iN
Bellefonte, Pa., January 16, 1919.
ms
THE END OF THE WAY.
Written by the late Thomas Waddle when
eighty-four years of age.
My life is a wearisome journey,
I am sick with the dust and the heat,
The rays of the sun beat upon me
The briars are wounding my feet.
But the city to which I am going
‘Will more than my trials repay
And the toils of the road will seem noth-
ing
When I get to the end of the way.
There are hills and valleys to fraverse
I am weary, and longing for rest;
But He who appointeth my pathway
Knows just what is needed and best.
He says in his word, and has promised,
That my strength shall be as my day
And the toils of the road be as nothing
As I get to the end of the way.
He loves me too well to forsake me,
He walks by my side day and night,
And soon I'll be with Him in glory
Though weak, I am strong in His might.
And soon I expect to be with Him,
To praise Him forever and aye;
Then the toils of the road will seem noth-
ing
When I've reached the end of the way.
Though now I am footsore and weary
I shall rest when I'm safely at Home,
Where I shall be given glad welcome
For the Savior, Himself, has
Come!
So when I am weary in body
And sinking in spirit I say:
All the toils of the road will seem nothing
When I get to the end of the way.
said
‘When the last feeble step has been taken
And the gates of the city appear,
‘When the melodious songs of the angels
Waft out to my listening ear;
Then all that now seems so mysterious
‘Will be plain and clear as the day
When the toils of the road are all ended,
And I'm safe at the end of the way.
LITTLE LUCY ROSE.
(Concluded from last week).
“Don’t worry, Edward. I can man-
age him,” said Sally.
But she was mistaken. The very
next day Jim proposed in due form to
little Lucy. He could not help it. It
was during the morning intermission,
and he came upon her seated all alone
under a hawthorn hedge, studying her
arithmetic anxiously. She was in
blue, as usual, and a very perky blue
bow sat on her soft, dark hair, like a
bluebird. She glanced up at Jim
from under her long lashes.
“Do two and seven make eight or
ten? If you please, will you tell
me?”
“Say, Lucy,” said Jim,
marry me by and by?”
Lucy stared at him uncomprehend-
ingly.
“Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Marry me by and by?”
Lucy took refuge in her little har-
bor of ignorance. “I don’t know,”
said she.
“But you like me, don’t you Lucy?”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t you like me better than you
like Johnny Trumbull ?”
“I don’t know.”
“You like me better than you like
Arnold Carruth, don’t you? He has
curls and wears socks.”
“I don’t know.”
“When do you think you can be
sure?”
“I don’t know.”
Jim stared helplessly at little Lu-
cy. She stared back sweetly.
“Please tell me whether two and
seven make six or eleven, Jim,” said
e.
“They make nine,” said Jim.
“I have been counting my fingers
and I got it eleven, but I suppose I
must have counted one finger twice,”
said little Lucy. She gazed reflective-
ly at her little baby-hands. A tiny
ring with a blue stone shone on one
finger.
“I will give you a ring, you know,”
Jim said, coaxingly.
“I have got a ring my father gave
me. Did you say it was ten, please,
Jim?”
“Nine,” gasped Jim.
_ “All the way I can remember,” said
little Lucy, “is for you to pick just so
many leayes off the hedge, and I will
tie them in my handkerchief, and just
before I have to say my lesson I will
count those leaves.”
Jim obediently picked nine leaves
from the hawthorn hedge, and little
Lucy tied them into her handkerchief,
and then the Japanese gong sounded,
and they went back to school.
That night after dinner, just before
Lucy went to bed, she spoke of her
own accord to her father and Miss
Martha, a thing she seldom did.
“Jim Paterson asked me to marry
him when I asked him what seven and
two made in my arithmetic lesson,”
said she. She looked with the loveliest
round eyes of innocence first at her
father, then at Miss Martha. Cyril
Rose gasped and laid down his news-
paper.
“What did yau say, little Lucy?”
he asked.
“Jim Paterson asked me to marry
him when I asked him to tell me how
much seven and two made in my
arithmetic lesson.”
