“Bellefonte, Pa., September 17, 1920.
LIFE WITHOUT LOVE.
Life without love is like
Day without sunshine,
Roses bereft of
Sweet nature’s perfume;
Love is the guide mark
To those who are weary
Of waiting and watching
In darkness and gloom.
Love to the heart is like
Dewdrops to violets
Left on the dust ridden
Roadside to die;
Love leads the way
To our highest endeavors,
Lightens and lessens
The pain of each sigh.
Life without love
Is like spring without flowers
Brook streams that move not
Or star bereft sky,
Love vreates efforts
. Most worthy and noble,
Prompts us to live
And resigns us to die.
THE GENIUS.
(Concluded from last week.)
Counting her resources she found
that she could not possibly live on the
little income from her inheritance, ev-
en in the modest comfort which she
required. And there was Margaret's
education to be paid for. She did not
want to take a big house and rent
rooms to students, the town’s usual
way of eking out expenses—she had
not the courage for even so unpreten-
tious a business enterprise. Besides,
she wanted her home to herself. So
there was but one thing to do. She
could, and would, teach music, no mat-
ter how much. she hated it. Her one
marketable accomplishment must be
used, no matter how much she hated
to tread again the way she had trod
before to such humiliation. She
could do even this gladly, since it was
for Margaret.
There was a large city not three
hours from the college town where
she had placed her new home, and
there she went to rub some of the
rust off her old methods. For the
first time since she had seen the
Maestro, she came in contact with
real musicians, and she chose for her-
self a teacher who had been a pupil
of the man who had so humiliated her.
He couldn’t do much for her he said,
but at least he could teach her some-
thing of how to teach others. As a
matter of fact, he did not want to
take her as a pupil at all, but her
anxiety and her necessity and the
appealing eyes of her touched him.
He halved his price to her and con-
trolled his impatience, for in her
earnestness he read something of her
tragedy. Of course she had been
taught all wrong, and her hands were
stiff from lack of care and practice,
and she didn’t have the true musi-
cian’s sixth sense, but, even as her hus-
band’s parishioners had done, he felt
that there was “something different”
about her. :
The lessons that she had with him
were pure pain to Lida Welsh, and
little else. She could see now what
she might have been, had she been
taught like this from the first. She
knew what her teacher thought of
her, and she writhed under his unex-
pressed pity. But she worked hard
and faithfully at her chosen task, and
presently she began to build up a class
of her own at home—children of the
faculty families rhostly, and little
daughters of the well-to-do grocers
and butchers and the few professional
men of the town. Even though liv-
ing was high, as it is in 0 many col-
lege towns, she could make enough
for her and Margaret to live com-
fortably, and there was generally
something over, which she put away.
But her small savings were very small
and she longed to earn more money
that she might give Margaret every-
thing—everything. If she had been
that great genius which she had heen
taught to think herself, she would
have been able to make plenty, oh,
more than plenty for her daughter.
She brooded over the wrong that had
been so unconsciously and smugly
done to her by her parents, and Miss
Annette Melville, and Professor Har-
denbergh, and the others. It was as
if they had maimed her where they
should have armed her.
Margaret, meanwhile, was growing
up, a gay, keen-minded, even-temper-
ed girl, with distinct aspirations cf
her own. She was going to get
through college as soon and as well
as she could, and then go to teaching,
history preferably, literature possibly,
and write books about her chosen
topics and quickly become a power in
the temples of learning, and when
that blessed time arrived her mother
was never to open another music book
before little local stupidities with ro
music in their souls or in the fingers.
