" Bellefonte, Pa., October 3, 1919.
THE SIMPLER SUCCESS.
T’'m not denying that it’s fine
To claim the godd that’s in a mine
Or make some needed thing so well
That for a profit it will sell,
In every sort of world success,
There lies a lot of happiness,
But this is something that I know,
It’s fun to see the roses grow.
There are successes other than
The sort which brings great wealth to
man;
Not all the joy nor all delight
Are born of feats of skill and might,
And some who never rise to claim
The splendor of undying fame
Have found success in other ways,
And lived their share of happy days.
Some find their happiness in gold,
And some in deeds of conquest -
Some find it in uncharted seus
Some in the fellowship of trees;
Some in the blossoms of the rose
Attain the joy the rich man knows,
And by that road to happiness
Achieve the summit of success.
-
Who breaks the ground with spade and
hoe ?
Is thrilled to see the roses grow;
To him the tender buds of spring
Untold delight and gladness bring. |
And in the beauty blooming there
He's well repaid for all his care.
Success is not alone in gold, !
Sometimes in humble things it's told. i
—Selected.
THE PERFUME CLERK.
Long aisles smelling of soap and
essences; an eclectic fan running over-
head; on the right, a display of um-
brellas and gloves; in front of the
counter, stout women, thin women,
awning-striped skirts and tailored
models; behind the counter, girls with
fluffy hair and powdered faces, and
one girl especially who was called
Rosalys—those were the things that
Alice Hall saw when she closed her
eyes. When she opened them, she
saw the growing wheat that was of
such vast importance to her country,
and muddy water flowing lazily in
ditches or spreading over a field. She
had just finished irrigating for the
day.
The times of the perfume counter
seemed long ago, and that girl called
Rosalys not herself. When she first
went to town, Alice Hall had begun
to spell her name “Alys;” then she
had taken Rose as a first name, for an
aunt she had; and finally, somehow,
she was Rosalys. .
Only, John Mason had never learn-
ed that name. He had refused point-
blank to learn it. John was the only
real thing, it seemed to her now, in
all that time during which she had
worked at the perfume counter. She
had been engaged to him all the while.
Because she had always hated her life
on her uncle’s farm she had gone to |
the city; at the same time John had |
left her mother’s place and found
work in the city, too.
Seated on the doorstep near the |
pinto beans, Alice laid her head wear- |
ily against the frame. While they |
were in town, she and John used to go
almost every night to the motion pie- |
tures. That seemed strange now; and
it seemed stranger still that she had |
liked it all so much.
Into her life as a perfume clerk |
who was beginning to save finery for !
her wedding had dropped a great |
bomb—the war. At first it sputtered
as if it were never going off; and at
worst it seemed to make no personal
difference to her. Then suddenly it
had torn her life to pieces. She was
not sorry for that—she had changed
so—except that John was gone. In-
side the house she heard her mother
cough, and she went to take her a
drink of water.
“It’s sweet of you, child, to come
and help on the place this summer.”
Alice smiled. It was a comfort to
be needed. Farm laborers were no-
where to be had. She and John’s
brother, Roscoe,—who lived in the
gray cottage across the fields,—and
Roscoe’s wife, Mildred, were caring
for the crop.
“You've always hated farm work,” |
gratefully resumed John’s mother.
“No—really, I like it.”
It had never been the work that she
hated; it was the lopeliness of the
country; especially the dark, quiet
nights, when there is so much time to
think and to be afraid. She tried t5
think how brave John had been; she
tried to be brave herself. But she had
always been afraid of darkness and of
quiet, and of death. She would not |
tell his mother that she was afraid to
think; that might lead her to guess
something that she was not to know
while her heart was weak from her
last attack of rheumatism.
“Dear me!” Alice continued, “I|
shouldn’t want to be selling perfume |
with the world begging for wheat.” |
“Did you look in the R. F. D. box
today ?”’ John’s mother asked. |
Alice nodded and went on rapidly: |
“All the people with boys at the front |
tell the same story. There’ll be no!
letters for weeks, and then seven or |
eight will float in on the same mail. |
You musn’t think because we don’t
hear—" !
