
“Holden’s vanity had been pricked
something Doris had said to him on
| the occasion of their second meeting. i
Adopting the role of father confessor
he had asked her about her life, her
ambitions. Doris, with the most per-
fect sincerity, had told him of her de-
sire, the nursery full of healthy, rol-
licking children. Had she been the
most accomplished adventuress in the
world she could not have said any-
thing more subtly calculated to en-
chain Mr. Holden’s interests. When
his whitening beard had been shaved
off each morning, and he had finished
with his Swedish masseur, he fancied
himself still twenty-four. The inter-
vening years had been devoted to bus-
iness, and did not count.
Quite unconsciously Doris had vis-
ualized one of her companion’s fond-
est dreams. He had married when he
was thirty; his wife had borne him
one child, a son, and given her own
life. The boy had been a great disap-
pointment to Mr. Holden. Refusing
point-blank to take the slightest in-
terest in the coal-tar business, he had
announced his intention of becoming
an artist. Five years earlier, after a
violent quarrel, he had departed for
Paris. His father’s grudging allow-
ance he declined, preferring to depend
on his own efforts. Mr. Holden, with
his various establishments, all run by
competent but overpaid servants who
spent their idle time in wondering
how much the old man was going to
leave them when he died, was pitiably
lonely. A man in such a position i=
very apt to find a girl like Doris su-
perlatively attractive, especially when
he has reached the age of sixty.
Curiously enough, it was another
man entirely that caused Doris Leigh
to accept Mr. Holden’s offer of mar-
riage—a man that she had seen but
half a dozen times, and was never to
see again. She had imagined, for the
space of a week, that she was very
much in love with him. She finally
declined his West Side apartment, his
trip to Europe, his offer to pay her
milliners’ bills, however, because she
sincerely believed that half loaves
were not better than no bread. But
the experience had left a scar, and al-
though it had occurred several weeks
before her meeting with Mr. Holden,
the memory of it still rankled. Now
she sat gazing at the five-carat en-
gagement-ring and wondering wheth-
er she might not just as well make
Mr. Holden happy, since there seemed
so little chance of her being happy
hersalf. She took the ring from its
case and slipped it on her finger. It
fitted perfectly. Mr. Holden never
did things by halves.
“We can be married at once,” he
urged, “and go down to my place on
the Sound for our honeymoon. You
have no idea how beautiful it is down
there in June. I know you will be
very happy.”
. “I—I—very well,” said Doris, sud-
denly, and left the ring where it was.
Mr. Holden, who detected unreasona-
ble tears in her eyes, hurried her to
a taxicab. He wanted to kiss those
tears away. When he attempted to
do so, Doris found that they had quite
suddenly dried up. She had been
weeping because she was about to
sacrifice her golden youth upon an
ancient altar; the young blood within
her unconsciously protested.
“This will be your last night,” Mr.
Holden said, as he left her at the
stage door.
married.”
dressing-room and grease-paints, saw
her hat. ’
“My Gawd!” she exclaimed. “What
is it—a searchlight ?”
Doris explained briefly.
“I'm going to marry Mr. Holden,”
she said. “On Monday.” ;
_ The news almost broke up the even-
ing performance. Even the leading
man offered congratulations. As for
the other girls, they looked on Doris
with awe. The mistress of twenty
millions! She could scarcely open her
jar of cold cream without offers of
assistance.
It was contrary to all rules that she
should quit without giving two weeks’
notice. Mr. Selden, the stage-man-
ager, told her she would be blacklist-
ed. Doris shrugged her beautiful
shoulders.
“I should worry,” she remarked.
Mr. Selden, who sincerely liked her,
patted her on the back.
“I don’t blame you a bit, kid,” he
said. “Go: to it?’