In order to hasten this so much to
be desired end, Margaret did tutor-
ing, and helped the literature profes-
sor check up the theme work, and
seized every chance she had to make
money, that her mother’s burdens
might be lightened. She didn’t work
so hard, however, that she missed
having a jolly good time as she went
along, and she was conceded to be the
most popular girl in her class—she
had her father’s gift of making
friends. But make no mistake—all
that Margaret could earn and all that
Lida could earn, added to Lida’s tiny
income, was an amount so small that
it was difficult for the two women to
make both ends meet. College tui-
tion, being a lump sum, had long ago
taken all of Lida’s savings and de-
pleted her small capital. And there
was never anything for extras. It
seemed to Lida that she could not
bear it when she saw other girls,
not half so clever or so pretty as
Margaret with endless new dresses and
all the feminine fripperies of parasols
and buckled slippers and gloves and
embroidered petticoats and so care-
less of it all, confident that when these
went ther’d be plenty more forthcom-
ing. ;
It was in Margaret’s senior year
and near Commencement that mat-
ters came to an almost unbearable
pass. Lida had been sick in the
winter, and there had been a nurse |
to pay and a doctor’s bill to pay, and
service beside, as well as expensive
delicacies which she had to have dur-
ing her convalescence. And during her
illness her class had been shattered,
and only a few of them had come
back to her. Indeed, she was able to
teach only a few, so frail and weak
she was, but she fretted so at her in-
activity that Margaret finally let her
have her own way.
Margaret had had to take care of
the house and keep up her studies,
and do much of the waiting on the
invalid and the nurse, and take her
turn at actual nursing. She had to
stop all the work that had brought
her in a little money. And the cost
of living had increased cruelly. Lit-
erally, they were so poor that they
hardly had enough to eat.
“We’ll manage to scrape through,”
said Margaret cheerfully; “and the
instant Commencement’s over, I'll
get a summer job of some kind—and
then we'll be all right. It’s only six
weeks or so, Mother. And in the
meantime you must not worry and
you must not overdo. I'll have to
discipline you if you're a disobedient
parent. So beware!” :
Lida had forced a smile at this and
they had gone on as before, each con-
cealing from the other her anxiety.
And then Margaret came home with
a bit of news.
“Kathie Thompson and 1 are to
have luncheon to-morrow at Mus.
Hillis’s house, Mother,” she said. “to
meet Miss Cadwallader, who runs
that smart and exclusive and horribly
expensive boarding school down near
Philadelphia—Hollibrae, you know.
She’s going to have a camp for her
girls this summer, a wonderful camp,
gilt edged and trimmed with real lace
1 take it, and she wants one more
brilliant and able young woman—Ilike
me—+to go on her staff, besides those
she’s already picked out. It lies be-
tween Kathie and me, I imagine,
from what Mrs. Hillis said. The sal-
ary’s gilt-edged, too. If only she
likes me, I'm all right—I know Prof.
and Mrs. Hillis will given me only
kind words, and I expect to be noth-
ing less than perfectly fascinating.”
It was good news and Lida’s spirits
rose. And then she asked, “But Mar-
garet—what are you going to wear?”
And Margaret answered, quizzical-
ly, “I haven’t decided between my
peach-colored satin and my green taf-
feta with peacock embroidery.” Then
she had turned and run up-stairs and
Lida knew that it was to escape fur-
ther questioning.
Because there was only one dress
that Margaret could wear, an old
white-dotted swiss that had been
washed and washed and washed again
until it had shrunk just enough to
make it awkard and ill-fitting every-
where. It was past alteration or
making over. It had been a cheap
dress to begin with and it dated back
three years. It seemed to Lida that
she could not bear to see Margaret
go out to face the critical eyes of an
elegant woman like Miss Cadwallad-
er in that hopeless dress. But she
had not one penny to get her another.
Kathie Thompson did not need the
place—her parents had plenty of mon-
ey. She was always charmingly
dressed. What chance would Marga-
ret have, though desirable beyond any-
thing Kathie could ever hope to be,
her mother fiercely asked herself, be-
side Kathie’s furbelows? Miss Cad-
wallader would never pick out a
dowdy girl, poorly dressed, to handle
her young heiresses—no, never.