Her voice broke; she went out of |
the room hastily and wandered down |
to the road, where the zinc mail box
was nailed to a tree. There was noth-
ing inside; she had known that there
{would be nothing. When she put her
hand in to feel, a sick sensation came
over her—she was remembering the
day when she had found a franked
letter that was not in John’s hand-
writing. It was addressed to his
mother, who had been very ill that
week, and Alice had opened it. She
would never forget the words written
in the strange hand:
“Reported by Swiss Red Cross a
prisoner in Germany.”
First she had given the letter to
Mildred; then she had gone back to |
the house. It was dinner time, but |
food seemed to choke her—because |
probably John was hungry.
A month had passed without furth-
er word. Then one afternoon Mil- |
dred had beckoned Alice to come into |
her house; Roscoe had opened the |
mail box that day. . |
Alice remembered that afternoon
clearly. Mildred had closed the door
‘and lay with wide-open eyes, listen-
| porch, where John used to sleep on
| it aside, in order to approach the side
: door.
! time she heard nothing except Mrs.
| mountains and now and then a white
to keep out the children. Then Ros-
coe had said:
“We have news.
news. John isn’t a prisoner any more
—he’s free.”
Alice had guessed at once—she had |
not needed the line, “Reported dead
by Swiss.”
Probably they would never learn
more than that bare fact.
She turned from the empty mail ;
box tonight and went through the big |
front yard, under the old trees where |
she and John used to swing as chil-
dren. Then she crossed the irrigat-
ing ditch and in the deepening dusk |
wandered at the edge of the wheat.
She had come in the early spring and !
had seen the grains of wheat fall in- |
to the ground to die—and now, before |
long, they would bring forth fruit.
She had seen them leap up from the
earth, bright and strong-in the sun;
but the fields were darkening now.
She could hear owls in the trees by
the river; overhead the nighthawks !
still screamed as they chased gnats.
Alice was afraid again. When she
was a little girl, her mother had died;
and after that Alice had always been
afraid. Now, she was afraid of
everything; but especially afraid to
have John die. Sometimes, when it
was dark and the frogs made a noise
in the ditch, or the wind blew, she
almost resolved to run away back to
the lights and the picture shows. She
ought not to have to live during the
war. She was not fit. . The stars
frightened her—strange worlds that |
no one knows about—and those dim
fields, across which she could not |
see!
It was a hot night. A bank of!
clouds rolled up out of the west. Alice
went in and locked the windows.
John’s mother had always slept with-
out turning a key; John was like her,
not afraid of things that might be in
the dark. That night Alice made the
house so close that she eould not
sleep.
She lay awake—she thought—until
nearly midnight. Then, suddenly,
she sprang up in bed, and her heart
thudded against her breast. She
could hear Mrs. Mason breathing.
What had sounded to her like a step
outside the window must have been
the rustling of the cottonwood trees
in the wind. But she put on part of
her clothes and went into Mrs. Ma-
son’s room; she wanted to speak to
some one. But John’s mother was
sleeping so quietly that Alice would
not distub her; she crept back to bed.
A few minutes later she sprang up
again. This time it was not the wind
she had heard, for the air was now
still. Some one was on the porch.
She heard the knob turn softly.
She knew what John’s mother
would have done in her place; but Al-
ice could not make herself go to the
door and look out through the glass.
She lay with her heart pounding at
her chest like a workman’s hammer.
At last she slipped out of bed and,
putting on her wrapper and slippers,
crept to the window.
The moon was overcast, but
through the clouds a dim light re-
lieved the darkness. Alice could see
the big lilac bush—and the swing.
She could see the porch also, and no
one was there. A shudder and a chill
shook her body. She did not know
what she dreaded—she was wonder-
ing what terrible visitor had been on
the porch a few minutes before.
