’ <8
The Girl a
Horse and
a Dog
FRANCIS LYNDE J
Copyright by Oharles Scribners Sons
(Continued).
“It is; I have a deed from my grand-
father.” So much I said, but I didn't
go on to explain how the quick wit of
a girl who now hated me had saved
that deed from being a mere scrap of
waste paper. Not that I knew how
she had done it—but the tangible fact
was safely in my pocket,
Fifteen minutes after this break-
fast table talk I was bidding a tem-
porary good-by to the wreck on the
Cinnabar ledge, and was about to take
the road to Atropia with Beasley;
both of us intent upon catching a way-
freight to Angels. Daddy had lent me
the piebald pony for the ride to the
railroad station—this either with or
without Jeanie’s consent; I didn’t
know and forbore to ask—and the
harlequin-faced dog was ready to trot
at the pony’'s heels. But the blue-eyed
maiden had shut herself up in her
room, and I thought she wasn't geing
to come out and see me off.
At the final moment, however, after
Beasley had already steered his nag
across the dump head, and I was
about to climb into my saddle, she
came to the cabin door, and was both
curiously embarrassed and a bit
breathless.
“Please !—one minute!” she begged;
and as I took my foot out of the stir-
rup: “Do you know what they have
done with—with—"
“With Bullerton?’” I helped out.
“No, I don’t know; but I suppose
they've taken him on to the county
seat at Copah with the others.”
“Then—then—please let him go! If
you refuse to prosecute—"
“Make yourself entirely easy,” I
broke in, a bit sourly, maybe. “I'll
agree not to play the part of the dog
in the manger.”
“Thank you—so much!” she mur-
mured; and then she backed away
quickly and went in and on through
to the kitchen, leaving me to follow
Beasley, which I did, with the sour
humor telling me that of all the puz-
zling, unaccountable things in a world
of enigmas, a woman's vagaries were
the least understandable.
all was said and done, and after all
that had happened and been made to
happen, it seemed to be palpably ap-
parent that Jeanie Twombly was still
in love with the jeet.
CHAPTER XIX.
Angels, Desert and Urban,
Our stop-over in Angels, Friend
Beasley's and mine, was of the short-
est. Our business with Father Wil-
Ham Dubbin was the merest travesty
upon a trial at law, and was speedily
concluded.
Since there would be no passenger
train until afternoon, Beasley and 1
resumed our places in the freight’s
caboose, and in due time were set
down in Brewster, the breezy little
metropolis of Timanyoni Park.
Here my captor—and friend—ap-
peared to be very much at home. He
took me to the best hotel, where he
was greeted with affectionate cama-
raderie by a clerk who wore a dia-
mond big enough to serve for a loco-
motive headlight, shook hands with,
azd introduced me to, a number of
gentlemen in the lobby, and presently
gave me orders to go up to our rooms
and “take a wash,” preparatory to
meeting a certain friend of his at
luncheon ; the meeting contingent upon
his being able to “round up” the friend
in time for the feast.
It still wanted a half-hour of the
appointed luncheon time when I de-
scended to the lobby. A little before
one o'clock Beasley came in with a
middle-aged man who looked as if he
might have been the retired manager
of a Wild West show ; not long-haired,
oi* anything like that, but with the
cool eye and bronzed, weather-beaten
face of one who lived under house
roofs only when circumstances forced
him to. A moment later 1 was shak-:
ing hands with Mr. William Starbuck,
mine owner, ranchman, a director in
the Brewster National bank, president
of the Brewster Commercial club and
the prime mover in a lot of other clvic
activities too numerous to mention.
I may pass lightly over the events
of the three days following; days in
which Mr. William Starbuck, who
seemed to be known to all the old-
timers in Brewster as “Billy,” and to
the younger generation as “Uncle Bil-
ly,” labored untiringly in my behalf;
procured me the necessary working
credit at the Brewster National,
helped me in the telegraphic ordering
of new machinery, helped Beasley to
rustle up a small army of mechanics
to go ahead of us to the Cinnabar,
and last, but not least, made my peace
wit a the railroad company in the mat-
ter of the stolen and smashed inspec-
Aon car; this being a thing which he
was easily able to do because he was
the brother-in-law, once removed, of
the railroad company’s vice president
and general manager.