Mr. Holden appeared at her board-
ing-house on Monday morning, and
took her down to get the marriage li-
cense. He had already arranged mat-
ters with the rector of a church on
lower Fifth Avenue. It was high
noon when Doris, in Mr. Holden's car,
set out for the country place on the
Sound, scarcely realizing that her
name was no longer Doris Leigh, but
Mrs. James Holden. Her husband
seemed far less excited than she had
expected. The pouches under his
eyes were heavier, his usual ruddy
color had turned to a pasty gray.
“I’m so sorry, dear,” he complained,
holding her hand in his. “I feel rath-
er done up. Must have taken a cold.”
She comforted him as best she
could, feeling rather depressed. The
June morning was marvelously fresh
and sweet.
She had been upon a pinnacle of
nervous expectation. It dismayed her
to find her husband so old, so broken.
She held his hot hand in hers all the
way to Greenwich, with a terrible fear
2 her heart that he was going to be
ill.
He was ill, very ill, when they
reached their destination. The solic-
itous servants suggested a doctor, and
Doris called up the local practitioner
her husband named.
It was the first act of her married
life, and seemed scarcely what she
had expected. Mr. Holden was in bed
by now, breathing heavily in short
gasps. The doctor said he had influ-
enza. A trained nurse was sent for,
but Fate had other plans. At five
o'clock the next afternoon Doris’s
husband died, scarcely recognizing
those who stood at his bedside. On
Wednesday morning she awoke to
find herself a wealthy widow, without
ever having been a wife. The birds
sang gloriously outside her bedroom
windows. Below, soft-voiced under-
takers moved about on rubber heels.
The whole experience seemed like a
hectic dream.
Two nights later Doris Holden sat
on the rear porch of the splendid
mansion, watching the moonlight
playing over the rippling waters of
the Sound. She was singularly lone-
ly and unhappy. Married life, as she
had pictured it, was not at all like
i ; Ww | to stand in his way.
the ring before the girl had taken off she exclaimed, as she vanished up the |
this. At the unearthly hour of ten
she went to bed.
At midnight she was suddenly
awakend by the snorting of a motor-
car beneath her windows. The serv-
ants were asleep; most of them had
retired to the little cottage in the gar- :
den which constituted their quarters.
The great house was as silent as a
tomb. Then there came the sound of
a key, rattling in the lock of the front
door.
Doris sprang out of bed. She had
not slept very soundly. Across the
foot of her huge four-poster lay an
exquisitely embroidered Japanese ki-
mono.
She put it on, and descending the
great staircase reached the front hall.
A young man, carrying a battered
suitcase, confronted her. Unreasona-
bly erect and virile, he stared at her.
“Who—who are you?” he stam-
mered, his cheeks suddenly red.
“T am Mrs. James Holden. Who
are you?”
The young man gazed at her with
incredulous eyes. He did not answer
her question.
“TI wish to see Mr. James Holden,”
he said.
“Mr. Holden is dead.” Doris drew
the kimono about her throat. “He
died three days ago.”
The young man dropped his suit-
case. His sudden color fled.
“You—you were his wife?” he ask-
ed faintly.
“Yes. We were married on Mon-
day.”
tention of leaving. “Is there any-
thing I can do for you?” she added.
“Yes. You can let me stay here
over night. I am a friend of Mr.
Holden’s son. I have often been liere
before. In fact, I have had a key for
years, and his room has always been
at my disposal. You see”’—he glanc-
ed at his uniform—*“I have just re-
turned from France. I had not heard
of Mr. Holden’s death. 1 came down
from New York tonight, expecting to |
stay here. It is rather late to go back
now. Surely you won’t mind if I
sleep in Austen’s bed. We have al-
ways been great friends.”
Doris gazed helplessly at the great
curving staircase.
having this young man in the house
all night dismayed her, and yet it was
not entirely without its interesting
features.
“I was in Austen’s company. He
did some rather big things, and they
gave him a couple of medals. He
thought his father might like to know
about it, so I came down to tell him.
His death will be a blow. I presume
Mr. Holden left a will.”