After a time she crept back to bed
It is really good
ing. It grew very dark outside. The
damp air was like a sponge, muffling
everything. Then the wind rose; so
she could not be sure whether she
heard the wind or soft footfalls going
round the house to the side porch.
There was a hammock on the side
hot nights. The hooks and chains
creaked; she did not know whether
the wind was blowing the hammock,
or whether the intruder had brushed
She thought she would just lie there
and wait for morning. For a long
Mason’s breathing. The intruder,
she thought, had gone away. Final-
ly the fatigue of a hard day of work
overcame her resolution, and she fell
asleep.
Her dreams were so bad that she
soon awoke. It was raining hard;
there was thunder in the distant
burst of light. She knew, although
she did not know how she knew, that
she and Mrs. Mason were not alone
in the house. For a moment she sat
up in bed and could not move—the
Dovning of her heart made her so
sick.
At last she slid to the floor, still in
her wrapper and the pale-blue kid
slippers with gold buckles that she
used to wear when she was a perfume
clerk.
Then in the room over her head
she heard just such a creaking step
as that which probably had roused
her from her sleep. She went into
Mrs. Mason’s room. That time John’s
mother stirred and asked as if half
awake:
“Did John get in?”
“No. This is Alice,” replied the
girl.
Her voice was steady, as if she had
not been a coward, as if perhaps she
could meet her test. She opened a
door into the hall. There was a light
in the room at the head of the stairs.
When she saw the lamplight filtering
through the shadows of the staircase,
all her courage went. She unlocked
the hall door. Roscoe’s cottage was
three quarters of a mile away.
But she could not be such a coward
as to go—to leave Mrs Mason alone.
She turned back.
“Alice,” said Mrs. Mason, “John
got home, didn’t he?”
Alice stationed herself just outside
the door leading into the hall. “No,”
she answered; “you were dreaming.”
Then she heard some one coming
downstairs.
“No, she isn’t dreaming!” said a
voice. “She heard me. I was so
afraid—her heart, you know—I broke
i like a thief when it began to rain.
ut—"
He forgot the rest of his sentence
—forgot everything when he saw Al-
ice at the foot of the stairs. “Al?”
he cried. “Al! Why, Al, I telegraph-
ed to your boarding house—why, Al-
ice!
Before Alice had come to herself,
his mother called again, and they ran
into her room. .
He picked his mother up in his
' Now and then he patted her shoulder
' and laughed; and Alice, who stood on
| about?” asked his
arms, as if she had been a baby. Then
he laid her back into the chair where
she slept because her heart was so:
weak that she could not lie down. !
the other side of the chair, laughed, |
too, but wiped her eyes. The Masons |
were not tearful. !
Evidently John had been ill, for his |
face was as white as a baby’s; she
guessed it was pneumonia, since he!
had been sent all the way to the dry ;
air of the Rockies to recuperate. He |
looked questioningly at Alice over his
mother’s head; and the girl knew just
what he meant: “Have you heard
any report about me?”
Alice nodded.
His eyes questioned again:
mother?”
Alice shook her head violently:
“No!
her!”
In his face, white from the hard-
ship and the illness that had followed :
it, some old scars showed. Once, |
when he was a child, he had caught a
bobcat and tried to train it for a cir-
cus animal. He had got those scars |
as he was trying to teach it to stand :
up on its hind legs. Suddenly Alice.
burst into laughter. Why had she!
not known that John would get out
of the prison camp? If anyone es- |
caped, it would be Private Mason, U.
S. Engineers!
“What are you laughing about?”
His eyes were shining as he asked;
but he knew.
“What are you children whispering
mother. “John,
come round where I can see you.”
“I’m going to tell her about it, Al-
ice; it won’t hurt her. Mother does
not scare worth a cent, you know.
Say, mother, I’ve been a prisoner.
It’s a fact! Bunk Sackett and I made
a break for it and got away; and the
little German camp commander {felt
so bad about it he reported us both
‘Died of wounds.” And I’ve got a fur-
lough. What was the use letting you
know I was coming? I didn’t know
it myself till I started, and 1 was sure
to be here before a letter.”