Cyril Rose and his cousin Martha
looked at each other.
“Arnold Carruth asked me, too,
when a great big wasp flew on my
arm and frightened me.”
Cyril and Martha continued to look.
The little, sweet, uncertain voice went
on.
“And Johnny Trumbull asked: me
when I most fell down on the side-
walk; and Lee Westminster asked me
when I wasn’t doing anything, and so
did Bubby Harvey.”
“What did you tell them?” asked
Miss Martha, in a faint voice.
“I told them I didn’t know.”
“You had better have the child go
to bed now,” said Cyril. “Good night,
little Lucy. Always tell father every-
thing.” : '
“Yes, father,” said little Lucy, and
Pas kissed, and went away with Mar-
tha.
“will you
‘When Martha returned, her cousin.
looked at her - severely. He was a
fair, gentle-looking man, and severity
| was impressive when he assumed it.
‘the high light of Madame’s school, the
“Really, Martha,” said he, “don’t
you think you had better have a little
closer outlook over that baby?”
“Oh, Cyril, I never dreamed of such |
a thing,” cried Miss Martha.
“You really must speak to Mad- |
ame,” said Cyril. “I cannot have such !
things put into the child’s head.”
“Qh, Cyril, how can 1?”
“TI think it is your duty.”
“Cyril, could not—you?”
Cyril grinned. “Do you think,”
said he, “that I am going to that ele-
gant widow schoolma’am and say,
‘Madame, my young daughter has
had four proposals of marriage in one
day, and I must beg you to put a stop
to such proceedings?’ No, Martha;
it is a woman’s place to do such a
thing as that. The whole thing is too
absurd, indignant as I am about it.
Poor little soul!”
So it happened that Miss Martha
Rose, the next day being Saturday,
called on Madame, but not being
asked any leading question, found
herself absolutely unable to deliver
herself of her errand, and went away
with it unfulfilled.
“Well, I must say,” said Madame to
Miss Parmalee, as Miss Martha trip-
ped wearily down the front walk—
“I must say, of all the educated wom-
en who have really been in the world,
she is the strangest. You and I have
done nothing but ask inane questions, !
and she has sat waiting for them, and |
chirped back like a canary. I am |
simply worn out.” :
“So am I,” sighed Miss Parmalee. |
But neither of them was so worn
out as poor Miss Martha, anticipating
her cousin’s reproaches. However,
her wonted silence and reticence stood
her in good stead, for he merely
i i after little Lucy had gone to
“Well, what did Madame say about
Lucy's proposals?”
“She did not say anything,” replied
Martha.
“Did she promise it would not oc-
cur again?”
“She did not promise, but I don’t
think it will.”
The financial page was unusually
thrilling that night, and Cyril Rose,
who had come to think rather lightly
of the affair, remarked, absent-mind-
edly: “Well, I hope it does not occur
again. I cannot have such ridiculous
ideas put into the child’s head. If it
does, we get a governess for her and
take her away from Madame’s.” Then
he resumed his reading, and Martha,
uilty but relieved, went on with her
itting.
It was late spring then, and little
Lucy had attended Madame’s school
several months, and her popularity
had never waned. A picnic was plan-
ned to Dover’s Grove, and the roman-
tic little girls had insisted upon a
May queen, and Lucy was unanimous-
ly elected. The pupils of Madame’s
school went to the picnic in the man-
ner known as a “straw-ride.” Miss
Parmalee sat with them, her feet un-
comfortably tucked under her. She
was the youngest of the teachers, and
Miss Acton headed the procession,
sitting comfortably in a victoria driv-
en by the colored man Sam, who was
employed about the school. Dover’s
Grove was six miles from the village,
and a favorite spot for picnics. The
victoria rolled on ahead; Madame car-
ried a black parasol, for the sun was
on her side and the day very warm.
Both ladies wore thin, dark gowns,
and both felt the languor of spring.
