* Deora Wd
Bellefonte, Pa., November 4, 1921.
SS
THE JOURNEY HOME.
Years and years ago, when I
Was just a little lad
An’ after school hours used to work
Around the farm with dad,
I used to be so wearied out
When eventide was come,
That I got kinder anxious like
About the journey home.
But dad, he used to lead the way,
An’ once in a while turn ‘round an’ say—
So 'cheerin’-like, so tender—‘“Come!
Come on, my son, you're nearly home!”
That allers used to help me some,
An’ so I followed father home.
I'm old, an’ gray an’ feeble now,
An’ trimbly at the knee,
But life seems just the same today—
As then it seemed to me;
For I am still so wearied out
When eventide is come,
An’ still get kinder anxious-like
About the journey home.
But still my Father leads the way,
An’ once in a while I hear Him say,
So cheerin-like, so tender—“Come!
Come on, my son, you're nearly home!”
An’ same as then, that helps me some,
An’ so I'm followin’ Father home.
—John Talman
eee lpm.
THE GREENHORN.
When Torger Amundsen wrote his
first letter from the Oregon fruit val-
ley to his Hildegarde, waiting in far-
away Norway, he could frankly say
that his few days there had given
him but little opportunity to come to
know the neighbors, and the fat let-
ter could be filled with glowing ac-
counts of the orchards and gardens
cupped in by the porcelain-tinted
mountains. Later it was not so easy
to write.
Torger had pushed his way west-
ward from New York, stopping for
months at a time in the great cities
that stood on the inland waterways,
wherever his fresh young strength
and the hand skilled in his father’s
boat works at the fjord would bring
him the high wages he was eager for.
Thus he had added to the inheritance
money enough for the little farm of
fruit and chickens that had caught
the dreams of both himself and little
Garde. A country home in America,
and, if it might be, not too far from
the sea and the mountains, that was
his goal. He did not mind the grimy,
homeless year and more he spent in
crossing the States to find it.
It was Garde who fretted lovingly
in her exquisite penmanship that her
Torger, the big blond favorite of all
the folks, young and old, in the old
sea town, should be lonely and un-
friended in crowded, dirty Cleveland
and Chicago.
“It sounds very fine, the money you
are making to add to the inheritance, ,
but it troubles me that you should be
lonely for even a few months and
have no chance to make new friends.
Hurry quickly to the Western country
and find our home place and the
neighbors that will be family folks to
you until I come running over the sea.
All the friends in our good town will
be hard to leave, but I would fly from
them so rudely as to say not even a
good bye if it were the only way to
get to you. And next year I will be
free, and I will come, and you will
have ready for me in America a few
new friends of the old folks like Un-
cle and Auntie, and of the children
like little Dagmar with her curls of
gold, and of the young people, who
may even like our old songs and sto-
ries when I can make them over into
English.”
With this warm, urgent message of
little Garde’s still carried in his pock-
et, though it was now some months
old, it was not easy for Torger to
write from Paradise Valley after that
first letter.
He had picked up in his months in
America, with the usual readiness of
the Northland immigrants, a knowl-
edge of English that met all his busi-
ness needs. That it did not satisfy
him in any sense was due both to the
proud Norse spirit that had come
down from his ship-building fore-
fathers and to his overwhelming con-
viction that the man who would claim
Garde Holm ought to be as learned
as the pastor, as fine in manners as
the count, and as rich and clever as
the Americans.
He reached out eagerly for new
words and phrases in his contact with
the men of the valley, buying the lum-
ber for his bungalow, the berry bush-
es for his garden, and learning from
them the proper way to treat the fruit
trees already started on his acres. He
added daily to the careful hoarding
of American words, laying them up
for little Garde.
He worked alone all day long at the
bungalow, beginning at sunrise. When
it was no longer possible to see to
drive a nail true in the walls that
were fast enclosing the big living-
room and the cupboarded kitchen and
the sunny west bedroom, he turned
his long legs out to wander up and
down the valley roads that were al-
most like village streets, so neighbor-
ly close were the bungalows, each on
its five or eight acres. He went out
to find for Garde the friends she had
such utter faith in his finding.