He stopped speaking, abruptly.
Outside, hail had burst from the
clouds of the night. It thundered on
the roof in a shower like the shrapnel
of the battlefield. Alice gave a lit-
tle gasp of relief that he was out of
the shrapnel now. Surely he had
done his “bit;” he would not be sent
back.
“It’s glorious to be at home,” he
resumed; “but I want to get back— i
as quickly as possible.” |
He looked at Alice, whose eyes had !
clouded.
“It’s an awful thing—war,” he said; !
“Has
And don’t you dare startle
“but now that it’s come I don’t want |
to miss my part of it.”
“A light that Alice had sometimes
30cm on his mother’s face shot across |
is.
“Aren’t you afraid of being killed,
John?” Alice asked the question be-
fore she thought. She had not meant
to say such a thing before his moth-
er; but his mother smiled to herself
in perfect peace.
“Of course I am sometimes,” her
son replied. “You see, that’s some-
thing I don’t fully understand. We
always seem to be needlessly afraid
of mysteries, and we’re always find-
ing out that they’re harmless. I'm
sure of this: if we knew about death,
we’d know we were fools to fear it.”
His mother broke in eagerly: “Yes,
we won’t think about it; we hide our
heads, or we run away from it to
lights and company; and when it!
comes, perhaps all it’ll mean”—she !
looked at her newly returned son—
“perhaps it’ll be the face of some one
we love.”—By Marianne Gauss, in |
The Youth’s Companion. i
“Her Ambition.”
Three little State College girls,
were playing together recently and, !
as children are wont to do, they begin |
to build castles in Spain. = Girls like |
they indulged in grown-up ambition |
in regard to Prince Charming. i
“When I get married,” said one lit- |
tle tot, “I'm going to marry a doc-
tor, and when you get sick you will
have to come around and wait your
turn in my husband’s office.”
“When I marry,” said the second
youngster, “my man is going to be a
big business man. He’s going fo
have nice stenographers and you and
Margaret will have to come to his of-
fice, on the first day of each month,
and pay your rent.”
Margaret was scornful of either
ambition. “I don’t want a man quite
so prominent as either a doctor or
business man,” she said discreetly.
“What is to hinder cone of those nice
stenographers making love to your
husband, or all the good-looking pa-
tients that come to the doctor’s office
from wanting your “hubby.” My man
is going to be an automobile agent
and then no one else is going to want
him except myself.”—By H. W. Wea-
ver.
One of Those Pacifists.
“Did you see that?” yelled the ex-
cited man in the Panama hat. “That
robher of an umpire calls Gilligan out
at third and Rafferty never comes
within a foot of touchin’ him.”
“It looked that way to me, too,”
admitted the man beside him. “Still,
I dare say the umpire could see the
play better from where he was than
we could from up here.”
“Ah, go on home!” retorted the oth-
er savagely. “You ain’t got no busi-
ness goin’ to a ball game. You're
one of those blamed pacifists, that’s
what you are!”
The Australian Way.
A gentleman who hailed from Augs-
tralia came to St, Andrews for a
three months’ holiday. He had a
very faint idea how to play golf. En-
gaging a caddie’ he proceeded to go
around the course. When driving his
first tee, he knocked his ball about
five yards, and after that he could not
take a drive without lifting the turf.
His caddie became irritated and
said: “Hi, sir, whar did ye learn to
play golf ?”
The gentleman said, “In Australia.”
“Weel, sir, if ye gang on in the way
ye’re daein’ ye’ll soon be hame.”
A Dangerous Mission.
Jack—Have my photograph taken
before I see your father? What’s
the idea?
‘Madge—You may never look your-
self again.
i manner.
{ moved.
i vinegar will interfere with the alco-
| Experiments have
ninety degrees
| tion will usually be complete in from
‘ three to four days to a week, or
MAKE YOUR OWN VINEGAR.