“Yes.” Doris snuggled down upon
the cushions of one of the great
benches that flanked the sides of the
hall. “His lawyers read it this morn-
ing. He left everything to me. His
son was cut off with a trifling sum. I
think he ought to break it.”
“You think-so?” The young man’s
expression was incredulous.
“Certainly. Mr. Holden’s son has
much more right to the money than I
have. I should think he would hate
“Not if he saw you.”
Doris frowned.
“That has nothing to do with it,”
she teplied. “I am an outsider.
“Tomorrow we will be Yom Mr. Holden is the legitimate
| heir.
Fay Marriott, who shared Doris’s | can have it.
If he wants all the estate he
I certainly do not wish
“Good night,”
stair-case.
Beneath the brilliant sunshine of a
perfect June day thzy met again.
Doris had not slept particularly well,
but she was too young to feel the
worse for it. The breakfast table,
with its blue and white service, stood
fresh and snowy beneath the early
morning sun. Doris sank into a huge
upholstered wicker chair and ordered
eggs, marmalade and coffee. A bowl
of fruit already decorated the center
of the table. It was while sugaring
her strawberries and cream that the
young man appeared. He had dis-
carded his uniform for an extremely
smart suit of white flannels; in his
hands he held a huge bunch of sweet
peas.
“Good morning,” he said. “1
thought you might like them.” He
placed the blossoms beside her plate.
“Thank you,” said Doris... “1 like
them very much indeed.”
“All this must seem very strange to
you,” he observed, gazing out over the
blossom-crowned garden.
“It does. Almost like a dream. I
—I scarcely know what to make of it.
May I give you some strawberries?”
“Yes, please,” He passed his plate.
“Austen always loved this place. He
was very unhappy because of his es-
trangement from his father. He
meant to come home and try to set
matters right. Now it is too late. I
suppose you don’t know he was born
here—in the very room in which you
are sleeping.”
“Really.” Doris passed the plate of
berries, wondering how the young
man knew the location of the room in
which she was sleeping. She also
wondered when he meant to go. So
far, his manner, while extremely def-
erential, gave her the impression that
he planned an extensive stay.
“Did Mr. Holden ever speak of his
son?” he asked.
“Not often—to me at least. You
see, I only knew him a week. I sup-
pose I shouldn’t have married him,
but he seemed so anxious, so much
alone.”
The young man gazed searchingly
into Dorris’s velvety eyes. What he
saw there evidently reassured him.
“Of course you should, if he wanted
you to. He generally got whatever
he wanted. Naturally he wanted you.
Anyone would.” There was a glow in
the young man’s eyes that gave Doris
an agreeable thrill. She wondered if
she was falling in love. :
The young man gazed once more
into her enchanting eyes.
“You will marry again,” he an-
nounced, as though the question ad-
mitted of no argument. .
Doris, combating the assertion, per-
haps gave him the answer to the
question which was uppermost in his
mind.
“Why do you say that?”
“Because it is inevitable. No wom-
an like you could be happy, single.’
“I think I shall be happy,” she said.
“Happier than if you were to marry
me, for instance?” The young fan
covered a bit of bread with marma-
lade. ’
Doris refused to be disturbed by
this bit of persiflage.
She looked pointedly at the!
door, but her visitor showed no in-|
The thought of |
; “You,” she laughed. “Why, I don’t
| even know your name.” :
| “What difference does that make?
| It would be just the same if it were!
{ Smith, or Brown. Of course I haven’t |
| any money, but please don’t think me |
a fortune hunter.”
| “I couldn’t very
| Holden’s son ought to break the will.
I suppose I’m entitled to a third, but
I’m not sure that I'll take it. If Mr.
Holden had lived, it would have been
his money.”
pen from his pocket, a bit of paper.
“Are you in earnest?” he asked.
“Of course I am.”
“Then sign this.”
He wrote hastily
a few words.
“It is a waiver on your
tune.”
Doris regarded the slip of paper
for some moments in silence. Then
| she took up the pen.