She was weak and supersensitive
from her illness and her privations,
Lida Welsh, but it seemed to her that
she had endured no such extreme of
pain since that day in the Maestro’s
studio. Her child, her lovely shining
Margaret, needed nothing but a cheap
little cotton dress, and she could not
give it to her. It is an axiom that
there is no poverty so hard for a
mother to bear as the poverty that
presses on her children.
Lida and Margaret ate supper si-
lently and said nothing more about the
dress, but each knew the other was
thinking of it. They went up-stairs
early and Margaret kissed her mother
good night with special tenderness.
“I’m going to study for a little while,”
she said, “and then I’m going to bed,
for I’m dreadfully sleepy. Can I get
you anything to make you comfy,
Mother?”
But Lida only clung to her and
said, “No; I'm going to bed right
away—I'm very tired, too.”
Lida went into her room and shut
the door. She made no move to un-
dress, but dropped into a chair beside
the window and sat there perfectly
still. She could see Margaret in that
badly fitting old dress seated beside
Kathie in her fresh, smart frock—she
had seen them together before. But
now she was seeing them as Miss Cad-
wallader would see them. It hurt
her unbearably. But there was noth-
ing, nothing she could do.
And then the window curtain blew
against her hand. It was a thin, fine
muslin curtain with a heavier cross
thread in it. It was just a very
simple ruffled curtain, but the fine
material had lent a touch of elegance.
to the room. And now—
Suddenly she got up and looked
hard at the curtain, bent to it, and
fingered the stuff carefully, consider-
ed its length, its width, pulled it this
way and that. Then, very silently,
she stood on the chair and took it
down and laid it across the bed. Once
more she measured it, holding it
against herself. She and Margaret
were just of a height. She stood still
and listened holding her breath. Mar-
garet must not know—it might all be
a dead failure. But she was alive
with purpose.
She went back and sat down in the
chair by the window and waited un-
til she heard Margaret go to bed, and
all the time she sat there she was
making her plan. After a little,
when she was sure that Margaret
had dozed off, she tiptoed into her
room and took the despised white
dress out of the closet. Then, pick-
ing up the curtain, she went noislessly
down-stairs. 3 ;
She lit a light in the kitchen, built
up the fire and put a big pan of wat-
er on the fire to heat. When it was
hot she washed the curtain, gently,
that none of its threads might be
pulled or broken, and yet very quick-
ly. Her hands worked with assured
swiftness — her long “musician’s
hands,” as she had proudly thought of
them in her girlhood. Now they
| plunged into the soapy water and rub-
bed and dipped with more joy than
they had ever touched the keys.
It was at the last rinsing that anoth-
er idea came to her. She tiptoed
back upstairs and rummaged in her
dresser drawer, presently coming
down again with some crump-
led red tissue paper that had served
as wrappings for a Christmas gift.
She poured a little of the boiling
water over the paper and drained off |
the tinted fluid. She made the thin,
oh, very thin, starch with this water
and dipped the breadths into it. She
held them anxiously to the light—they
seemed an even pink, clear and deli- :
cate. i
Now the irons were put on, and
presently she was ironing the stuff.
She was thankful that she had left !
the curtains their full length and not
cut them off at the sill as Margaret |
had urged her. There were three |
yards in each of them and the ruffle. |
It was only an hour after she had '
come down-stairs that she hung the
crisp, freshly-ironed pink lengths ov- !
er the little line in the kitchen. She!
stepped to the door for a breath of |
air, and the night breeze came in to,
her friendly fashion, cooling her hot |
forehead. © The honeysuckle vine |
planted at the kitchen door waved an |
inquisitive green tendril at her, and |
she could smell the freshness of its |
leaves—it was yet too early for its
flowers. She turned away, refreshed
and reassured.
Now she went into the sitting-room
and brought out her work basket and
patterns, and then she cleared and!
wiped the kitchen table. Presently
she was cutting out the skirt. It.
was to be a plain full one with a deep |
hem.