Simple Directions for Making Vine-
gar; Fruit Should be Sound and
Ripe. Many Wild Fruits
Can be Utilized.
Vinegar is one of the condiments |
which every good cook regards as a
' necessity on her pantry shelves. Used
with discretion, food to which it is
added will be transformed into a rel- :
ish and will give zest to an otherwise
insipid meal.
ceries, vinegar has gone up in price
since the great war, until in many
parts of the country 50 to 60 cents a
‘ gallon is now the retail market price.
| The making of vinegar at home is a.
. simple process and net many years
‘ago was practiced by nearly every
one who could obtain the necessary
fruit juice. With the present high
price of vinegar there has been a re-
vival of this old household art. Those !
who have set up a vinegar keg or:
barrel, secure a superior product and
at the same time beat old High Cost
of Living.
Vinegar is usually made with ap-
ples, although grapes and oranges
are also used to some extent. Cer-
. tain other fruits, such as blackberries,
figs, peaches, watermelons (after
concentration of the juice), sorghum
and cane syrup have been used with
good results. Many wild fruits, such
as the blackberry, elderberry, and
persimmon, which frequently are not
completely or properly utilized, will
make excellent vinegar, the United
States Department of Agriculture
suggests. As a matter of fact, any
wholesome fruil or vegetable juice
can be used for vinegar making, pro-
vided it contains sufficient sugar.
Some fruits, such as the guava or
Kieffer pear, contain only 5 to 8 per
cent. of sugar, which is not sufficient
to make strong satisfactory vine-
gar.
Fruit used for making vinegar
should be sound and fully ripe, for
ripe fruit contains more sugar and
consequently produces a stronge:
vinegar. Partially decayed fruit is
a
no better for vinegar making than
for eating and should not be used.
. Select sound, ripe fruit, wash thor-
oughly, and remove all decayed por-
tions. Crush either in a machine
made for his purpose, such as a cider
‘mill, or for small quantities a food
i chopper.
| press and put into a clean barrel, keg,
Squeeze out the juice in a
i or erock for fermentation. :
Great care should be taken to have!
all the utensils thoroughly cleaned
‘and to handle the fruit in a cleanly
0 If old kegs or barrels, es-
pecially old vinegar barrels, are used,
' they should be cleansed thoroughly :
‘and all traces of the old vinegar re-
If this is not done, the old
holic fermentation and possibly spoil
the product.
After the juice has been squeezed
out add a fresh yeast cake to every
five gallons of juice.
oculation with the wild yeast of the
air. This is the method ordinarily
followed in making cider vinegar.
shown, however,
that a much stronger vinegar can be
made by using yeast to start the fer-
mentation. Work the yeast up thor-
oughly in about one-half cup of the
' juice and add to the expressed juice,
« stirring thoroughly.
cloth to keep insects from it and al- |
Cover with a
low to ferment. The best tempera-
ture for fermentation is between
eighty and ninety degrees. Do not
put in a cold cellar or the fermenta-
tion will be too slow. At eighty to
alcoholic fermenta-
when “working” starts, as indicated
by the cessation of bubbling. The
next step in the proces: is acetic acid |
fermentation, during which the alco-
hol is changed into acetic acid.
After the bubbling stops it will be |
found advantageous to add some
goods strong, fresh vinegar in the
proportion of 1 gallon of vinegar to
3 or 4 gallons of fermented juice.
Usually, however, no vinegar is add-
ed and the inoculation of the fer-
mented juice with acetic acid bacte-
ria is left to chance. This chance in-
oculation usually produces a more or
less satisfactory product, but if vin-
egar is added, the results are much
better. Instead of vinegar one may
add a good quantity of so-called
“mother.” If “mother” is used, how-
ever, use only that growing on the
surface of the vinegar. Vinegar
“mother” which has fallen to the bot-
iwi is no longer producing acetic
acid.
After adding the vinegar, cover
with a cloth and keep in a dark place
between seventy and ninety degrees.