The straw-wagon, laden with chil-
dren seated upon the golden trusses
of straw, looked like a wagon-load of
blossoms. Fair and dark heads, rosy
faces looked forth in charming clus-
ters. They sang, they chattered. It
made no difference to them that it
was not the season for a straw-ride,
that the trusses were musty. They
inhaled the fragrance of blooming
boughs under which they rode, and
were quite oblivious to all discomfort
and unpleasantness. Poor Miss Par-
malee, with her feet going to sleep,
sneezing from time to time from the
odor of the old straw, did not obtain
the full beauty of the spring day. She
had protested against the straw-ride.
“The children really ought to wait
until the season for such things,” she
had told Madame, quite boldly; and
Madame had replied that she was well
aware of it, but the children wanted
something of the sort, and the hay
was not cut, and straw, as it happen-
ed, was more easily procured. .
“It may not be so very musty,” said
Madame; “and you know, my dear,
straw is clean, and I am sorry, but
you do seem to be the one to ride with
the children on the straw, because” —
Madame dropped her voice—‘“‘you are
really younger, you know, than either
Miss Acton or L”
Poor Miss Parmalee could almost
have dispensed with her few years of
superior youth to have gotten rid of
that straw-ride. She had no parasol,
and the sun beat upon her head, and
the noise of the children got horribly
on her nerves. Little Lucy was her
one alleviation. Little Lucy sat in the
midst of this boisterous throng, per-
fectly still, crowned with her garlan
of leaves and flowers, her sweet, pale
little face calmly observant. She was
effect which made the whole. All the
others looked at little Lucy, they
talked to her, they talked at her; but
she remained herself unmoved, as a
high light should be. “Dear little
soul,” Miss Parmalee thought. She
also thought that it was a pity that
little Lucy could not have worn a
white frock in her character as Queen
of the May, but there she was mistak-
en. The blue was of a peculiar shade,
of a very soft material, and nothing
could have heen prettier. Jim Pater-
son did not often look away from lit-
tle Lucy; neither did Arnold Carruth;
neither did Bubby Harvey; neither
did Johnny Trumbull; neither did
Lily Jennings; neither did many oth-
ers.
Amelia Wheeler, however, felt a lit-
tle jealous as she watched Lily. She
though Lily ought to have been |
ueen; and she, while she did not
- of competing with incompara-
ble little Lucy, wished Lily would not
always look at Lucy with such wor- |
shipful admiration. Amelia was in--
consistent. She knew that she herself
could not aspire to being an object of
worship, but the state of being a non- |
entity for Lily was depressing. “Won- |
der if I jumped out of this old wag-
on and got Killed if she would mind
one hit?” she ‘thought, tragically. But
. Amelia did not jump. She had tragic
impulses, or rather imaginations of
tragic impulses, but she never carried
them out. It was left for little Lucy,
flower-crowned and calmly sweet and
gentle under honors, to be guilty of a
tragedy of which she never dreamed.
For that was the day when little Lu- |
cy was lost.
When the picnic was over, when
the children were climbing into the
straw-wagon and Madame and Miss |
Acton were genteelly disposed in the
victoria, a lamentable cry arose. Sam
drew his reins tight and rolled his in-
quiring eyes around; Madame and
and Miss Acton leaned far out on
either side of the victoria.
“Oh, what is it?” said Madame.
“My dear Miss Acton, do pray get out
and see what the trouble is. I begin
to feel a little faint.”
In fact, Madame got her cut-glass
smelling-bottle out of her bag and be-
gan to sniff vigorously. Sam gazed |
backward and paid no attention to her. !
Madame always felt faint when any-'
thing unexpected occurred, and smell-
ed at the pretty bottle, but she never
fainted.
Miss Acton got out, lifting her nice!
skirts clear of the dusty wheel, and!
she scuttled back to the uproarious
straw-wagon,
ankles and trimly shod feet. Miss
Acton was a very wiry, dainty wom-
an, full of nervous energy. When
she reached the straw-wagon, Miss
Parmalee was climbing out, assisted
by the driver. Miss Parmalee was
very pale and visibly tremulous. The
children were all shrieking in disso-
nanc2, so it was quite impossible to
tell what the burden of their tale of
woe was; but obviously something of
a tragic nature had happened.