Groups of young people sauntered
along in the mild evening coolness,
chatting, laughing, singing. he
crossed their paths there were nods
or American “Hellos,” but they never
drew Torger into the group. Some-
times he followed behind them for a
time for the mere warmth of human
closeness.
Once, when they were singing on
the steps of the town hall under a
summer moon, he dropped down on
the outskirts of the group and joined
in on “America.” His full rich tones
sartled them. But he did not sing on
the next song; “America” was the on-
ly one he knew in the new tongue. He
sat on for a while feeling warmly of
the valley at last, while the shrill
voices of the girls and the strenuous
barking of the boys raced through “I
Hate to Get up in the Morning” and
“Bingo Was His Name.” When the
group broke up into couples Torger
started back to the shell of a house.
that was fast growing weather-tight
and fit for living. His heart was light
when he thought that this was a great
matter to tell Garde.
A lagging couple trailed his steps.
Their voices carried clearly on the
night air, and they were conscious
only of themselves.
“Gee,” said the boy’s voice, “but
that Norsk has some voice! But did
you get his accent? 1t’d make angels
weep—with joy!”
A girl’s soft laugh answered. It
was Della Martin, the neighbor on the
left, small, black-haired, lively. The
first time Torger had seen her he had
picked her out as the friend who could
make Garde’s first homesick days in
the new land easy and happy.
“What could you expect from such
a big gawky greenhorn?” laughed
Della. “You ought to hear him say
‘yacket’ and ‘Yanuary’ and ‘Peradise
Walley. It’s simply killing! We all
call him the ‘Greenhorn.’ ”
Torger went blindly along under
the shadow of the trees, so that the
moonlight might not pick out his
great green length on the road that
had such a new and terrible publicity.
He dropped to his cot without un-
dressing. He must think out the bit-
ter truth. “She was always high
above me; but she thought me a gen-
tleman in Norway, and that over here
I would soon be a real American, re-
spected by all. I have no right to
bring her far away to live with a man
who can earn from his neighbors only
such a word as “Greenhorn.’”
The next day he did not sing at his
work. Singing did not go with the |
letter he had written... He had told
Garde as gently as he could that he
loved her with all his unchanging
Norse heart, but that he was a poor
fellow with no university degree like
hers, and not much in manners, either,
though his mother had trained him
carefully and it was not to be laid to
her shame that he was not so polish-
ed as the learned men of Norway or
as these Americans. Perhaps she
would better marry the university
professor who had wooed her so for-
mally and sincerely in the university
town. She would have high position
and be able to stay near her friends.
Torger would not hold her to her
promise, or think her aught but wise
if she decided not to come to him in
America.
He went doggedly about his work
during the weeks before the reply
could come to this letter. Even the
wonder of the fresh early morning in
this lovely valley, and the delight of
the sun dropping down behind pearly-
tinted mountains failed to stir him.
The day his letter came his heart
beat with such tremendous beats that
it was hard to slit the envelope and
take out her wonderful ardent, scold-
ing letter, a letter written in strange
dear streaks by a cross little girl and
a saucy maiden and an inexpressibly
tender woman. He hammered like
mad at the little house all day. It
seemed as though he would finish it
by nightfall, and then reach across
the great sea with his long arms and
snatch his own little girl. He whist-
led and whistled, and then stopped to
laugh aloud to himself at the thought
that he was outwitting America, for
he could get out of his heart all the
loves songs without an accent.
A child passing on the road set him
to thinking of Dagmar. He must be-
gin at once with all his wiles of boat-
making and his skill in fashioning
doll cradles to win little friends for
Garde.
And he would go out on the road
again at night and be more genial
himself. He was probably mistaken
about these neighbors, who were so
slow to take him in and who had nev-
er invited him into their homes as the
hospitable townsmen at home would
ask any stranger, nor even asked him
to the public meetings like the Com-
munity Club. Very likely they had
thought he did not care about such
matters. He would go now, anyhow.