Do not disturb the film that forms,
for this is the true “mother,” and do
not exclude the air. Taste the juice
every week and when it ceases to in-
crease in acid or is as sour as desir-
ed, siphon off and store in kegs, jugs,
or bottles. Fill and stopper tight. If
this is not done, the acid will gradu-
ally disappear and the vinegar will
“turn to water.” The same bacteria
that produces the acid will also de-
stroy it if allowed to grow unhinder-
ed. If the directions are followed, es-
pecially as regards temperature, the
process will usually be completed in
six weeks to two months, where only
a few gallons of juice are used.
Many fruit juices are turbid after
fermentation while others, particu-
larly apple vinegar, may clarify
themselves spontaneously. One of
the simplest ways of filtration to use
in the home manufacture of vinegar
is to thoroughly mix about a table-
spoon of fuller’s earth or animal char-
coal with a quart of vinegar and fil-
ter through filter paper.
It is a common practice with many
people to make household vinegar
from fruit parings and cores, cold
tea, and even from the water in which
potatoes or other vegetables are boil-
ed. Sugar, of course, is added, just
as in the case of fruit juices that do
not contain sufficient sugar.
KEEP THESE DONT’S IN MIND WHEN
MAKING VINEGAR.
Don’t put the freshly pressed juice
into old vinegar kegs or barrels with-
out thoroughly cleansing and scald-
ing. But if, however, the barrels
have a protective coating or rosin
and paraffin on the inside, do not
scald, for hot water will remove the
coating. Old barrels with vinegar in
them or the addition of vinegar di-
Along with other grd- |
A good fermen- '
| tation often results from chance in-
i rectly to the fresh fruit will prevent
it from ever making vinegar.
Don’t add “mother” to freshly
pressed juice. It will spoil the juice
for vinegar making. Add surface
. “mother” only after alcoholic fer-
' mentation (bubbling) has ceased.
Don’t add old “mother”
{ bottom of an old vinegar barrel. Add
only “mother” from the surface and
good strong vinegar.
Don’t put in a cold cellar. Fermen-
| tation either will be entirely prevent-
ed or will be very slow, sometimes
continuing for two years.
Don’t store in full barrels and ex-
pect it to make vinegar. Barrels and
on sides. Holes should be bored in
bung hole left open to give circula-
tion of air. Cover holes with cloth to
. keep insects away.
+ Don’t put in too warm a place or
expose to sunlight in summer to has-
ten fermentation. It may prevent it.
The best temperature is between 80
and 90 degrees F.
Don’t, after adding vinegar, expose
to bright light.
ic acid bacteria from growing.
Don’t, after vinegar is made, leave
it exposed to the air. The acid will
gradually disappear and it will “turn
to water.”
Don’t, if unsuccessful, think your
“cellar wont make good vinegar.”
Either the fruit did not contain
snongh sugar, or you, unconsciously,
perhaps, failed to follow some im-
portant step in the directions.
Even
in vinegar making “practice makes
perfect.”
Limestcne Solves Problem of Fuel.
High prices and threatened short- |
age of coal for the approaching win-
ter have no particular dread for one
Lancaster countian at least. This is
Christian H. Habecker, of Dohrers-
town, Pa., who has solved the fuel
problem by burning limestone in his
heater. It is well known that this
sort of rock generates a great heat
when properly ignited, but doubtless
very few persons have ever thought
of burning it for the mere purpose of
creating warmth.
It is a capital substitute for wood
and coal or, probably better, an ally.
It is in this same sense that Mr. Ha-
hecker uses the crushed stone. He
mix2s coal and limestone and from
the combination secures sufficient
heat for his large residence.
Limestone rock is quarried in large
quantities in Lancaster county and
can be bought at seventy-five cents
to one dollar per ton. Mr. Habecker
| reasoned that to use this sort of rock
for heater and furnace purposes
would serve the limited coal supply
and be a money saving measure for
the consumer as well.