“What is the matter?” asked Miss
Acton, teetering like a humming-bird
with excitement.
“Little Lucy—” gasped Miss Par-
malee.
“What about her?”
“She isn’t here.”
“Where is she?”
“We don’t know. We just missed
her.”
Then the cry of the children for lit-
tle Lucy Rose, although sadly wrang-
Madame
led, became intelligible.
came, holding up her silk skirt and
sniffing at her smelling bottle, and
everybody asked questions of every-
body else, and nobody knew any sat-
isfactory answer. Johnny Trumbull
was confident that he was the last
one to see little Lucy, and so were
Lily Jennings and Amelia Wheeler,
and so were Jim Paterson and Bubby
Harvey and Arnold Carruth and Lee
Westminster and many others; but
when pinned down to the actual mo-
ment, everybody disagreed, and only
one thing was certain: little Lucy
was missing.
“What shall I say to her
moaned Madame.
“Of course, we shall find her before
we say anything,” returned Miss Par-
malee, who was sure to rise to an
emergency. Madame sank helpless
before one. “You had better go and
sit under that tree, Sam; take a cush-
ion out of the carriage for Madame,
and keep quiet; then Sam must drive
to the village and give the alarm, and
the straw-wagon had better go, too;
and the rest of us will hunt by threes,
three always keeping together.
member, children, three of you keep
together, and whatever you do, be
sure and do not separate. We cannot
have another lost.”
It seemed very sound advice. Mad-
ame, pale and frightened, sat on the
cushion under the tree and sniffed at
her smelling-bottle, and the rest scat-
tered and searched the grove and
surrounding underbrush thoroughly. '
But it was sunset when the groups.
returned to Madame under her tree,
and the straw-wagon with excited
people was back,
with Lucy’s father and the rector and
his wife, and Dr. Trumbull in his bug-
gy, and other carriages fast arriving.
Poor Miss Martha Rose had been out
calling when she heard the news, and |
she was walking to the scene of ac-
tion. The victoria in which her cous-
in was seated left her in a cloud of
dust. Cyril Rose had not noticed the
mincing figure with the card-case and
parasol.
The village searched for little Lucy
Rose, but it wis Jim Paterson who
found her, and in the most unlikely
of places. A forlorn pair with a mul-
tiplicity of forlorn children lived in a
tumble-down house about half a mile
from the grove. The man’s name was
Silas Thomas, and his wife's was Sa-
rah. Poor Sarah had lost a large part
of the small wit she had originally
owned several years before, when her
youngest daughter, aged four, died.
All the babies that had arrived since
had not consoled her for the death of
that little lamb, by name Viola May,
nor restored her full measure of un-
der wit. Poor Sarah Thomas had
spied adorable little Lucy separated
from her mates by chance for a few
minutes, picking wild flowers, and
had seized her in forcible but loving
d | arms and carried her home. Had Lu-
cy not been such a silent, docile child,
it could never have happened; but she
was a mere little limp thing in the
grasp of the over-loving, deprived
mother, who thought she had gotten
back her own beloved Viola May.
When Jim Paterson, big-eyed and
pale, looked in at the Thomas door,
there sat Sarah Thomas, a large, un-
kempt, wild-visaged, but gentle crea-
ture, holding little Lucy and cuddling
her, while Lucy, shrinking away as
far as she was able, kept her big,
dark eyes of wonder and fear upon
the woman’s face. And all around
were clustered the Thomas children, |
as their mother, a gentle but degen-
erate brood, all of them believing
what their mother said. Viola May
had come home again. Silas Thomas
was not there; he was trudging slow-
ly homeward from a job of wood-cut-
ting. Jim saw only the mother, little
Lucy, and that poor little flock of
children gazing
Jim rushed
Thomas. “Give me little Lucy!” said
he, as fiercely as any man. But he
reckoned without the unreasoning love |
of a mother. Sarah only held little
Lucy faster, and the poor little girl
rolled appealing eyes at him over that
brawny, grasping arm of affection.