On our last day in Brewster, and as
a parting favor, I asked Starbuck how
J should proceed in regard to quash-
For, after’
ing the indictment against Bullerton, |
and when I did so he gave me a
shrewd look out of the cool gray eyes,
with a gentle uplifting of the shaggy |
brows. “If you are determined to let
Bullerton go, all you have to do is to
do nothing. If you don’t appear in
Copah to prosecute him and his would-
be mine jumpers, the case against!
them will be dismissed, as a matter of
course. But really, you know, you
ought to make an example of them.”
“In the circumstances, I can’t.” I
returned, so we let it go at that; and
an hour later Beasley and I were on
our way back to Atropia and Cinna-
bar mountain. .
CHAPTER XX.
Cousin Percy Wires.
It was on the evening of the fourth
day’s absence that Beasley and I left
the train at Atropia and took the
mountain trail in reverse for a return
to the high bench on Old Cinnabar,
Beasley riding a borrowed horse, and
I the calico pony, which Daddy Hiram
had sent down to the station by one of .
the newly imported workmen. |
Just as we were leaving the rail- |
road station Buddy Fuller, the opera-
tor, ran out to hand me a telegram.
Since it was too dark to see to read it,
and I supposed, naturally, that it was
nothing more important than a bid
from some machinery firm anxious to
supply our needs, I thought it might
wait, stuck it into my pocket—and
promptly forgot it.
Our talk, as we rode together up the
now familiar trail, was chiefly of busi-
ness; the business of reopening the
mine; and it was not until we were
nearing our destination that the ex- |
marshal said:
“Still stickin’ in your craw that you
ain’t a-goin’ to pop the whip at Charley !
Bullerton ?” i
“It is,” I answered.
“Well, now, why not?”
“Principally because I have promised
somebody that I wouldn't prosecute.”
“Not Hi Twombly; he'd never ast
you to do anything like that.”
“No; not Daddy Hiram.”
He didn’t press the matter any
further, and we rode on in silence. As |
we approached the neighborhood of
the mine, evidences of the forthputting '
activities began to manifest them- !
selves, !
Daddy Hiram met us at the door of |
his newly repaired cabin across the |
dump head and insisted upon taking
care of the horses. Beasley and I'
washed up at the outdoor, bench-and- |
basin lavatory; and when we went in,
Jeanie had supper ready for us.
She didn’t sit at table with us—
from which I argued that she and her
father had already eaten—and I
thought she purposely avoided me;
avoided meeting my eye, at least. I
didn’t wonder at it. Her position, as
I had it figured out, was rather awk-
wardly anomalous. By this time, I
had fully convinced myself that she
was in love with Bullerton, and was |
probably engaged to be married to
him; and that it was only her native
honesty that had driven her to take
sides against him in the struggle for
the Cinnabar, prompting her 10 do the
one thing which had knocked his ne-
farious scheme on the head-——namely,
the recording of my deed.
Knowing nothing but hard work,
Daddy Hiram was running the deep- !
well pumps himself, or rather, taking |
the night shift on them; and about ten |
o'clock, just as I had made up my mind |
to go to bed and let the repairing ac- |
tivities take care of themselves, I saw |
Jeanie going over to the boiler shed |
with a pot of freshly made coffee for
her father. Here was my chance, I
“Let's Have It Out, Jeanie,” | Said.
thought ; so I waited and cornered her
as she came back.
“Let's have it out, Jeanie,” I said;
which, I confess, was a sort of brutal |
way to begin on the woman I loved,
and yet the only way if I was to go on
remembering that she belonged to an-
other man. “We can at least be good |
friends, can’t we?”
“No,” she returned, with a queer lit-
tle twist of her pretty lips and a flash |
of the blue eyes, “I'm afraid we can't
even be that—or those—any more, Mr, |
Broughton.”
It was awkward for both of us,
standing there before the open cabin
door, and I pointed to the bench where
Daddy Hiram was wont to smoke his
evening pipe in good weather.
“Won't you sit down until we can
sort of flail it out?” I begged.
|
“It’s no use, whatever,” she object-
{ ed; nevertheless, she did sit down and
let me sit beside her.