Furthermore, the use of this cheap,
| but good fuel for heating houses,
serves a double purpose for farmers
| at least. Burning rock releases the
: lime, which thus burned is consider-
ed a better land fertilizer than lime-
stone in raw state ground inte small
particles.
Of course the primary motive in
this burning of limestone in house
furnaces and heaters is warming the
building, accomplished by Mr. Ha-
becker in experiments in zero weath-
er. He had no trouble in securing
the most desirable of temperatures in
using from one-half to two-thirds
coal and the balance limestone.
His plan is to have 2 bin or scut-
tle of each at hand and to feed the
. fire shovel by shovelful. Used thus,
as much heat is secured from the
' limestone as from coals, and all dan-
| ger of possible explosion is eliminat-
ed.
i A first requisite is a freely burn-
ing fire of wood and coal as a bed,
| following which he adds the coal-
‘ limestone “fifty-fifty” mixture.—Ex.
First Railroad in America.
The Quincy railroad, or, as it was
i known in the beginning, the “Experi-
‘ ment Railroad,” which was construct-
ed to carry granite blocks for the
| Bunker Hill Monument, at Boston,
| was the first railway in Amezica. The
first cars on this primitive line were
i drawn by horses.
{A line known as the Vlazie Rail-
| road was put in operation out of Ban-
| gor, Maine, in 1836, the Quincy road
antedating this several years. The
| Bangor road began with two locomo-
| tives of Stephenson’s make in Eng-
land. They had no cabs for the driv-
er or fireman on their arrival in this
country, but rude affairs were soon
| attached. Wood was used for fuel.
{| The first cars were also made in
| England, a carriage much like a big
| stage coach being placed on a rude
| platform and trucks. The capacity
of each car was eight passengers. In
the beginning the one train on the
line made about twelve miles in for-
ty minutes, and the people of the
country round about marveled at the
speed it made.
The rails on these pioneer railways
were made of strap iron, spiked down
to scantlings. \
The Boston & Lowell, Boston &
Providence, and Boston & Worcester
railroads were all opened for traffic
in 1835.
No Need for Farmer to Plant Poor
Seed Corn.
This year’s corn, over most of the
United States, is good corn, the kind
of corn that a man can plant with
greatest assurance of getting a good
crop. - There is no knowing what next
year’s corn will be. It may be late,
caught by early frosts, soft, and un-
fit for seed. The farmer who looks
ahead, say corn experts of the Unit-
ed States Department of Agriculture,
will save enough seed corn out of this
crop to meet his needs for two or,
better still, for three years.
The old cry, of course, will be rais-
ed that there is not time at this busy
season to select seed corn even {for
one year’s planting, to say nothing of
two or three years. It does take time
—but it takes less time to select the
corn now than it will take spring
after next to scour the country for a
crib of old corn or, failing that, to
find seed farther south. Fortunately,
the right way is the least expensive
and safest way. Also, it enables the
farmer to go on growing the strain
of corn that has “made good,” instead
of getting something haphazard that
he knows nothing about.
—— Subscribe for the “Watchman.”
from the:
kegs should be filled half full and laid |
each head just above the juice and the |
It may prevent acet-
i
_ epi SE
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
i
i
| DAILY THOUGHT.
There is perhaps no strength so great
and abidimg as that which follows from a
resisted temptation. Every dangerous al-
! lurement is like an enchanted monster,
which, being conquered, loses all his ven-
om and changes at once into a king of
great treasure, eager to make requital.—
John Oliver Hobbes.
Individualism is the cry of the
times; hence one may wear wide
flounces and another straight and
narrow frocks hung with fringe or
beads.
It is predicted that capes will re-
tain their tremendous vogue.
Squirrel, it is predicted, will be
used extensively as a trimming for
autumn suits.
For autumn the dress of tricotine
will be in high favor—already the
wholesale demand for dresses of this
fabric are said to be so heavy that
the supply is most inadequate.
The fabric hat is already in evi-
dence, as it usually is at this time of
the year—always a forerunner of
modes to come-—and this year hats of
| faille and gros de Londres are favor-
: ably in evidence.
