Bemorvaii atcpwmn
Bellefonte, Pa., February 24, 1922,
Sa Csi,
BE A SPORT.
You may call yourself dull in a fit of de-
spair,
Or drop all your pep, and say you don’t
care;
But I'll tell you, my friend, that’s a hab-
it to break.
In planning this world not a single mis-
© take
Was made in the building. So when you
complain
Take stock of yourself.
that’s to blame.
Just right about face; it may hurt some,
it’s true;
But that’s just the way any good sport
would do.
You're the chap
When you wake in the morning den’t look
for a cloud;
You know what's behind it.
in the crowd.
Be one of them, cheerfully singing along.
You may get a bump, but don’t stop your
song,
Perhaps one will hear it who needs just a
bit
Of encouragement now.
be it.
What matter if yesterday’s failures were
big?
Today is your day, so get in and dig.
If you meet any trouble, why just change
Just swing
Your song may
its name,
And call it a ladder. They oft lead to
fame,
But whatever you do, be quick and be-
gin it;
You never can tell just how much there is
in it.
—By Jane Bates.
————————————
TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.
This is the story of the famous Car-
digan case that stood New York by
the ears some eight years ago. It is
not the story which those of you read
as you ran devoured with an after-
math of mental indigestion. It is not
the story that bulged the columns of
the dailies. It is not the story that
gave some editorial writers subject
matter for sermons anent the slime of
the social select. It is the story of a
butterfly’s soul. ;
Now you may claim that butterflies
have no soul, or that if they have, it
is as gossamer as the gauze of their
wings. But in that you are wrong.
They have no consciousness of any.
They skim flutteringly over the tan-
gle and underbrush of life and light
happily on the flower whose scent is
sweetest. And then in an hour un-
guarded, unforseen, they are caught—
But that is my story. ;
The butterfly of the Cardigan case
had masses of blonde hair with flash-
es of red in it and gray eyes that look-
ed at you as if they knew something
about you which she might reveal it
you weren't careful. They made her
particularly fascinating—iryou were a
man. They stimulated an eagerness
to know her better. But few did. She
gave them no time to. She flitted
from one flirtation to another with a
provocative smile flung back over a
dainty white shoulder, and society
shrugged its own and remarked that
Babs was at it again—Barbara van
Buren, charming, reckless and shal-
low, always poised for flight into new
adventure.
The van Buren sisters had been fea-
tured in big luminous type on the so-
cial screen. Both had possessed the
rather arresting personality that un-
consciously features itself. Both
were vivid, impulsive and popular.
Constance, the elder by three years,
with hair a little more red and mouth
a little more serious had married at
twenty-one, Judge Evans Grant,
whose eyes warmed only when they
looked at her and who in his forty-
two years had never loved another
woman.
Barbara spent her summers with
them at their place on Long Island,
but the old Grant house in Washing-
ton Square where they wintered, gave
her the shudders, so with calm disre-
gard of convention, she had taken a
little apartment in the fifties and lived
alone. The two girls had only each
other for so long that Barbara laugh-
ed at the suggestion of a chaperon.
“Don’t worry about Babs, dear,”
Constance teld her husband. “She
can take care of herself.”
In spite of which the Judge did wor-
He worried about the wild set his
sister-in-law flew around with during
her summers on Long Island. He
worried about the hours she kept and
flung away, coming in at four in the
morning and staying in until four in
the afternoon. But most of all, he
worried about the visits to the house
of Dean Cardigan, whose reputation
for recklessness was worse than her
own.
Both the Dean family and the Car-
digans had contributed to the fire in
the blood that raced through young
Cardigan’s veins. There was not a
first rate row at college in which Dean
had not participated. With eyes
aflame, he stampeded any tussle that
happened to be on hand and usually
came out victor. Big and intense and
dogged, with muscles hard as stone,
with face sharp-hewn as an Arab’s,
Dean at thirty was the same reckless
boy he had been at twenty, with no
concern for tomorrow, but wringing
today dry of possibilities. Women
adored him because he inspired in
them the same reckless disregard of
consequences, and men kept their
womenfolk, or tried to keep them, at
a distance for like reason. Babs was
looked upon as the only girl to whom
he had not at one time or another
made love, the reason being, it was
generally conceded, that they were too
much alike.
All of which might seem rather the
beginning of a prescribed hammock
love story than a rehash of the fa-
mous Cardigan affair. But even men
and women who figure in hair-raising
and hair-splittiing murder trials are
apt to be just plain folks until the
law and the newspapers make them
Exhibits A and B.