Never in her life had she sewed so ;
swiftly and so evenly. One fine little
stitch followed another with the per-
fection of a machine. She stitched up
the breadths and ran the hem before |
she paused again to look at the clock.
It was well past midnight now. She
fulled the skirt to a belt, measuring
alternately by the old dress and her
own Jgure, and then she pinned it to |
the line where it hung in airy rosi-
ness.
The waist must be cut out next. ... '
She would have short sleeves, because |
the fashion book said they were in
style again and, besides, Margaret
had such pretty wrists and arms, like
a baby’s. Her needle flew on with-
out a pause. The waist took shane
—became a reality.
But now she was forced to stop and
wonder—what should she do for
trimming? The dress required trim-
ming—it had to have it. It would
be as plain and as dull as the white
one unless she could give it a touch of
something. But what? She had no
lace, no net, nothing. She picked up
the discarded ruffle and drew it
through her fingers. If she could but
make plaitings!——
She took her scissors and cut the
ruffling in half, and picked up the
piece with the hemmed edge—a long
hemmed band it made, perhaps an
inch and a half wide—too wide. She |
cut it ruthlessly again, and now it:
was no more than an inch. She
pressed it between her fingers, but
the plaits were not even. She would
spoil it. 3
Her mind ran over all the possi- |
bilities at hand. She even went and !
looked into the kitchen drawer to see
if something might be accomplished !
with the tines of a fork. But Noy =|
that was impossible.
At last she noticed the towel bar '
where the dishcloth was hanging. It |
was made with three round metal
bars, set close together, but swing- |
ing apart at one end. It was a small i
cheap one that she had bought at the
five and ten cent store,
Once more she went into Margaret’s
room, and, tied the ribbon gently
around the waist of the dress. It
was just what the pink stuff needed
to giveitaccent. She almost laughed
out loud, it looked so charming.
As she put the last touches on it,
Margaret turned sleepily and she
flew outside the door in a panic and
- then waited there, breathless, trem-
; bling with happiness.
“Mother,” called Margaret’s voice
presently, in extreme wonderment,
“Mother—where did this dress come
from?” She thought her mother was
still in her own room. “Mother,”
she called again, “for heaven’s sake,
come here and look!”
And now Lida came inside the door.
Margaret was sitting up in bed star-
ing at the dress, her eyes round and
blue, her cheeks rosy with excitement
and surprise.
Presently the truth came out. It
was just her curtains, confessed Lida,
colored up with Christmas wrapping
paper, and it was all very simply
made . . . Tears of pride and joy were
in her eyes as she told it.
“Oh Mother, if you only knew!
cried Margaret, “if you only knew
how I hated to wear that old dress!
But you did know, didn’t you—you
knew all the time! And you—you
worked all night to make me this!”
She slipped out of bed and laid a
. loving finger on the crisp freshness of
the pink dress. “It’s so lovely!” sha
cried, and then she turned and flung
her arms about her mother. “Moth.
er, darling,—you are a genius!”
And the sting was gone from the
word forever.—By Sophie Kerr in the
“Woman’s Home Companion.”
YU. 8. Health Bureau Tighting Im-
ported Diseases.
Before the armistice was signed the
- United States Public Health Service
| was making preliminary plans for an
after-the-war campaign against epi-
demic diseases which were only too
certain to threaten an invasion of this
country from abroad.
War spreads these diseases in a
frightful way Cholera, bubonic plague,
‘typhus and smallpox are at the pres-
‘ent time making havoc in the Old
World, and they can be kept out of
the United States only by the exercise
of utmost precautions. Plague, the
“black death” of the middle ages,
threatens every American seaport; it
has gained a foothold in Texas, and
New York city has appropriated $80,-
000 for precautionary measures
against this and other maladies likely !
to be imported.