He would go to the next meeting of
the club, like a Norse gentleman, in
his black suit and stiff white shirt, as
his countrymen always went to meet-
ings of discussion and literature.
All the valley came to the Commu-
nity Club. Sometimes the men pro-
vided a speaker on fruit-raising or co-
operative marketing, sometimes the
young people sang or gave crude lit-
tle plays, the actors giggling as
frankly as the audience. But always,
no matter what the plan for the even-
ing, there was joyousness and com-
radery among these Americans. Now
Torger would be of it, forcing himself
in as no one of his countrymen would,
except for his lady’s sake.
The room was crowded. The school-
teacher read a paper on Glacier Park,
and compared the mountains with the
famed ones of Switzerland. At talk
of mountains, and the lantern slides
vividly picturing them, Torger’s eyes
dreamed and shone beneath his fine,
upstanding blond hair. Beside him
sat a tall young man from whom he
had bought berry bushes. Seely had
been tremendously busy every time
they had met, representing as he did
a nursery house besides running his
own ranch. But he had always been
friendly and enthusiastic about all the
Western country and particularly
their valley. Now, in this new atmos-
phere, he seemed suddenly like one of
the true neighbors Garde had been so
sure of.
“They are very fine, those Ameri-
can mountains,” Torger said with a
sigh, when the stereopticon had
showed its last slide and the room was
again light, “but they have no sea
running between them, yumping half-
way up the sides as in Norway. The
fjords are more beautiful still—"
Seely was interested. “Of course,”
he said. “I’ve always heard that. And
you're from Norway yourself, aren’t
you?”
“Qver here not two years yet,”
smiled Torger.
Seely jumped to his feet. “We've
got someone here, folks, who has seen
with his own eyes some of the grand-
est scenery of Europe. We ought to
have him tell us something about it.
Mr. Chairman, this is Mr. Amundsen,
one of our new neighbors.”
The chairman was genial. “Glad
to have you talk, Mr. Amundsen. Take
all the time you want.”
Garde seemed suddenly at Torger’s
very elbow. This was the thing that
would be life and joy to her, a ouble
opportunity, since he could tell these
American neighbors about his own
beautiful rocky homeland. He plung-
ed in ardently, with picturesque
lish flavored ruggedly with his life-
long tongue that seemed to fit the
story he was telling of wild fjords,
and rough seas, stout little boats and
sea heroes, bitter winters and long,
day-lighted summers.
The fire and color and heart in the
Sjrenge address held all the room cap-
tive for a quarter of an hour. Then
the boy came suddenly back to this
American valley. He flushed a bit,
half stopped, and then looking around
on the neighborly faces he said very
slowly, his very depth of feeling ex-
aggerating his strong Northern ac-
cent, “It is grand there in Norway;
but I t’ink it is best to be here, right
here in Peradise Walley.”
As the last word came out a titter
ran along the back benches where the
young people sat, and quite audibly
after it an echo, “walley, walley.”
_ The Greenhorn turned, white to the
lips, and walked straight out into the
night.
A score of startled hands tried to
hold him. Older voices protested,
censuring the young folks, women
spoke in hushed excitement full of
pity. But when they found they could
not hold him, the Community Club
turned to its games and food and soon
forgot the whitefaced boy.
Only young Seely followed his head-
long flight and saw the hopelessness
that drowned all life out of Torger’s
face. Even he did not understand
that the cruel, thoughtless insult had
struck beyond the big man’s body to
a little, delicate-mannered, high-spir-
ited lady; that a great fear had come
to Torger that he could not bring his
tender, trusting, friend-craving little
mate to meet such monstrous humili-
ation.