“I suppose I'm very foolish to do
this,” she said, “but I don’t want to
deprive young Mr. Holden of any-
thing that belongs to him.” He took
the bit of paper that Doris had sign-
ed and placed it in his pocket. “And
now that you are practically speak-
ing, a poor woman, will you marry
| me?”
| This time Doris could not put aside |
i his question so lightly, especially as
he bent upon her a pair of very dark
and serious eyes. The light that
but this time it did not repel
stammered.
Her companion waved his hand
largely about the sun-kissed garden.
“I find myself astonishingly hap-
| py,” he said. “I have never been |
For years I!
quite so happy before.
| have dreamed of a woman like you.
| Here we are, eating what might be
{ our wedding breakfast. Why stop?
Happiness knocks but once, you know.
i Why shouldn’t this be our garden of
‘ Eden?”
“But,” Doris objected, “this is Mr.
Holden’s garden.”
“I know,” he said. “I am Mr. Hol-
den.” He took from his pocket the
slip of paper which Doris had signed
and tore it to bits, casting the frag-
ments to the spring wind. “It’s ab-
surd, I suppose, for me to say that I
love you, but I do. Those things hap-
pen sometimes. I've loved the
thought of you for years. Just the
thought of you. Now that I have
found the reality, I must say what I
feel, even if you hate me for it.” He
stretched one brown hand across the
table and heedless of the upset cream-
jug, clasped her fingers in his. “What
is your name?” he asked.
“Doris.” She could scarcely whis-
per it. There was a marvelous sing-
ing in her brain, a lassitude that call-
ed for flowers, for the sea. She too
had loved; in her imagination, for
many empty years. Her cheeks were
flaming. “I suppose it’s all wrong,”
she gasped, “but since I met your
father, last week, everything has been
filled with a strange spirit of enchant-
ment. I feel just like somebody in a
wonderful fairy tale.”
“Dear,” he said, twining his fingers
about hers, “I think that our fairy
| tale is going to be the most wonderful
{ ever written. I've got to go away for
I owe that to my
| a while, of course.
| father. But when I come back vow
are going to marry me, and then”—
he held out his arms.
Doris, a "hit
tell him tha
pected appearance the night before,
she had seen, plainly printed on hls
battered suitcase, the letters “A. H.”
—By Frederic Arnold Kummer, in
Hearst's.
In One Duck’s Stomach.
“] was always impressed by the
stomach of a black duck Doctor Ea-
ton killed near Canandaigua Lake,
New York, out of a flock returning
from a flooded corn field,” writes Wal-
ter Pritchard Eaton in an article en-
titled “By Inland Waters,” in Har-
per’s Magazine. “From this duck’s
gullet and gizzard he took a few peb-
bles, snail shells, a little chaff, and
23,704 weed seeds—13,240 pigweed
seeds, 7,264 knot-grass, 576 dock, and
2,624 ragweed. As ragweed is pop-
ularly supposed to be the worst of all
dangers to hay-fever sufferers, the
hay-fever convention should certain-
ly sit beneath a stuffed black duck.
It is not, I fancy, generally realized
that ducks consume so many seeds—
in fact, it isn’t generally realized, for
that matter, how large a part all be-
neficent birds play in holding destruc-
tive exuberance of nature in check.
The terrible and disgusting slaughter
of our wild ducks, especially by
wealthy hunters in the South in win-
ter, is a blot on our national good
sense.”
The Man Always “Just Going To.”
He was just going to help a neigh-
bor when he died.
He was just going to pay a note
when it went to protest.
He meant to insure his house, but
it burned before he got around to it.
He was just going to reduce his
debt when his creditors “shut down”
on him.
He was just going to stop drinking
and dissipating when his health be-
came wrecked.
He was just going to introduce a
better system into his business when
it went to smash.
He was just going to quit work
awhile and take a vacation when ner-
vous prostration came. ;
He was just going to provide prop-
er protection for his wife and family
when his fortune was swept away.