“I know just how distressed you
must be,” I began, “and perhaps I can
lift a bit of the lead from your shoul-
ders. There will be no legal steps
taken against your—against Charles
Bullerton.”
“Thank you,” she said; just as short
as that.
“And that isn’t all,” I went on. “Aft-
er we get into the ore and have some
real money to show for it, I'm going
to make over a share in the Cinnabar
to your father and put him in a posi-
tion to do the right thing by you when
you marry. And he'll do it; you know
he'll do it.”
“How kind!” she murmured, look-
ing straight out in front of her.
“It isn’t kindness; its bare justice.
Between you, you two have saved my
legacy for me.” .
“I wish, now, it hadn’t been saved!”
she exclaimed, as vindictively as you
please.
Truly, I thought, the ways of women
are past finding out; or at least the
way of a maid with a man is.
“Can’t I say anything at all without
putting my foot into it?” I asked in
despair. “You break a man’s back
with a load of obligation one day, and
tess him lightly out of your young life
the next! I haven't done anything to
earn your—to earn the back of your
hand. Jeanie; or if I have, 1 don't
know what it is.”
“You have committed the unparden- |
able sin,” she accused coolly. ‘I don't
wonder that Miss Randle took ycur
ring off.”
I wasn’t going to let the talk shift
to Lisette; not if I knew it, and couid
help it.
“What is the unpardonable sin?’ 1
asked.
son capable of a thing when a person
is not; to—just take it for granted
! train and met Mr.
“To misunderstand: to think a per- | pen just as they were starting up the
that a person is guilty—oh”—with a
little stamp of her foot—*I can’t bear !
to talk about it!”
I guess it’s a part of a man’s equip-
ment to be dense and sort of stupid— |!
in his dealings with women, I mean.
Slowly, so slowly that I thought the |
catch would never snap and hold, my
fool mind crept back along the line, |
searching blindly for the point at
which all ¢his fiery indignation towara
me had begun; back and still back to
that moment of our deliverance—
Daddy’s and mine—at the shafthouse
door, with this dear girl untwisting her
arms from her father’s neck, and with
me saying, “I'm not hurt, either. Wei-
come home, Miss Twombly—or should
I say. Mrs. Bullerton?”
“Jeanie!” I gasped; “do you mean
that you're not going to marry Charles
Bullerton 2—that you never meant to?" |
“Of course, I'm not!” she retorted.
with a savage little out-thrust of the |
adorable chin. “But you thought so
small of me that you. simply took*it
, for granted!”
I wagged my head in deepest hu-
mility.
“I'm as the dust under your pretty
feet, Jeanie; please don’t trample me |
too hard. Bullerton—that is—er—we !
had a scrap the next morning after
you went away, you know, and I
well, he rather got the worst of it.
And when I had him down and was
trying to make him tell us where you
were—even your father thought you’
gone off with him—he said you’G
planned to go with him to get mar-
ried, but that you had failed to show
up at Atropia in time for the train.”
“He told a lie. because that is the
way he is made and he couldn't help
it,” she said simply. still as cool as
a cucumber. “He sid we were going
to Angels to get married, and I—I
| didn’t say we weren't; I just let him
{ talk and didn’t say anything at all.”
“Won't you tell me a bit more?” I
begged.
“You don’t deserve it the least lit
tle bit, but I will. It began with the
deed; your deed to the mine. One
day, when you were over at the shaft.
house, and had left your coat here in
the cabin, I saw him take the deed
from your pocket when he didn’t know
I was looking. He read it and put it
. back quickly when he heard me stir
{| ring in the other room.
| hadn’t been recorded; you and Daddy
I knew, it
had both spoken of that. I felt sure
he'd take it again, and perhaps de-
stroy it. At first, T thought I'd tell
vou or Daddy, or both of youu But ¥
i knew that would mean trouble.”
“We were never very far from the
fighting edge in those days,” I admit-
ted. “Bullerton had shown me the
gun he always carried under his arm,
and had told me what to expect in
case T were foolish enough to lose my
temper.”
“T know,” she nodded. “He Kkille¢
a man once; it was when I was a
little girl and we were living in Crip-
ple Creek. He was acquitted on the
plea of self-defense. So I didn’t dare
say anything to you or to Daddy.