All of the great epidemic diseases
seem to have originated in the Orient,
where populations are thickest, most
plagues having apparently their proper
breeding place in the Yunnan prov-
ince of China, which is a permanent
storehouse of the infection; and from
that source have come all the waves
of that dreaded malady
swept the world since the beginning
of historic time. One of these epi-
demics, starting in 1894, took 180,000
lives in Canton, and for many years
thereafter killed half a million people
annually in India. The worst on reec-
ord struck Europe in 1334, and wiped
out 25,000,000—one fourth of the
total population of that continent,
The bacillus pestis, which is the
cause of plague, owes its distributions |
to the rat flea. A plague-stricken rat
when it dies is deserted by the fleas,
which thereupon are likely to seek
human beings and bite them. The
plague germ thus communicated en-
ters the glands, and sets up a rapid
and destructive inflammation, which
is usually fatal.
Acquaintance with the germs that commodity purchased is part of the
cause these deadly diseases is a great
that have |
PENNSYLVANIA’S FORESTS.
Short Talks on the Forests and the
Lumber Situation.
By Gifford Pinchot, Chief Forester of
Pennsylvania.
GIVE THE TREES A CHANCE.
It is not so much what forest fires
destroy that makes them so costly,
but what they prevent from growing.
It is the same with careless lumber-
ing.
When a tract of timber is cut with-
out giving the necessary protection’
to the young growth, it is easily pos-
sible for the operation to destroy for
the future far more timber than it
has cut for present consumption. -How
this adds to the ultimate cost of lum-
ber is easily seen. The wise lumber-
ing operation is the one that is under-
taken in a sound, practical systematic
way and with a view both to harvest
the ripe timber and to consedve the
young growth and keep the forest
in shape to continue producing trees.
Cutting and skidding should be done
when possible in the winter months,
because at this season the least dam-
age will occur to the young growth.
Danger from fire in the winter is at
a minimum, and spring sprouting to
follow will be most vigorous. Log-
ging operations are most economical
in the months when plant life is dor-
mant, and when the ground is frozen.
The product can be manufactured at
the mill and marketed during the
summer months to better advantage
from the standpoint both of the lum-
berman and the employer. During
these months the forests would be let
- alone for the young growth to get
~ started.
Pennsylvania has seen to much of
devastating lumbering. The De-
partment of Forestry has ended it as
far as the State forests are concern-
ed. But the Department’s duty ex- |
tends to all forests. It is the people’s
job to put an end to unnecessary for-
est devastation, just the same as to
forest fires, on all purely timber pro-
ducing lands.
No forester wants to grow trees
on land worth more to farm. But
neither does he want the land to lie
idle that could just as well or better
be growing trees.
On a well handled forest the trees
to be cut are first carefully selected
{and then marked so as to avoid any
! mistake. They are selected in such
(a way as to get what the owner
| wants, while at the same time the
: welfare of the forest is not overlook-
ed. Then each tree is thrown where
(it will do the least harm to young
| growth in falling, and any small trees
{ bent down under its crown are re-
| leased at once. After that the
| branches are looped down to a certain
size (say three inches in diameter)
| and the brush is scattered so that it
i will rot as quickly as possible, or piled
| for burning. Through it all the es-
sential thing is neither to cut nor to
injure any young tree that can be
spared.
The public generally can appreciate
the reasons for carefully avoiding for- |
est devastation in all lumbering. It
is a people’s question. Conservative
lumbering will not work a hardship
‘upon lumbermen, and it will be a
great aid in ending the devastation
of the forests.
The effects of careless lumbering
are felt by the people of Pennsylvania
in dozens of ways. When a citizen
builds a home, when he buys a pair
' of shoes, or when his wife goes to
| market for food for the family, they
| feel the pinch, because the cost of the
| wood which enters into the manufac-
| ture, transportation, or sale of every
| reason for the excessive prices charg-
and she had | help in dealing with them. The bac- ed. When a man travels on railroad
disliked it because it was so little and | illus of cholera is familiarly known. | OF by motor car in any part of Penn-
poorly made.
was so little. She put an iron on to |
heat and wrenched the towel bar un-
ceremoniously off its place on the
wall.