Ribbon fringe in the form of a tu-
nic is used by some French designers
{ over skirts of accordion plaiting.
|
|
Motif embroidery done in chenille
| and worsted is to be seen on many
i fall dresses, particularly motifs of a
| square or diamond shape.
os
Despite Paris reports and substan-
tial evidence in the way of many
| French models of suits showing the
| fullness at the hip line, the American
i tailored suit is cut on the latest of
| close, slim lines.
Metal enters largely into the devei-
opment of Rodier trimmings for au-
tumn and the coming winter, says a
Paris report. These are in the form
of ribbons, braids and galloons.
Navy, brown and gray are much
discussed as the most fashionable
colors for autumn blouses—these to
be trimmed with touches of brilliant
or lighter colors, but with distinctive
care, for there must be, according to
fashion’s decree, no garishness about
those colorful trimmings.
Many of the new hats show plumes
of some sort falling very close to the
face—either falling from the narrow
brim of a turban, or arranged in some
other fashion. A Lewis model shows
green, blue and black irridescent plum-
age covering the brim in front and
underneath, the longer quills of the
plumage falling down and sheathing
the face. The sharp trim line of
these rather stiff feathers, dark
against the cheek, is more than usu-
ally smart.
i Flat flowers of chenille are a fash-
ion feature of autumn millinery trim-
ming; so also are silk tassels placed
on the brims of medium sized hats.
There is no question that the over-
blouse is here to stay for an indefi-
nite period, for some of the smartest
blouses for autumn are on these at-
tractive lines.
Dresses of combinations of mater-
ial are favorably considered for au-
tumn. The combinations most gen-
erally predicted as likely to be fash-
ionable, being georgette and dovetyn
and tricolette and duvetyn.
Midsummer reports from Paris re-
veal the fact that orange and yellow
ara twe favorite colors of the
fashionably smart.
The small animal scarfs and neck-
bands is a fur fashion that the heat
of July has not retarded and they
certainly do lend a distinctive and
smart finish to the sheer frocks of
midsummer. These furs are like an
exquisite torch of some rare color in
their relation to the dress or suit.
Among the imported dress models
recently arrived are many ribbon-
trimmed dresses of youthful design
and color.
High choker collars are being
brought into use on dresses of many
descriptions by no less an authority
than Jenny.
It is settled that we are to wear
the panier. The new frocks, however,
have no relation to the wide-hipped
models of other seasons, which were
generally of the “peg-top” variety,
for the new silhouette is distinctly
Louis Quinze. Developing bit by bit,
this new-old silhouette has suddenly
burst into full flower.
Tatting, always an old favorite, is
enjoying a return to popular favor
this year. It has many good quali-
ties to recommend it as “pick-up”
work and not the least of these, is its
excellent wearing quality. If good
material is used and the work well
done, it is well nigh indestructible.
For trimming on infant’s wear and
fine lingerie, it has always been much
used, but at present the vogue is to
use heavy cotton and to put these
dainty edges on linen corners and
luncheon sets.
If you are careful to do your tat-
ting evenly, the fact that you use
coarser cotton, will not detract from
its beauty and you will find the effect
very attractive.
A glass of lemonade taken at bed-
time with a little sugar in it im-
proves a sallow skin unless the acid
disagrees with the digestion. Eating
an apple before breakfast is anoth-
er simple method of preserving
health and improving the complex-
ion, and if an apple is added to the
breakfast menu and is eaten with a
slice or two of crisp toast it will
prove both appetizing and beneficial.
Puree of Tomato Soup.—Empty
the contents of a can of tomatoes in-
to a granite pan, stew till thick, press
through a puree strainer and add
baking soda the size of a pea, season
with salt, pepper, butter and add one
cupful of milk, thicken with one ta-
blespoonful of flour and serve with
finger lengths of toasted bread.
Anything mixed with water re-
quires a hotter oven than anything
mixed with milk.