Jim raced for help and it was not
long before it came. Little Lucy rode
home in the victoria, seated in Sally
Paterson’s lap. “Mother you take
showing her slender!
and the victoria!
in wonder and awe. |
in and faced Sarah!
her,” Jim had pleaded; and Sally, in
the face and eyes of Madame, had
gathered the little trembling creature
into her arms. In her heart she had
not much of an opinion of any woman
who had allowed such a darling little
girl out of her sight for a moment.
Madame accepted a seat in another
carriage and rode home, explaining
and sniffing and inwardly resolving
never again to have a straw-ride.
Jim stood on the step of the vic-
toria all the way home. They passed
poor Miss Martha Rose, still faring
toward the grove, and nobody noticed
her for the second time. She did not
turn back until the straw-wagon,
which formed the tail of the little
procession, reached her. That she
halted with mad waves of her para-
sol, and when told that little Lucy
was found, refused a seat on the
straw-wagon because she did not wish
to rumple her best gown and turned
about and fared home again.
The rectory was reached before
Cyril Rose’s house, and Cyril yielded
gratefully to Sally Paterson’s propo-
sition that she take the little girl with
her, give her dinner, see that she was
washed and brushed and freed from
possible contamination from the
. Thomases, who were not a cleanly lot,
. and later brought home in the rector’s
carriage. However, little Lucy stayed
all night at the rectory. She had a
bath; her lovely, misty hair was
brushed; she was fed and petted; and
finally Sally Paterson telephoned for
permission to keep her over night.
By that time poor Martha had reach-
ed home, and was busily brushing her
best dress.
After dinner, little Lucy, very hap-
py and quite restored, sat in Sally
Paterson’s lap on the veranda, while
Jim hovered near. His innocent boy-
love made him feel as if he had wings.
But his wings only bore him to fail-
ure, before an earlier and mightier
force of love than his young heart
could yet compass for even such a
darling as little Lucy. He sat on the
veranda step and gazed eagerly and
rapturously at little Lucy on his
mother’s lap, and the desire to have
her away from other loves came over
him. He saw the fireflies dancing in
swarms on the lawn, and a favorite
| sport of the children of the village
| occurred to him.
“Say, little Lucy,” said Jim.
Little Lucy looked up with big,
| dark eyes under her mist of hair, as
i she nestled against Sally Paterson’s
| shoulder.
“Say, let’s chase fireflies, little Lu-
Ic
|
i
| ““Do you want to chase fireflies
i with Jim, darling ?”” asked Sally.
Little Lucy nestled closer. “I
would rather stay with you,” said she,
in her meek flute of a voice, and she
she might have given the mother she
! had lost.
! Sally kissed her and laughed. Then
| she reached down a fond hand and |
| patted her boy’s head. ‘Never mind,
Jim,” said Sally. “Mothers have to
come first.”—By Mary E. Wilkins
Freeman, in Harper's Monthly Maga-
zine, .
Government by Injunction.
i It almost takes the breath away
from Englishmen to read of the calm
and unquestioning way in which the
American strike leaders have acted
_upon the injunction. Although their
word of command to the strikers may
be nominal rather than actual in its
effects, their quick compliance is none |
the less remarkable. Truly an Amer-
ican injunction is a wonderful weap-
“on that enjoys the reputation of ex-
calibur itself. In Great Britain the
courts are cautious in issuing an in-
junction, and when one is issued it is
; more often of a negative than of a
sitive kind. It tells a man what he
i8 not to do rather than what he is
called upon to do. The American at-
titude is no doubt due to the persist-
ent feeling of vast numbers of Amer-
ican citizens that as holders of prop-
erty they have “a stake in the coun-
try.” That feeling is in the air and
affects every ome. Americans of to-
day would find less obsolete than we
do Ireton’s principle that the only
people worth consulting were the 40-
Shilling freeholders.—London Specta-
Tr, .
Fully Explained.