After a little experimenting she
found that if she pressed the strip of
muslin down between the bars with
a dull knife and set the hot iron on it
for a moment, she could make two
charming little round flutings. And
so on and on indefinitely. But it was
aggravatingly slow work and had to
be done with the greatest care. She
did not mind that. She concentrated
on it fiercely and as the length of
delicate fluted ruffling began to
lengthen under her hands she could
have sung for joy. She made enough
of .it to go around the simple fichu
and around each sleeve, and as she
sewed ‘the last bit into place, she
heard the birds singing for dawn.
Even now she did not look up. She
was too busy putting the waist and
skirt together. But when the morn-
ing began to creep in through the
door and window and turn the artifi-
cial light white and pale, she took
the completed dress in her two hands
and held it from her that she might
see if her work was good.
And it was good. * The clear color
and the charming transparence of the
dress were like a lovely fresh flower.
It was so simple yet so absolutely
right everywhere that Lida knew that
Margaret would afford no contrast to
Kathie to-day. She hung the dress
carefully on the line again and flung
her hands over her face and burst
into tears, and the first rays of the
sun came in and found her there, cry-
ing. But they were not unhappy
tears. A miracle had happened. The
long night vigil had purged her soul
of its rebelliousness, its long resent-
ment against fate. She had done the
impossible, with her hands, and in
doing it she had wrought a great
healing of her spirit.
Presently she stopped crying and
began to smile. She did not feel any
weariness, she was so happy. She
took the dress down and carried it
carefully up-stairs and into Marga-
ret’s room, and hung it where Mar-
garet’s eyes would fall upon it as
soon as she waked. Then she went
back into her own room and rummag-
ed in her “useless box,” where odds
and ends of impossible gifts had been
stored away. There was a terrible
dresser scarf there that one of Evan’s
grateful old ladies had given her. She
had found it, and pulled out of it a
length of ribbon, French blue, and
quite unfaded through all these years
it had been put away so carefully.
She flung back into the box the scarf,
a horror of coarse lace and embroi-
dery.
ly by drinking water, but sometimes
by flies and in other ways. In former
days we had dreadful epidemics of
cholera in this country—for instance
in 1848, in 1866 and in 1872—but now
our health authorities know how to
deal with it.
Cholera seems to have its original
home in the delta of the Ganges. Con-
ditions favor its spread in India,
where the dirtiest ponds are the ho-
liest, and therefore frequented by
crowds of true believers, who come
to bathe and wash away their sins.
The disease owes its distribution, how-
ever, mainly to pilgrims who journey-
ed from southern Asia to Mecca.
Those who died en route—as they do,
by thousands—are assured of eternal
salvation. Which is perfectly all
right so far as they are concerned;
but unfortunately, scattering on their
return from the holy city, they spread
cholera far and wide.
Smallpox is undoubtedly of Asiatic
origin, having been known in China
and India since remotest antiquity.
The only thing of real importance that
the crusaders in the middle ages
brought back with them from the
Near East was this horrible disease,
which killed 500,000 people annually
in Europe. A century ago it was
reckoned that one-fourth of the hu-
man race bore in blindness or disfigure-
ment traces of smallpox. The germ
is doubtless a bacterium, but is too
small to be seen with a high-power
microscope and so has never been dis-
covered.
Typhus is a disease of uncleanliness,
and raged everywhere during the age
of the louse—the peripd when knight-
hood was in flower and there were no
bathtubs. The late war has made us
familiar with the insect that carries
the germ. The bug has probably
killed more men than ever fell in
battle. But where the malady had
its origin nobody knows.
The First Umbrella.