What I did was to steal your deed
myself, when I had a chance. Daddy
has some blank forms just like it, and
I sat up one night in my room and
made a copy. It wasn’t a very good
| copy—your grandfather's handwriting
was awfully hard to imitate. Besides,
I didn’t have any notarial seal. But
I thought it might do for—for some-
thing to be stolen. Then I hid the
real deed and put the copy back ir
the envelope in your pocket.”
“And Bullerton finally stole it, just
as you thought he would,” I put in.
“He did. You are dreadfully care
less with your things; you are al.
| ways leaving your coat around. just
where you happen to take it off. I
knew then that the next thing to be
done was to get your deed recorded
quickly. He—he was urging me every
day to run away with him, and I was
afraid to tell him how much I despised
him; afraid he'd take it out on you
"and Daddy. So I just let him go or
and talk and believe what he pleased,
Of course, he wanted to ride with me
the morning we went away, but after
we got down the road a piece, I made
an excuse to go o1 ahead by another
trail.”
“That much of what he told your
father and me—when we were having
the scrap—was trme. He sald yor
went on ahead.”
“T didn’t go to Atropia, as he ex-
pected me to,” she continued calmly
“I took the old Haversack trail across
the mountain to Greaser siding. T
knew that the Copah train would stop
there on the side-track. When I got
as far as the Haversack I thought I
heard somebody following me. I was
scared and didn’t know what to do. I
was afraid my copying of the deed had
been discovered and that the originei
would he taken away from me, so I
hurried to hide the real deed. The
old Haversack tunnel seemed to be &
good place, but while I was in there
Barney began to bark, and I looked
out and saw that the noise I had heard
had been made hy a stray cow froia
one of the foothill ranches. So I re-
mounted snd rode on to catch the
train to Copah. At Greaser siding 1
tried to make Barney lead the pon;
home, and Barney tried his best to de
it. But Winkie wanted to graze, and
1 had to go off and leave them when
the train came,
except that T had to wait two days al
my cousin's in Copah before IT could
get the deed back from the record-
er’s ofiice. They were awfully slow |
about it.”
“It isn't quite all.” 1 amended. “You
haven't told me how yeu happened to
come back with Beasley and his
posse.”
“That was just a coincidence, I
reached Atropia on the early moruing
Beasley and his
mountain. Cousin Buddy Fuller bad
told me how he had telegraphed to
Angels for Mr. Beasley, and I was
scared to death, of course, because I
knew what it meant. So I borrowed
the Haggertys’ pony and came along
with the posse.”
There was silence for a little time;
such silence as the clattering and
hammering of the carpenters and
steam-fitters permitted. Then I said:
“And when you got here, the fist
thing I did was to call you ‘Mrs. Bul-
lerton’. I don’t blame you for not he-
catchings between the words. “I owed
myself that much, don’t you think? Ir
I didn't deceive him outright, I'm
afraid I did let him deceive himself.
So that made me responsible, in a way,
and I couldn’t let you send him to jaii,
could I?”
“But what about me? Are you go-
ing to send me to a worse place than
any jail?—for that is what the whole
wide world is going to be to me with-
out you, Jeanie, dear.”
Her answer was ‘ust like her: She
turned and put up her face to me ana
said, “Kiss me again, Stannie.” Anu
though all the cam 2nters on the joi
were looking on, as I suppose they
were, by this time, I took her in my
arms,
It was a short spasm; it sort of had
to be in the public circumstances,
When it was over, I folded Percy's
telegram, took out wy pencil, and wiin
the dear girl looking on, printed wy
reply on what was left of the message
blank. This is what I said:
“The same to you. Have found the
G., the H. and the D., and Miss Jeanie
Twombly and I are to be married us
soon as we can find a minister. Tuci-
dentally, 1 have learned how to work.
Hope it will be a comfort to you. to
Grandfather Jasper—if he is where he
can hear of it—and to all concerned.
“STANNIE.”
{THE END.