Yang!
him time for his schooling and a lit-
tle sleep, and would at the same time
lay up some treasure of silver for
Garde. And when his great news
came unexpectedly soon, it was only
to Mr. Chang that he could let out
' even a hint of the purpose of his er-
rand East.
| “I am starting to New York to-
i morrow. I shall not be back for sev-
eral weeks. I am to be married there
| to a lady from my old home. I have
‘a home ready for her in the country
near here. When we come back 1
' shall want always to be with her, to
| take care of her, so I shall not come
| back here to work. I have a little
! ranch with fruit and chickens, and I
| can keep busy with building and cab-
inet work. You have been very kind
| to me, Mr. Chang.”
| “Qh, dat’s allee light, allee light,”
| grinned the Oriental. “Vely happeee
| ladee get Mistel Tolgel. Allee good
i Amelican soon.”
| In the valley Torger made short
| work of getting some one to look after
i his chickens and to do the first spray-
ing of the fruit trees in the event that
he did not get back within the expect-
ed two weeks and a half. The sting
of his mortification was still so strong
upon his heart that he did not say
where he was going, or why, to any
neighbor.
He bought his first ticket only to
Chicago, intending to stop there for
a day or two with an old seafaring
friend of his father’s who was now
captaining a freighter on the lakes.
But the captain was starting that
same evening for Buffalo, so Torger
came back alone from the crowded
wharf through the bustling traffic of
lower town, his head still full of mem-
ories stirred to new life by his old
friend’s chat.
iC . 1 He war hurrying to the station
Hold on there, Amundsen. Wait after seeing the captain’s boat weigh
for me,” pleaded Seely. “You've got anchor, when the thing happened. It
to understand that it will never hap-
pen again. You held them spellbound |
{was not an uncommon thing. Every
day’s sheet of a great city’s daily car-
“My heart there already.”—By Em-
tioned Torger. “We cannot save her |
heart from breaking on the sea. You’
do not know my Garde, Mr. Seely. '
She is proud. If she does not under-
sand, why should she return to me?”
That was where the valley paid its
debt. “Geel!” said the spokesman,
Seely. “Did you think we'd li> down
on the job just as we got started out?
No, siree, sir! While that telegram
from the Government was still hot, I
wirelessed Miss Holm where you were
and why. And I chucked in a grand
old welcome from the valley, too.
She’s to wireless back.” Seely grin-
ned through his flush. ;
Twenty-four hours later Seely stood ;
beside the bed while Torger opened |
the envelope with the great message.
A blinding brilliance of happiness;
swept over the Norsk boy's rugged |
face, like the midsummer sun on his
own roughly carved birthland, as he
handed to Seely the brief message:
i
ma Mauritz Larson, in Woman's '
Home Companion. |
el ee ee !
PRESIDENT HARDING AND HIS
CABINET WILL HEAD MARCH-
ING CORTEGE.
Plans for the solemn ceremonies of
Armistice day, when the nation will
pay highest honors to its unknown
dead of the great war reached a cli-
max last week when President Hard-
ing and his cabinet decided to trudge '
afoot up Pennsylvania avenue at the
head of the funeral cortege. By
Presidential proclamation the busi-
ness and pleasure of the nation will
stand at rest two minutes on that day
in tribute to the dead as the body
from a lonely, nameless grave in some
great struggle of the war is carried
to its last rest in the peaceful Virgin-
ia hills that look down across the Po- |
tomac on the nation’s capitol. The!
honorary pall bearers will be as fol-
. available for use,
~ FARM NOTES.
—Poultry Manure Quite Valuable.
—The average poultry raiser attach-
es little or no value to the manure
produced by his flock. Its gradual ac-
cumulation beneath the perches of his
fowls receives only occasional atten-
tion in many instances, and even when
cleaned out more frequently is thrown
away. When its removal becomes
necessary he considers it one of the
unavoidable and unpleasant evils that
go with the business.