The first umbrella ever seen in
this country reached Baltimore, a
shipment of them coming from Eng-
land, in July, 1770. Hardly any of
them found purchasers for quite a
while. People laughed at the molly-
coddle contrivance, which was not
only foolish but unnecessary, inas-
much as rain would not melt anybody.
The first anthracite coal ever deliv-
ered in Philadelphia arrived in that
city, nine wagonloads, in July, 1812.
Two of the loads were sold for what
it had cost to transport them, and the
rest was given away. Those who
bought the suff declared it a cheat, in-
asmuch as it was “nothing but stones
and would not burn.”
Now she was glad it | Its infection is spread most common. ' Sylvania, he sees in bald hills and bai-
| Ten wastes the awful results of letting
of short sighted selfishness in lum-
bering.
Give the young trees a chance.
i They will grow if you will let them.
Woodlands Yield Dividend to Owners
For Proper Care.
It is a mistake to saw up choice
logs of white oak, ash, cherry, and
yellow poplar for rough uses at home
or to use clear black walnut for gate
boards or split up white oak butts
for fence posts. This fact is empha-
sized in many ways in a new publica-
tion, Forestry and the Farm Income,
issued by the Forestry Service, Unit-
ed States Department of Agriculture.
Farmers are told that many valuable
logs go into crossties when they would
bring the owner much more if sold as
saw logs. Likewise, large numbers
of rapid growing trees are cut which
produce only small ties, whereas it left
to grow for from three to five years
they would yield more than double
the profit. To avoid making such
mistakes owners of farm woodland
should familiarize themselves with
the uses for which each kind of tim-
ber is best ‘adapted.
Timber that is cut in the late
spring and summer months should
be handled with special care to avoid
injury, because freshly cut wood is
then more likely to be attacked by in-
sects and fungi than during the cold-
er months. Seasoning proceeds more
rapidly during the warmer season
and may cause excessive checking,
which is not beneficial to the timber.
If rightly handled, posts, poles, and
logs may be cut at any season with-
out their durability being affected to
lie in direct contact with the ground.
The opportunity for insect attack and
decay can bé reduced to a minimum
by peeling the timbers and open pil-
ing them off the ground in a shaded
but dry place. This, however, does
not retard checking of the wood.
Logs are sometimes stored under
water in the hot season to prevent
blue stain, checking, insect attack,
and decay. Painting the ends of logs
with a yellow ochre or barn paint
will very materially retard injury by
end checking. Painting peeled tim-
bers with creasote will prevent sap
stain and decay.
—The navy has sold for $20,000,000
its surplus aircraft. All air machines
are sold as soon as they become ob-
solete for naval purposes.
——Subseribe for the Watchman.
forest fires make lumber scarce, and |
« FARM NOTES.
- It is impossible to say just how long
| the operation of caponizing has been
: performed. It seems quite certain,
i however, that the practice was famil-
‘iar to the Chinese more than 2,000
i years ago. Later it was practiced
by the Greeks and Romans, and
through medieval times by the people
of middle and southern Europe, In
recent years it was introduced into
America. At present capons are most
universally known and appreciated
in France, although the business of
producing them has advanced gradual-
ly in America. This industry is most
Important in that portion of the Unit-
ed States east of Philadelphia, though
| Increasing numbers of capons are be-
Ing raised in the Middle Western
States on general farms.
In selecting the breed best suited
for caponizing several factors must
be taken Into consideration. Large
capons bring the best prices. Conse-
quently, the breed should be large,
It does not pay to caponize small
fowls, poultry experts of the United
States Department of Agriculture
say. Yellow legs and skin, as in
other classes of poultry, are most pop-
ular. The Plymouth Rocks, Light
Brahmas, Cochins, Indian Games,
Langshans, and Wyandottes are all
recommended by different producers,
as are also various crosses of these.
i The Opington also makes fine capons,
: but the white legs and skin are of a
| disadvantage in this country.