That’s all, 1 think, ;
cm cet see A eines
| THANKSGIVING DAY
; FOR WORLD URGED.
clergymen,
| Bishops, professional
‘men and politicians are indorsing a:
' movement for the observance of an
annual Thanksgiving day for the
‘ world.
i Events have moved so rapidly in the
‘last few years and the progress made
: by the Conference on Limitation of
. Armament appears to be so encourag-
‘ing, that these leaders are urging an
| international day of thanksgiving, in
which the nation express their appre-
‘ ciation to the Almighty of the bless-
i ings conferred on mankind.
| The American Thanksgiving day, of
! New England origin, dealing with
| thanks for preservation against cold
| and hunger and Indians, has been out-
i grown, leader of the new movement
| contend. They say the time has come
i for a Thanksgiving day in which all
' the world can participate.
| Governor Sproul, Mayor Moore, the
i Rev, Dr. Russell H. Conwell, Bishop
‘ Joseph D. Berry, Dr. W. W. Keen and
| the Rev. Dr. Emory W. Hunt, presi- |
FARM NOTES.
—How about getting a little of
your favorite harness dressing and
| by applying it extend the life of the
harness. : : :
—Freezing not only injures milk
but makes it difficult to get an actu-
al sample for testing. Protect your-
self and do not injure nature’s best
food by letting it freeze.
—Male birds should be with the
flock at least two weeks before eggs
are saved for hatching. It is time to
| be sure that you have your male birds
| for this season’s breeding.
—Watersprouts and the surplus
limbs take too much water from the
trees in time of drought; prune out
those which are not needed on the tree
and save the water for the fruit.
—Buttermilk is equal to skimmed
milk for feeding hogs, while whey is
half as valuable. Whey, being low in
protein, is not well suited for young
pigs and should be fed to older ani-
mals.
—For tree wounds paint is a good
dressing. Mix white lead and raw
linseed oil and have it rather thick.
! A bit of raw sienna will give the paint
| very nearly the color of the bark of
the tree.
—The quality of the eggs marketed
is what determines the price. When
eggs of all kinds are mixed together,
remember that you get just as little
for the good eggs as is paid for the
poor ones.
—Not every one knows that the first
Pennsylvanian to appreciate the value
of forests was William Penn himself.
In 1861 he provided that for every
five acres cleared in Pennsylvania one
acre should be left in woods.
—Cabbage and lettuce seed to be
started in green houses or in small
quantities in the garden for an early
‘crop should be on hand. In southern
| Pennsylvania seed may be sown now.
; In the northern part of the State a
week or two later.
—If a heavy load of snow or ice
' comes on the berry bushes and shrub-
| bery, go around and knock off all pos-
i sible with a pole. It may save their
i breaking down. The careful fruit
| culturist keeps a watchful eye on his
i plants and bushes all the time.
—When the roughage for dairy
cows is clover or alfalfa hay, the
' grain rations may be 200 pounds corn
! and cob meal, 100 pounds ground oats
and 100 pounds gluten feed; or 250
! pounds corn and cob meal, 100 pounds
hit bran and 100 pounds gluten
| feed.
—Prune grapes after severe winter
ing able to forgive me, Jeanie, girl; dent of Bucknell University, indorse weather is over and before the vines
honestly, I don’t.”
“It was. worse than a crime.” she
averred solemnly; “it was a blunder.
What made you do it?”
fool; but mostly because I was sore
and sorry and disappointed. I thought
Bullerton had beaten me to it.”
“No,” she said quite soberiy; “it
was Miss Randle who beat you to it.”
I gasped. There were tremendous
possibilities in that cool answer of
hers; prodigious possibilities,
“But say!” 1 burst out; “didn’t I
tell you that Lisette had pushed me
overboard long ago?”
“I know. She was sensible enough
to see that you and she couldn't live
on nothing a year. But now that you
are rich, or are going to be . .. I'm
sure you are not going to be less gen-
erous than she was. What if she did
take your ring off in a moment of dis- |
couragement, and knowing that you
couldn’t buy her hats? You can he
very sure she put it on again as soon
as your buck was turned.”