But poultry manure has a very real
‘value, and may become a profitable
by-produ.: of the plant. It has been
determined by the Maine experiment
station, working in co-operation with
the United States Department of Ag-
riculture, that the average night drop-
pings of the medium breeds amount to
30 pounds a year for one fowl. On
this basis 100 fowls would produce
3,000 pounds, or 1% tons. The analy-
sis of this manure shows it to be es-
pecially high in two of the three prin-
cipal fertilizing elements. If the
plant food contained in a ton of aver-
age fresh poultry manure were
bought at the price paid, usually, for
it in the form of commercial fertiliz-
ers, the outlay would be about $10.
Taking into account the fact that
the quality of manure produced in
the day time is at least equal to that
prudced at night the specialists find
that one average hen produces about
60 pounds of manure in a year. How-
ever, only the night droppings are
as the droppings
are widely scattered over the yards
and ranges. The night droppings
from 1,000 hens would be worth about
$150 a year. As hen manure, as it us-
ually is cared for, contains only about
one-half its original value, the loss
through this form of neglect must be
very large for the entire country.
The town or city back yard poultry-
man has two real incentives to induce
lows: | the saving of his hen manure. Inthe
by your story of Norway.” | ries a like item—an automobile crash
There never will be another chance with several injured, one seriously.
for it to happen again,” Torger said This time it was a pedestrian who suf-
sternly. : { ferad most, a young man carrying in
Our American young folks are his pocket the address of an Oregon
sometimes thoughtless; but they are ' fruit valley. The hospital wired West
not hard. They'll yet be the best! at once. 4
“wounded in France and among his
Sergeant Samuel Woodfill, thirtieth |
recruit company, Fort Thomas, Ky.,!
who served in the army since 1901,
reaching the rank of captain during |
the war and promptly re-enlisting .
after the war. He was severely
i orchard,
first place his poultry house should be
kept clean if his fowls are to be
healthy, and, in the second place, the
manure may be used immediately dur-
ing a large part of the year in the
or around berry bushes.
However, if this immediate use is re-
friends you have in the world, if you |
will only forgive them . * * *for-!
give us * * * * this time.”
They walked for hours, circling the |
valley roads. Seely felt that he could
not leave the bruised boy. After an|
hour’s silence, striding side by side, |
the only word he could get was the
quiet comment: “If you had come |
newly to my country of Norway and |
had honored us by telling us of your,
own land in our strange new tongue,
no matter how badly you spoke it, we!
would have said: ‘How well he speaks |
our language after being here such a!
short time.” |
“By George!” Seely exclaimed,
“that’s true. I never thought of it that
way. I bet it never comes to most of
us Americans that way. All you folks
from over there learn to speak our ir-
regular language a lot faster than we
could ever pick up yours. We'd be
dubs at it. * * * But if you'll give
us another chance, Amundsen, the
folks of Paradise Valley will show you
what we think of a man who comes
over and makes good in every way, as
you have. * * * Oh, I hope you'll
stay among us, and—"
“There is nothing else to do,” Tor-
ger said simply. “My land here, my
house, they have taken all the inher-
itance money, and the savings, too.”
He hesitated as though he longed to
say more, give some hint of his dream
for the little home; but suddenly the
raw wound of the evening stung him
unbearably; “Good-night,” he said.
Even when he added, by force of hab-
it, his boyhood’s parting phrase,
“Thank you for your good company
on the road,” there was no life or
hope in his face or voice.
No doubt the valley would have re-
deemed itself after that; but over-
night, a night of pain and bewilder- !
ment and decision, the Norsk boy had !
changed his way of living.
dawn he had decided: “There must!
be no chance that any one should ever
laugh at my little Garde. She will
take the language easily. But she
will have only me to take it from at’
first. It is for me to get English per-
fectly. I must sell everything in the!
garden at once and go to school. Ii
must start with the babies. I will;
work at night in the city for money |
to keep a good sum for little Garde;
but most of all I will study, study.”
It was not an easy thing to do. He!
marched into the valley school - that !
first morning with the air of a king, !
and said he had come to learn the’
speaking and reading and writing of
English. He would begin at the very |
beginning and learn it all. So they
gave him a chair in the primary
room. He did not seem to be even
aware of the rest of his class, Tommy :
and Gracie and Eunice, all aged sev-
en, and looking only a quarter of his!
height. He studied with a white in- |
tensity that took him through a grade |
in a month. He heard and saw noth-
ing but the direct words that the
teacher spoke to him or the task she
set him on his tablet.