{ In so far as the effects of the opera-
tion and the rapidity and ease of
| healing are concerned, the time of
| year when the operation is performed
{is of little importance. The capons
seem to recover well at any time,
| Certain other considerations, howey-
| er, influence the time. The age and
i size of the cockerel are very import-
lant. As soon as the cockerels weigh
11-2't02 1.2 pounds, or when 2 to
4 months old they should be operated
upon. The lower age and weight
limits apply particularly to the Ameri-
can breeds, while the higher apply
to the Asiatics. Capons are in great-
est demand and bring the best prices
from the Christmas season until the
sod of March.
~apons are usually kept till th
are about 10 months 5 At rd
time the market is at its best and the
birds have made their most profitable
gains. The feeds used and the meth-
ods of feeding vary greatly, so much
so, indeed, that it is futile to give
specific directions. For several
months after the operation a good
growing ration, not a fattening one,
1s required. It may consist of whole
grains, ground grains, or a cembina-
tion of the two, as each feeder finds
most profitable and best suited to his
locality. As with other poultry,
variety must be given for best
benefits. Late in the fall, when the
capons have no pasture, green feed,
such as cut clover or vegetables,
should be provided. A somewhat
more fattening ration than that re-
quired for laying hens to give good
| results.
As capons are not usually market-
ed before Christmas, or the 1st of
January, they have to be housed dur-
i ing late fall and early winter. Be-
cause of their quiet disposition they
have been successfully housed with
only 2 or 3 square feet of floor space
to a fowl. Kree range for capons,
' however, is very desirable, as it pro-
! motes their continuous, rapid, and ec-
| onomical growth. The cost of rear-
Ing capons to 10 months of age is
| a big item with present high feed
! Prices, unless a good range is avail-
! able.
During the last month and a half
| before marketing the corn in the ra-
| tion should be gradually increased
until the capons are on a full fatten-
ing ration. For the last two or three
weeks they may be shut up and fed
in crates, for every possible ounce at
this stage adds to appearance and
profit.
Dried pumpkin or squash make pies
nearly, if not quite, the equal of the
fresh or canned fruit. When the
pumpkins and squash are plentiful
dry some for winter use. The follow-
ing directions for drying are given by
specialists of the United States De-
partment of Agriculture.
Pumpkins used for drying may be
of any variety, but the firm, solid-
fleshed deep-colored varieties will
give a larger yield of a more highly
avored and consequently more desir-
able product. Either summer squash
or the late winter varieties may be
dried. In any case the vegetables
should be mature and in good condi-
tion for use fresh.
The treatment given pumpkin and
squash is identical. Cut the vege-
tables into strips 2 inches wide and
peel. Remove the seeds and pass the
strips through a rotary slicer set to
cut pieces one-half to five-eighths
inch in thickness. They may be cut
to this thickness with a knife. Dip
the pieces immediately into boiling
water or steam for 3 to 6 minutes.
The varieties vary so much as to the
amount and depth of their color that
a little experimenting is necessary to
tell just how long a time is needed
to complete the process. Remove the
pieces as soon as they become semi-
transparent. -
If a commercial dryer is used, start
the drying at a temperature of ap-
proximately 135 F and increase it
gradually to 160 as the material dries.
The tray should be looked over once
or twice in order that any moist spots
may be opened and dried. Pumpkin
or squash should not be dried until
brittle. The material is in proper
condition for removing from the evap-
orator when the pieces have become
leathery, but show no moisture when
cut across.
When the garden crops have reached
maturity or are far enough developed
to suffer little damage from chickens
the flock should be given free range.
There are times in late summer and
early fall when the benefit received
by the poultry will exceed the slight
injury some garden products may in-
cur.
Free range enables growing chickens
to obtain quantities of green feed,
bugs, worms, and other things. The
chickens therefore require less grain
and are less liable to sickness or dis-
ease. Exercise and ability to range
for even a few hours a day is benefi-
cial to a flock that has been kept in
confinement during spring and early
summer.
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