There we were; no sooner over one
hurdle before another and a higher
one must jump up. I groaned and
thrust my hands into my pockets. A
paper rustled and I drew it out. It
was the telegram Buddy Fuller had
handed me, still unread. I opened it
half absently, holding it down so that
the glow of the nearest flare fell upon
the writing. Then I gave a little yelp,
swallowed hard two or three times
and nearly choked doing it, and read
the thing again. After all of which T
said, as calmly as I could:
“But, in spite of all that I had told
you about Lisette, you asked me once
to kiss you.”
“Is—is it quite nice of you to re-
mind me of it?” she inquired reproach-
fully.
“It wouldn't be—in ordinary cir-
cumstances; it would be beastly. But, '
listen, Jeanie; haven't you been mad |
clear through, sometimes, in reading |
a story, to have a coincidence rung ‘in
on you when you knew perfectly well
that the thing couldn’t possibly have
happened so pat in the nick of time?”
“I suppose I have; yes.”
“Well, don’t ever let it disturb you
again. Because the real thing is a lot
more wonderful and unbelievable, you
know. Listen to this: it's a wire from
my cousin, Percy; the one who sent
me out into the wide, wide world to
look for a girl, a horse and a dog, and
who is the only human being outside
of Colorado who knows where I am
likely to be reached by telegraph. He
is in Boston, and this is what he says:
‘Recalled home when we reached
Honolulu, out-bound. Lisette and 1
were married today. Congratulate
us.! ”
For a minute there was a breathless
sort of pause, and I broke it.
“Jeanie, dear, was it just common
honesty and good faith that made yon
take all these chances, with the deed,
and with Bullerton?”
“Yes, I'm commonly honest,” said
the small voice at my shoulder,
“Bullerton is a shrewd, smart fel-
low,” I went on. “I'll venture to say
that he never made such a bonehead
break as I did the morning you came
back. You must think something of
him or you wouldn't have asked me
not to prosecute him for trying to
murder your father and me.”
She looked down at her pretty feet,
which were crossed.
“I think—a little something—of my- J
self,” she said, with small breath-
i the movement.
| “I am in hearty accord with your
| wide day of thanksgiving in each
Theodore Heysham. Baptist clergy-
man, of Norristown, who is promoting
the world’s Thanksgiving day move- :
“It is so important that we"
i ment.
should turn aside from our regular
‘toil once a year to give thanks for
. the blessings and bounties which we
. enjoy, that I can think of nothing
| that would be more appropriate than
| to have the entire world bow its head
. in reverence at the same time.
Mayor Moore believes that an inter-
| national day of thanksgiving will be
| “of great service to the world.”
Dr. Emory W. Hunt said: “Thanks-
| giving day on the old basis of the ex-
perience of the Pilgrims is out of date
: now, when a shortage in one section
| is immediately rectified by our trans-
: portation system.”
' giving day has “been a geat blessing
: to the United States and, as a matter
i of course, would be a much greater
! blessing to the whole world.”
Bishop Berry says: “I am in favor
i of all movements that will help inter-
‘ national agreements and promote a
spirit of thanksgiving to Almighty
God for the blessings to nations of
the earth.”
Potato Spraying Pays.
For the fourth consecutive year,
farmers have conclusive evidence that
potato spraying pays.
ered from fifty-seven counties, where
i the local county farm bureau conduct-
‘ed 402 spraying demonstrations last
summer on over ten thousand acres,
“have just summarized as follows: .
in Pennsylvania—1918, 1919, 1920, 1921.
No. counties 12..26. 42 57
No. demonstrations 32 224 318 402
No. acres sprayed 314 1787 6192 10140
| Av. yield unsprayed bu 108 126 183.3 150
yield sprayed bu 142 169 258 233
! Av. Inc. per acre bu
. per cent increase 32.3 34. 33.3 46.7
| The average per cent. increase in
four years is 86.6 on 34 farms. 80
| acres were sprayed in Centre county
in 1921.
i els.
The outstanding feature for the
year’s report lies in the fact that de-
spite the extremely dry and hot
weather of last summer, there was
practically no decrease in the extra
yield of sprayed
year. In both 1920 and 1921 the in-
crease per acre was slightly over T4
bushels, for the State average. When
the average cost of spraying an acre
of potatoes—$10.66—is taken
consideration, it is seen that it is
most certainly a paying proposition.
sprayed in each of the four years
since The Pennsylvania State College
agricultural extension division has ad-
vocated spraying through field dem-
onstrations. This figure has just
about doubled, due to the more effi-
cient methods and practices adopted
as the movement has taken hold with
farmers of the State.
carried them through the late blight
of the previous year. It has been
proved beyond question that Bordeaux
mixture applied to potato vines acts
as a stimulant under all circumstanc-
es, according to Prof. E. L. Nixon,
extension plant disease specialist at
the College.