In the old days, a quarter-hour like
the recess time would have meant the
chance to romp with eager-eyed little
boys or to tell wondrous Northland
tales to crowding little girls. Now
the children might have been wooden
images.
At noon he hurried home from his
chores, caring for his great flock of
chickens that was to surprise Garde,
who was joyously boasting that when
she should come he could add chick-
ens to his little ranch. Directly after
the school hours, he turned his long
stride to make the four miles across
country to the electric line that ran
into the city. What he did there was
long a puzzle to the Valley, but they
knew that he never came back until
the wee hours before dawn, and that
then he slept heavily for a few short
hours before another day of the in-
tense schooling.
The only glint of human warmth
that crept into his soul during those
winter months, when even Seely’s
persistent efforts failed to find his
valley door unlocked, was from the
strange Oriental soul of his night em-
ployer. From six o’clock until two
the next morning Torger’s hours were
spent as a waiter ina Chop Suey
, Garde.
thought got.
‘know what he was traveling
In the L
House, the only job that veo leave
Paradise Valley was touched. “He
was such a nice, hard-working boy,”
every one said, “and he seemed so
kind of eager and happy, with all his
shyness, until that dreadful night at
the Community Club. We'd have
made that up to him a thousand times
if he had let us, and maybe he
wouldn’t have been too proud to for-
give us if we could only have got to-
gether.
ward with that sudden fit of school-
ing and working in town nights at
something or other.”
They wired back to Chicago to take
the best possible care of the Norwe-
gian boy, who hadn’t any kin that
they knew of, and if it was necessary
they’d send Mr. Seely east to bring,
him home when he was able to travel.
They didn’t know where he was going,
or on what errand, or they’d be glad
to attend to that, too, for him.
Twice in those first weeks Torger
came back briefly to the real world of
responsibility. A quick flash of pain
and unrest shot through him; there
was something he should be doing for
But that was as far as the
“I wish we could relieve him from
‘whatever is on his mind,” said the
doctor. “His strong body would come |
back quick enough
if it bad the
chance; but his nearest neighbor don’t
East for.
We can’t do much for him until his
mind clears of itself.”
The precious days slipped by. To
one little immigrant girl, waiting at
Ellis Island for her big blond boy with
‘the voice of the musical sea and the |
smile that was as dearly welcome as
| Northern sunshine, those days were
‘like great, heavy stones building a
: prison for her. Twenty-one of those
stones would seal the prison door and
shut her out of America. If Torger
did not come to marry her in three
weeks she must go back to Norway,
so the officials said.
A strange new fear took possession
of her. Once he had written her that
he would not hold her to her promise
if she wished to change her mind and
marry the professor at the university.
Perhaps now, he had changed his
mind, and would marry some Ameri-
can girl.
Her ready Norse pride fought hard
with her love after this evil idea
came, and she parted at last reluc-
tantly with the city address Torger
had given her, so that the Government
might wire West and find out what
detained the young man. “For the
past six months I have written him
here,” she said.
So the wire went, asking if Torger
Amundsen would not start East at
once to meet his bride in New York.
The answer that came back was sign-
ed Chang Yu, but in unmistakable
English it affirmed, “Torger Amund-
sen left for New York three weeks
ago. Left no address.”
After that there was nothing that
the Government could do, though
sympathy pulled strongly at both mu-
trons and officials for the proud little
girl from Norway. The stones of
that final third week dropped into
place one by one. The prison was
complete. Dry-eyed, with delicate
head erect, Hildagarde Holm walked
{onto the steamship that was to take
her back to Norway.
The terrible, quiet pain of a lost
dream was in her eyes, a dream of a
big, gentle-faced boy in a low-roofed
home in a valley cupped in by opales-
cent peaks of mountains. But she
turned her eyes to the sea, so that no
one might see, and pity her.