A tramp knocked at a farmer’s
door and called for something to eat.
“Are you a christian?” asked the
good-hearted countryman.
“Can’t you tell?” answered the
man. “Look at the holes worn in the
knees of my pants. What do they
prove?”
The farmer’s wife promptly
brought out the food, and the tramp
turned to go.
“Well! Well!” exclaimed the far-
mer. “What made those holes in the
back of your pants?”
“Backsliding,” replied the tramp,
i he hurried on.—Christian Her-
ald.
Susie Asks Questions.
Little Susan was entertaining the
guest while mother dressed.
“How is your little girl ?” she asked
politely.
“I have no little girl,” answered the
visitor.
“How is your little boy?”
then asked.
“I have no little boy,” the visitor
said.
Susan’s eyes opened in astonish-
ment. “What kind of a person are
you?” she finally asked.—Everybody’s
Magazine.
Susan
A Sincere Compliment.
His Wife—What did little Mr. Peck
say when you showed him that por-
trait of his wife?
Psmear, the Portrait Artist—Not a
silence. ;
His Wife—Good! It was so life-
like he didn’t dare speak in its pres-
ence without permission.
| Bribery.
| “Now, daughter, you mustn't kiss
| that young man. Make him behave
himself.” ’
“He won’t do it unless I kiss him
at frequent intervals.” — Louisville
Courier-Journal.
word. The boob just looked at it in |
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
“Gentleness and cheerfulness, these
come before all morality; they're the per-
fect duties.”—R. L. 8S.
The style committee of the Nation-
al Cloak, Suit and Skirt Manufactur-
ers’ Association recommended skirts
from three to four inches shorter
than at present for the 1920 season,
in its report at the closing sessions of
the annual convention.
The committee decrees that skirts
next season will be seven to nine inch-
es from the floor. They are now four
to six inches high.
Skirts, the style-makers say, will
be “frankly short,” but without ab-
breviation. Tunic and plaited skirts
will be worn.
Fullness at the hips will be a fea-
ture of many of the smart spring
| suits.
Sleeves will fit snug and close to
the tailored suits. The three-quarter
length sleeve will be favored on the
Etons and short jaunty models. Sports
suits for spring and summer wear are
recommended.
Novel belts of leather and metal,
and a new type of collar—long, slen-
der and rolling—will be a detail of
the suits. The Lord Byron and Peter
Pan designs will be popular.
The newest wrap for women is not
unlike the old Roman toga, a graceful
enveloping garment that can be tuck-
ed up and pulled together.
“Prices of coats, suits and skirts
will stay up,” said Michael Printz, of
Cleveland, chairman of the style com-
mittee.
Wedding Anniversary Hints.—The
first anniversary is cotton. The ta-
ble can be very funny if you will use
little pickaninny dolls for the decora-
tion. Get the small ones at the five
and ten cent store, and dress them in
straight little dresses of red and
white striepd or checked gingham.
Use the same gingham for a table
cover or make two runners of it, and
cross them on the white cloth. In
the center have a bale of cotton, in-
stead of the usual bowl of flowers,
with the little pickaninnies swarming
over it. Have as many dolls as there
are guests at the table and run a
narrow ribbon from each doll to the
| Place cards. The menu could consist
! of real southern dishes: Maryland
‘ chicken, rice or candied sweet pota-
toes, hot bread, etc.
| When you have been married five
| years you can give a wooden wedding.
i It will be great fun decorating for
| this affair. A very appropriate cen-
| ter piece could be built of those
“wooden construction blocks that little
: boys love to find in their Christmas
: stocking. A windmill could be easily
father?” | gazed up at Sally with the look which | Put together by following the direc-
tions. Use wooden candlesticks. The
dollies could be cut from paper of the
birch-bark pattern, and the little
i that should be on‘the plates when the
guests sit down could be made of this
same paper, lined with waxed paper.
Fold it into little square boxes, after
the kindergarten pattern. The place !
cards would create a great deal of
fun, if you used plain white cards and
' glued to each one a wooden animal |
from a toy Noah's Ark.