1 r——— A ——————
——A flat pocketbook and a flat tire
are about the worst combination.
suggestion for a universal or world- :
ear,” Governor Sproul wrote to Dr.’
“Partly because I was a jealous | 3 ’ >
Dr. Conwell declares that Thanks-'
Figures gath-
Four years’ results with potato spraying ;
34.8 429 74.7 74.3
The average increase per |
acre for 1920 and 1921 was 75 bush-
over unsprayed |
vines compared with the previous |
into
There has been a steady increase in |
' the average yield of sprayed over un-!
Spraying last year carried potatoes
safely through the dry spell, as it had |
| bleed. Sixty buds on the bearing wood
‘of a grape vine are about the maxi-
i mum for a strong vine; a less number
lis better for vines of weaker growth.
Sixty buds should give 150 bunches of
grapes. Leave only two buds on each
bearing shoot.
—The young calf should be fed
whole milk for at least three weeks
and then gradually changed to skim
milk with the addition of grain and
hay, say specialists at The Pennsyl-
vania State College school of agricul-
ture. A dry, airy stall, admitting an
abundance of sunlight, provides a fa-
| vorable environment for maximum
growth.
| —In about six or eight years from
the time the tree was planted in its
permanent place, the apple should be-
gin to bear. The pear tree will aver-
age about the same age. The peach,
under favorable conditions, often
bears at three years of age; in any
event at four years, unless injured by
frost or otherwise. The plum at four
to five years. Sour cherries at four
and sweet cherries at six or seven.
+ Raspberries, blackberries and dew-
berries, if planted in the spring,
should bear a light crop the next year.
Strawberries the same. Currants and
gooseberries usually bear the third
season after planting. Grapes may
, bear very lightly the third season, but
‘not much fruit should be expected
: earlier than the fourth year.
i —Leaving manure in piles in the
field is an antiquated method that
should never be practiced, for the rea-
son that it results in fertilizing the
spots where the heaps lie too heavily,
giving them fully three times as much
of the fertilizing elements as they
need, while three times as much
ground receives less than it needs, or
not enough to make a showing.
Where manure is permitted to re-
‘main in heaps on a field for a few
weeks or a month, it is an impossibili-
ty to spread it so as to get an even
distribution of organic matter ard of
the elements of fertility.
i It is preferable to spread the ma-
nure direct from the wagon with a
fork. For the most economical re-
' sults, manure should be hauled direct
from the barn as soon as it is made
and scattered over the fields by means
. of a spreader.
In this way, and in this way only,
| can the full value of manure be saved,
provided, of course, enough bedding
is used in the barn to nicely absorb all
the liquid excrement, the plant food
{of which amounts to nearly one-half
of the total in the manure and liquid
excrement.
—There is no more important fac-
tor in market gardening than earli-
ness. A few days’ or a week’s differ-
ence in marketing very often makes
. the difference between profit and loss.
The prices realized for extra-early
| crops stimulates considerable activity
{in that line.
In this connection an experiment in
potatoes some years ago by the Rhode
Island Experiment Station is worth
recording. The tubers were cut into
pieces not smaller than an English
walnut (rejecting the two or three
eyes nearest the stem end). The piec-
es were placed side by side in the bed,
skin side upward, and covered about
. four inches deep with fine, rich earth.
: The growth was controlled by proper
regulation of the cold-frame sash.
At planting time the tubers, the
sprouts of which were just breaking
the surface of the soil, were carefully
lifted with manure forks, separated by
hand and placed in well-fertilized
rows in March and entirely covered
with soil.
| It required 216 square feet of cold-
| frame to sprout sufficient potatoes to
| plant an acre in 30 to 32-inch rows, 12
inches apart. Eight men transplant-
‘ed an acre in a day.