Back in the orderly, efficient life of
the big hospital Torger came at last
to himself, and his own doctor sent
the message with all urgence, “Hold
Hildagarde Holm. Torger Amundsen
injured. Will send friends for Miss
Holm.” oO
Sel had appeared by this time
from the valley, and he offered to run
down to New York at once and take
Garde to his own sister's there. But
before he could start, the word came
back that the girl’s ship had sailed
forty-eight hours earlier.
“Have cabled her immediate return
on landing on other side,” the Gov-
ernment replied.
“We must just wait now?” ques-
But he was so busy after-
i
1
i
many decorations wears the medal of |
honor.
Sergeant Harry Taylor, Headquar-
ters troops, First cavalry, Douglas,
Arizona, serving his sixth enlistment
with the cavalry and cited for gal-
lantry in the Meuse-Argonne action.
Sergeant Thomas D. Saunders,
company A, Second Engineers, Camp
Travis, Texas, also wounded overseas
and decorated with the distinguished
service cross for gallantry.
Sergeant Louis Raga, 52nd coast
. artillery, Camp Eustis, Va. also
{ wounded in action overseas.
\ Staff Sergeant James W. Dell, 15th
field artillery, Camp Travis, Texas, a
veteran of long service with the guns
and cited for gallantry in France.
, From the navy will come:
' Chief Torpedo Man, James Dela-
ney. He wears a navy cross for con-
spicuous gallantry and was taken
| prisoner by the Germans when the
steamship Campana was sunk by the
U-51, but refused any information to
the enemy in the face of repeated
threats of death. '* '
Chief Water Tender Charles Leo
O’Connor, of eight year’s service
. afloat and awarded a decoration for
‘ heroism when the U. S. S. Mount Ver-
‘non was torpedoed.
Gunnery Sergeant Ernest A. Jan-
| son, marine corps who has served one
army enlistment and three in the ma-
| vines and fought overseas with the
49th company, Fifth marines, was se-
| verely wounded and wears the con-
gressional medal of honor and other
American and French decorations for
gallantry.
The body will come direct to Wash-
ington Navy Yard from France. The
War Department has ruled that there
shall be no other ceremony but the
nation’s tribute in the nation’s capi-
sorted to the manure should be ap-
plied somewhat sparingly. It is from
two to three times richer in phosphor-
ic acid than the ordinary farm ma-
nures. This, of course, is due to the
kinds of feeds used, and also to the
fact that liquid and solid matter are
together.
It can be handled most satisfactori-
ly if mixed with loam to remove
stickiness in the summer. In the win-
ter it should be mixed with a fair pro-
portion of loam, sawdust, or coal ash-
es, sifted dried earth, land plaster, or
gypsum. Wood ashes and lime should
never be used as they set free the
| nitrogen, which must be avoided.
To put manure on the ground in the
_ winter would mean to lose one-half or
"more of its value. The better plan is
| to store it in barrels or boxes until
time to use on a growing crop. When
stored this way the container should
have several large holes bored in it to
admit air. Some plants having sev-
eral thousand fowls have large bins
| of concrete for saving this manure.
| Untreated, a large part of the nitro-
| gen escapes into the air as ammonia
| The Maine experiment station rec-
ommends using with every 30 pounds
‘ of poultry manure 10 pounds of saw-
| dust, 16 pounds of acid phosphate, and
1 8 pounds of kainit. The acid phos-
phate and the kainit prevent the loss
of nitrogen, and the sawdust absorbs
the excess moisture. If sawdust is
not obtainable, dried earth in about
the same proportion may be substi-
tuted. After being treated in this
way the manure should be put in a
sheltered place until used. If the ma-
terials are kept handy the business of
mixing soon become a routine task.
—The marketing season for guinea
fowl is during the latter part of sum-
tal. When the cruiser Olympic com-
pletes her mission, the casket will be
carried at night to the vast rotunda
of the capitol to lie in state with a
full military guard of honor through
the day and night of November 10th,
under the great dome.