It wouldn’t be easy to have a party
~on one’s seventh anniversary. That
is the woolen anniversary.
example, pink, and have a bowl of
pink roses or carnations in the center
fluffy balls out of pink yarn and hang
| them from the chandelier from dif- |!
ferent length cords. The place cards
could be little squares of perforated
gartens, with the guests’ initials
worked on them in pink wool, or you
could have a plain white card at each
place wound with pink wool, and one
of those little spools on which children
love to knit reins and mats, and after
dinner you could have a contest and
see who could knit up his or her yarn
first. Of course, the yarn must all be
cut the same length.
The eighth year of marriage is the
rubber year. This would, of course,
make a funny table, too. Doilies
could be made of black oilcloth, and
in the center could be a small rubber
plant, its pot wrapped in the black
oilcloth and tied with a bright red
bow. Dolls’ rubbers could be tied
with red ribbons to the place cards.
The tenth year is the tin year. This
is very easy to arrange for. A very
pretty center piece can be made to
represent a bridal bouquet. Buy a
large tin funnel and fill it with flow-
ers. Put some paper lace about the
edge, wind the stem with green rib-
bon and from varying lengths of the
ribbon for a “shower” tie small tin
dishes, a shiny new spoon, a small
aluminum salt shaker, a cooky cutter,
a nutmeg grater, etc. You will be
Is to see how pretty this can
be made. Place it in the center of the
table with four tin candlesticks
around it with candles to match the
flowers. Some one else might give
the party and present the bouqueé to
the “bride” after refreshments Rave
been served.
For the fifteenth anniversary, the
crystal, cover the table with a white
cloth and place in the center a bowl of
goldfish. Use glass wherever possi-
ble. A very pretty favor would be
one of those slender glass bud vases
at each place containing a pale pink
rosebud. Or a tiny doll’s mirror could
be tied to the place card with rose
ribbon. It would add greatly to the
fun if you would tuck into each mir-
ror a fortune written in mirror writ-
ing; that is, written by looking into a
mirror instead of on the paper. This
would cause a little mystery at first
until they discovered that they could
read it in their mirrors.
You might make up little fortunes
yourself, like the following:
A bit of news will change your course;
"Twill come by the way of a chestnut
horse.
| In sixteen days from tomorrow night
Be prepared for a sudden flight.
The twentieth anniversary is china,
the twenty-fifth silver, the thirtieth
pearl, the fortieth ruby, and the fif-
tieth golden. These are all more dig-
nified than the earlier ones, and, of
course, the decorations are more beau-
tiful—flowers, soft linen, silver, gold,
ete. :
dishes - that hold the fruit cocktail |
You
could choose your color scheme, for |
of an old fashioned crocheted mat. |
Then you could make several small !
card board, the sort used in kinder- !
| FARM NOTES.
—There is nothing so vital to the
soil as humus, unless it might be tex-
ture and drainage. Humus has a mul-
titude of effects, the same as every
other factor in the soil. Its office is
not only to supply plant focd, but it
conditions the tilth of the soil and as-
sists the supply of moisture and air,
together with the adjustment of the
temperature of the soil. Humus
keeps the soil loose gnd friable, and
_ thus enabling the roots to readily pen-
‘etrate to considerable depth. There
is no problem that confronts the av-
erage vegetable grower that is more
acute than humus, largely due to the
: passing of the horse 10 make place
| for the automobile, thus cutting down
‘the supply of manure in adequate
| quantities from the city stables.
|. —For enriching the soil too much
i importance cannot be placed upon the
, natural manure of the animal, pro-
| vided it is properly balanced by the
| other factors of plant growth. Ma-
nure is not only a.source of humus,
{ but also a source of plant food ele-
| ments. The functions of these two
| groups of materials must not be con-
| fused. It is possible to secure the
i food function in commercial fertiliz-
| ers, but for humus we can find no sub-
| stitute, and when it is not possible to
i secure it from ordinary stock manure
we must resort to the growth of
green manure plants.