He was just going to call on a cus-
tomer to close a deal when he found
his competitor got there first and se-
cured the order.—Philadelphia Credit
Men’s Bulletin.
Very Dutiful.
Elderly One—A wife should defer
to her husband’s wishes, my dear.
Younger One—I have done so ever
since he told me his one wish was to
see me happy.
"Compressed.
“A good many people bottled their
wrath against the Prohibition law.
“Well, there’s a kick in that bottled
stuff, anyway.”
well think that, |
since you agree with me that Mr.
different; but as things are, I really !
don’t see why I'm entitled to a cent of |
The young man drew a fountain- |
part of all rights in Mr. Holden’s for-
flamed in them she had seen before, !
her. |
la > 3 > ey 307 the i
“Really, I scarcely know you” she’ mple, and that is to be varied as
conscience-stricken, |
was wonderjng whether she ought to 2
when he made his unex- |
FASHION HINTS FOR MEN.
May Serve as History, as Clothing
Prices Keep Going Up.
FOR MORNING
English tweeds, tan shoes, blue necktie,
. purple shirt, earmuffs to match in winter;
cane at just the proper angle.
' FOR AFTERNOON
i Neat sack suit, black shoes, pink neck-
! tie, cerise shirt, ete.
FOR EVENING
Full dress of tuxedo, depending upon
occasion; black patent leather shoes, stiff
i bosom or frilled shirt, black or white tie,
etc.
Alack and alas! Gone is this de-
i lightful bit of reading matter from
| home firesides, except perhaps for
{ historical reference. 7
It will be even too gloomy a bit of
| modern literature to thrust before
|
|
| theatre audiences in that choice pro- |
| gram column entitled, “What to Wear
i and When to Wear It.”
| For hasn’t there been put before
: the people of this country during the
I last week a price list for the coming
| fall and winter that may make blue
| gingham or some choice shades of
| denim the only thing that any person
i will be able to afford?
| FAIR SUITS AT $50 TO $60.
| Can the average man magine him-
| self, on present salary, following out
' the “hints to good dressers” of the
fashion magazines, with only “fairly
good” ready-made suits selling at $50
and $60 a copy?
Take the above daily menu, for ex-
days go on, according to the fashion
| sheets, for no real Beau Brummel is
| going to wear the same suit every
morning and every afternoon and still
be at the pinnacle of fashion, at least
as far as the old regime is concerned.
The before and after luncheon suits
are going to cost in the neighborhood
of $150 for even the fairly good dress-
er.
Then there are the shoes that are
going to cost $10 a shoe, or $20 for a
complete set, each foot being just
above the “luxury” line drawn by the
Congressional masters of art in
Washington.
Even then there is the hat to be
considered. There will not be any-
thing worth while at all for less than
$4, and that is for what is now called
mediocre goods. A chapeau of ap-
| proved style will be in the neighbor-
hood of $8 or $10.
INNER LAYER COSTLY.
| But even then only the surface has
| been scanned.
{ The inner layer has not been con-
| sidered at all. Underwear and socks
i and garters are to be considered. All
| of these are to be high priced for low
i quality. “Standard goods” in the
| way of underwear are to cost $3 and
$4 a suit and up, with accent on the
| last two words.
Even the lowly necktie that never
| was considered much good, except to
: hide soup stains and allow the wear-
ing of an otherwise uncivilized shirt
| a day or so more, is to go far into the
heavens of finance. The lowly twen-
‘ty-five-cent variety is to be a dollar.
| There will not be “anything worth
' wearing” for less than $3. In fact, a
necktie is going to cost almost as
much as a union suit, and they are
not nearly as necessary. sins
There are those who have signified
their intentions of emigrating to Sa-
., moa and Central Africa and other
heavily wooded sections of this plan-
et, where Edenic attire is still the
ge. .