MWhere His Coal Went.
A man who had started out with his
| wife to the movies remembered sud-
denly that he had left his coal shed
unlocked. Returning, he turned the
key in the door and put it in his
pocket. Three hours later, when he
reached home, he found a neighbor in
a state of great indignation. “What's
the matter?” he said, innocently.
“What's the matter?” was the re-
ply. “Do you know you've locked my
wife in your coal shed ?”—Exchange.
OAK HALL.
Quite a number of people from this
place attended the Lewisburg fair
| last week.
Miss Grace Gramley, of Altoona,
spent a few days with her sister, Mrs.
R. C. Lowder.
Mr. and Mrs. Samuel Stover and
sons, of Pleasant Gap, were recent
visitors at the William Folk home.
Mr. and Mrs. Clement Dale, of
Houserville, spent Sunday at the
home of his brother, Mr. Luther Dale.
Mrs. William Allbright and chil-
dren, of this place, spent two weeks
at the home of her brother, at Julian.
Ross Lowder attended the Synod
held at Tyrone last week, as a dele-
gate from the Lemont Presbyterian
church.
Miss Ethel Burwell, of Pine Grove
Mills, visited with her friend, Miss
Elizabeth Peters, from Friday until
Monday.
Miss Lavan Ferree, secretary of the
Y. W. C. A., at Williamsport, visited
over Sunday with her parents, Mr.
and Mrs. W. A, Ferree,
Mr. and Mrs. Howard Frazier, of
Linden Hall, spent Sunday at the
home of Mrs. Frazier’s parents, Mr.
and Mrs. Jacob Zong, in this place.
The Woman's club of Lemont and
Oak Hall held a masque Hallowe'en
social at he W. A. Ferree home, for
the Near East relief. Refreshments
were served, consisting of pumpkin
pie, ginger-bread and coffee. All re-
ported having a very good time.
mer, and throughout the fall. At this
time the demand in the city markets
is for young birds weighing from 1 to
2 pounds each. At about 23 months
old guineas weigh from 1 to 1%
pounds, and at this size they begin
reaching the markets in August. As
the season advances the demand is for
heavier birds.
The usual practice in marketing
game birds is to place them on the
market unplucked, and in most mar-
kets guineas are sold this way. They
appear more attractive with feathers
on, and sell more readily. Dressed,
the small size and dark color of the
skin are likely to prejudice the pros-
pective customer who may be unfa-
miliar with the bird’s excellent eating
qualities. For hotel and restaurant
trade, however, guineas should be
dressed in the same way as common
fowl. Better ask the dealer, before
shipping, whether he wants the feath-
ers on or off.
The Department of Agriculture has
learned that if the feathers are to be
left on the birds all that is necessary
in preparing for market is to bleed
them by severing the principal blood
vessels of the neck, allowing them to
hang head downward until bleeding
is complete.
If the feathers are to be removed
it should be done by dry picking.
When the brain is pierced after sev-
ering the blood vessel in the neck the
feathers are loosened by a convulsive
movement of the muscles and can be
removed easily.
—Some folk have the right kind of
fowls, house and feed them properly,
and still don’t get eggs early in the
winter because their hens are too old.
It seldom pays to keep hens for lay-
ing after they are 2} years old. They
may give a profit, but younger fowls
will give more. Many _poultrymen
who make a specialty of winter-egg
production keep only pullets, dispos-
ing of even the yearling hens before
it is time to put them in the winter
quarters. ;
Early hatched pullets, if properly
grown, ought to begin laying in Octo-
ber or early in November and contin-
ue to lay right through the winter.
Yearling hens seldom begin to lay
much before January 1 and older hens
not until later. It is the November
and December eggs that bring the
high prices. The laying breeds should
begin laying when from 5 to 6 months
old, general-purpose breeds at 6 to 7
months, and the meat breeds at 7 or
8 months.
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