—The starting point in keeping up
- humus in the soil is to conservate and
utilize the residue of the crops nor-
mally grown, such as leaves, stems
and roots that are not marketed. The
larger the crops grown the easier to
keep up the supply of humus. The
growth of crops does not in a large
i measure draw heavily on the organic
materials in the soil. The organic
substance of the plant is primarily
built up out of the elements of air
and water, and notwithstanding that
one-fourth to one-half of the total
growth of the plant may be taken to
market, the remaining residue still
affords a gain in organic substance in
the soil. In general, it is advisable to
plow under the roots, leaves and stub-
ble of plants, rather than to burn or
remove them.
—Crop rotation is closely allied to
humus. The vegetable grower, as .a
rule, is inclined to continue growing
the same crop year after year on the
same land, generally because it is par-
ticularly well adapted to that crop.
The fact is well established that the
same crop will not make the maxi-
mum growth year after year on the
same soil, although some crops will
follow themselves with better results
than others. This is not a matter of
the exhaustion of plant food or a lack
of water supply, but more a problem
of weed control and primarily due to
the fact that the waste of a plant is
more or less poisonous to itself, in the
same way that the manure of an ani-
mal is uncongenial to that animal.
_ A bulletin has recently been pub-
lished by the Rhode Island Experi-
ment Station giving the results of an
experiment in which the same crops
| were grown in rows for a few seasons,
; after which the same crops were run
crosswise of their former position. It
was found that certain combinations
were improved in growth, while oth-
er combinations were very seriously
depressed. These data have a pecu-
liar significance: to the vegetable
grower. The greater variety of crops
! he can grow on the land, the more
: certainly is he able to continue his
operations. Here, too, is connected
the problem of growing legumes, not
' necessarily clovers, but the legumes
, among the vegetables, such as the pea
‘and the bean, because of the ability
of these plants through their root
nodules to gather nitrogen from the
ai
| —Sooner or later the vegetable
i grower must seriously consider the
| green manure proposition. Recogniz-
! ing the importance of maintaining the
humus content of his soil at a certain
fairly high level, if this cannot be ac-
complished by means of the crop, re-
mains and such stock manures as may
be available, the only recourse is to
grow crops for manure purposes.
Any plant may be a green manure and
many factors must enter into the se-
lection of green manures, with the
preference shown in favor of the le-
gumes.
Green manure may be grown on the
same land on which the regular crop
is grown, but that is not strictly nec-
essary, It is quite as permissible to
grow a crop upon one area and spread
it upon another area as it is to grow
a crop on the land, feed it to an ani-
mal and apply the manure to some
other area with this added advantage,
that there is little or no loss of organ-
ic material where the transfer is
made direct.
It has been common practice to
permit the green manure crop to shift
for itself. But a pound of plant food
(say nitrogen) is capable of produc-
ing 50 pounds of organic matter, and
the pound of nitrogen is not thereby
lost, so that it is even better practice
to fertilize the green manure crop
than the regular crop.—Philadelphia
Record.
—The hen’s greatest egg-producing
periods are the first, second, and third
years, depending upon the breed. The
heavier breeds, such as Plymouth
Rocks, may be profitably kept for two
years; the lighter breeds, such as
Leghorns, three years.
—DMarket white-shelled and brown-
shelled eggs in separate packages.
| Eggs irregular in shape, those which
"are unusually long or thin-shelled, or
which have shells otherwise defective,
{ should be kept by the producer for
{ home use, so that breakage in transit
| may be reduced as much as possible.
| —AIll cockerels not intended to be
| kept or sold for breeders should be
! marketed when they reach suitable
| size. Such birds confined in a home-
| made fattening battery or coop and
' fed a fattening ration for a week or
{ten days will not only increase in
| weight but bring a better price on the
| market, because of improved quality.
| —Fggs from “stolen” nests should
not be marketed; they are of un-
| known age and quality and should be
used at home.
| —When taking eggs to market, pro-
tect them from the sun’s rays in
warm weather. Ship or deliver eggs
twice or three times weekly. - +.
“