Look the following list over:
SEC Las wisps vs 2 sion = ramhith »byrisre + epee i 4520.00
Shoes .. a 10.00
Shirt 7. 3.00
Necktie . 1.00
TIRABIWOAT .,......cccenrsssrraces 3.00
SoeRs Jl an RAGS, 19
COMATY co 2 sors sisi sma vniots s sis sles 25
GATLOrs ee rs resensissssniay : 50
Hat 100... 0.0 00..085.,. 0... 3.00
$41.50
Observe the total!
ONLY ONE PAIR OF SOCKS.
Low, very low! Ah, yes, but that is
the very lowest figure possible for an
outfit to be worn for one day. That
provides for only one pair of socks
and one union suit, which is an unten-
able theory in these days of hygiene.
And the suit! Well, that’s of that
cotton material highly camouflaged
with brilliant colors, so delectable to
the lesser educated of the foreign
brethren. A fairly respectable suit is
going to cost between $50 and $60.
For the ordinary business man, ob-
serve the following:
Suit Cl ee 0 800.00
Shoes. ..:: .. 15.00
Shirt ...... 5.00
Necktie .... 3.00
Underwear ...........eeeee 5.00
SOCKS ..,ccrecnsruinisinrvres 1.50
Collars .... 2
Garters ..... eo. eee. .<
Hat 5.00
$95.25
The individual imagination is left
to figure out the cost to “our best
dressers” as delineated in “What to
Wear and When to Wear It.”
When is an Egg a Stale Egg?
Harrisburg.—Chemists of the State
Department of Agriculture began
their preliminary investigations to
determine “when is an egg a stale
egg.”
Under a law recently approved by
the Governor it is a misdemeanor to
sell a stale egg as a fresh egg. For
that reason it has become necessary
for the department to define just what
a stale egg really is, and to prepare
standards for passing judgment. All
kinds and conditions of eggs will be
submitted to the chemists as the ba-
sis for their investigations.
Good Grape Crop in Prospect.
Never has there been more promise
of a heavy crop of grapes than there
is at the present time. Wherever
there is a grape vine it is heavily la-
den with bunches. Much more careis
now taken of the grapes than in years
past and the crops are showing the
result of this care and cultivation.
The bagging of the bunches has now
become very general. The heavy
crops will no doubt result in a great
deal of wine being manufactured at
home and some will use the excuse
that it would be a shame to let the
grapes “go to waste.”
Speaks for Itself.
“Are you an experienced aviator?”
“Well, I've been at it three months
and I'm all here.”
That is only for the suits alone.
FARM NOTES.
—The past hot waves, with possi-
bly more to follow, brought the fact
face to face to the poultry keepers the
conditions that confront them in the
keeping of hens in good condition and
especially the moulting hens, during
the period which is the most trying
one in their lives. At no time are they
subject to a greater strain than
through this period, which lasts from
90 to 120 days, according to the vigor
and condition of the hen. After lay-
ing many eggs, often under forced
pressure to a large extent, caused by
forced feeding, the fowls enter the
dog days of summer in none too good
condition, and unless extra care is
taken to carry them through this try-
ing time a heavy death rate can be ax-
pected; either that or the time be-
tween the egg-laying periods will be
lengthened, and those fowls that are
retained as future breeders will not
enter the winter in condition to pro-
duce eggs of strong fertility.
Poor results have often been caus-
ed by the neglect in caring for the
flock during the summer months,
when egg production falls off and the
hens are allowed to shift for them-
selves, due to the fact that they were
temporary non-producers, yet the feed
| bill goes on just the same, the poultry
keeper losing sight of the fact that
the profit made on each hen is based
' on the year’s average, and not on that
of a few months. Any hen that has
laid 144 eggs in the year has paid the
board bill and some over, and is enti-
tled to the usual rest during the
moulting period.
Some breeders carry a third to one-
' half of their flock to the second or
third laying year. These birds, which
are expected to again produce eggs in
paying quantities during the winter
and early spring to produce the kind
of chicks that have a kick, must be
given extra care and attention during
the moulting season.
Little fault can be found with the
up-to-date incubators or brooders,
now well past the experimental stage,
although not as yet perfect. But a
large per cent. of the failure to se-
cure a good hatch of livable chicks
can be traced back to the stock, which
' was weak perhaps in the first place,
or weakened during its life-time by
forced feeding methods, or lack of
good care during that period. The
hens that are to be retained as 1920
layers, or breeders should be separat-
ed from the rest of the flock, the oth-
ers being disposed of as soon as they
fall off in egg production and are
starting in to moult. Those fowls re-
tained should be given comfortable
quarters, at least four square feet of
floor space allowed each bird; plenty
of fresh water should be provided, for
during heated spells poultry will eat
less and drink more, and it is a crime
to allow poultry to go dry during the
greater part of the day, or suffer
them to drink warm water. Water is
one of the essentials in the poultry
yard, or on the farm during the sum-
mer “months. It’ ig" just as" es-
sential, if not more important
than feed. Forcing feeds should
not be used during the moult-
ing period. A good mash (dry pre-
ferred) should be placed before the
fowls during the greater part of the
day. Wheat, oats and corn can be fed
morning and night, or a good com-
mercial grain mixture will answer.
But not as much corn, which is
heating, should be fed in summer as
during the late fall, winter and early
spring. Most of the poultry feeds,
even the chick feeds, yet contain too
much corn. While corn is called the
king of feeds, it has been much abus-
ed by its too liberal use. The ration
should be lightened up by adding
more oats. Green feed in some form
should be supplied, charcoal, oyster
shell and grit always before the birds.
Shade in some form must be supplied
in the yards, that the fowls will not
be forced to go in the heated poultry
. quarters during the middle of the day-
. Not all are fortunate enough to have
‘the free range that most farm flocks
can enjoy if allowed. But much can
be done to make the birds on the poul-
try plant and city lot comfortable by
! attending to little details that go to-
t ward making life bearable during the
hot days and nights of summer, and
| the poultry keeper will be well repaid
| for this extra effort in more eggs in
‘ winter and early spring and better
| fertility and stronger chicks from the
| breeders, and a lower death rate
| among the hens during the summer
| months. Any neglect in the poultry
{ yard or on the farm will be paid for
iin the long run by the poor results
| from the neglected flock.
Many flocks today are proving a
source of worry to the poultry keeper,
who is paying big feed bills with no
eggs in return. It is the same old sto-
ry each year. A flock of pullets, big
feed bills and no eggs. Wherein lies
the fault? The breeder nine times
out of ten will say the hen. But to
those who have been through the mill
of experience will say the man behind
the flock. It is so easy to forget the
little things that were neglected in
the past. Maturity to the egg-laying
point does not mean good care at this
late date. But success in getting the
flocks to a fair production dates back
to the shell. This is often overlooked.
To get the pullets laying on schedule
time goes back, first, to the founda-
tion stock; second, the incubation,
which must be well done; third, the
brooding, which must be carefully
cared for in the period of the chick
age, and, fourth, the growing of the
chick for the period of time for the
so-called danger age, which is from
incubation to from four to six weeks.
It should be remembered that any
check, due to some form of misman-
agement, will retard the time of lay-
ing of the pullets, and many times the
flock is blamed for its non-production
when the real fault lies with the care-
taker.
The lighter breeds, such as Leg-
horns, Anconas, etc., lay their first
eggs at five and five and one-half
months from the shell. The so-called
heavier breeds, such as Plymouth
Rocks, Wyandottes, Rhode Island
Reds, Orpingtons, at from five and
one-half months to six and a half
months from incubation, when prop-
erly hatched and grown. But how
many are really properly hatched and
grown? Not 30 per cent. of that in
this country, notwithstanding the
general opinion that anyone can raise
chickens, there are few who can get
the pullets to lay on regular schedule
time, due tothe fact that proper es-
sentials to make them produce are not
faithfully followed.—Phila. Record.