At five a. m. on a day when the
countryside glistened with fragrant
dew that degenerated into sticky hu-
midity as it met the heat of New
York, one Colby Dickinson, distin-
ished and avoided in every . club
Sn fifth to Park Avenues for his wit
.permission had plunged in after him.
at cards and obtaining correspondence
not addressed to him, was found in the !
areaway of his bachelor apartment
with very little left of his skull. Mr.
Dickinson’s life, which had been more
useful to himself than to anyone else,
had departed completely. :
For a time it was assumed that in
the haze of early morning he had mis-
calculated the step of the old-fashion-
ed reconstructed house, had fallen,
head first, against the iron door of
the basement. The police were con-
tent to let it go at that but an enter-
prising young reporter discovered
faint blue marks at either side of the
neck that had so often stretched into
other people’s intimate affairs and his
sheet instantly blazed big murder
headlines.
The world to whom Colby Dickin-
son, alive, had meant nothing, prompt-
ly found Colby Dickinson, dead, a
most interesting person. The world
which had known, avoided, and fre-
quently feared him buzzed with ru-
mor, supposition and anxious query.
A few faint blue marks made Colby
Dickinson suddenly a hero in the eyes
of a public as rapacious for the thrill
of a sensational murder trial as a
small boy gobbling detective stories.
Human beings with hearts and souls |
became names tossed from mouth to '
mouth as the late Mr. Dickinson’s
very crowded past was searched for
clues. More than one skeleton was |
dragged unnecessarily from closets |
long considered sealed. More than!
one woman took an unpremeditated
trip to Canada. More than one man |
searched hastily through old letters, |
to be sure certain ones were safe, then |
promptly destroyed them. Every un- |
savory possibility was mulled over in
the hope of placing responsibility for
the taking of a life everybody knew to
be useless.
And gradually like a trail of blue
smoke from smoldering flames, the
name of Dean Cardigan drifted into
the affair. He had met Dickinson at
the Brook Club the afternoon before
the latter’s demise. The two had din-
ed together and from snatches of con-
versation overheard, quite accidental-
ly mind you, by the waiter, Cardigan
had told his companion in words not
minced, precisely where he might
be more useful than on mortal
soil. Dickinson had responded with
nothing more than a quiet and con-
tented smile and as that smile broad-
ened, Cardigan’s fury lashed itself
against stone. His two fists clenched
until the muscles stood up, and lean-
ing across the table he had announc-
ed to Dickinson in a low voice, but not
too low for the waiter’s accidental
ears:
“I'll get what I’m after if I have to
lay you flat to do it!”
Whereupon Dickinson had risen
without another word and strolled
out, leaving Dean to sign the check.
Dean sat biting his lips for a moment,
frowning evidently over the fact that
his temper, breaking control, had
availed him nothing, then flung down
napkin and pencil and strode out of
the room. He had held up Dickinson
just as that gentleman was stepping
into a taxi, and without waiting for
Stimulated by the information that
brought a hitherto obscure club stew-
ard smash into the public eye like a
golf ball gone wrong, the janitress of
the apartment house suddenly recall-
ed a man’s angry voice issuing from
Mr. Dickinson’s rooms quite late that
same evening. From her basement
window she had seen the two gentle-
men go in together. But angry voices
came from Mr. Dickinson’s apartment
on the first floor so often that she
paid little attention to this one. Some-
times she thought the ceiling would
come down from the stamping round
—she did! ’
The enterprising young reporter ju-
bilantly began constructing a substan-
tial iron net on the frail foundation
of circumstantial evidence and that
net began to close as tight as the Iron
Lady of Nuremburg round Dean Car-
digan. His reputation for reckless-
ness, his prompt use of fists on any
occasion when they might prove the
most convincing argument, his fury
expressed without reserve, and final-
ly, the discovery in Dickinson’s fire-
place of a torn envelope addressed to
Dean Cardigan in handwriting un-
mistakably a woman’s, all served as
links which were welded together by
the aforesaid reporter who has since,
deservedly, become one of the high-
est priced scenario writers.
And all the while, a young woman
on Long Island, scanning the papers
each day, grew a little whiter. Her
laugh went a little higher when she
did laugh. Her head tossed a little
more carelessly when people spoke
ominously of the mess Cardigan had
got himself into this time. But in
the shelter of her own room in the big
house, with blinds drawn and hair
rather wild where nervous fingers had
gone through it, she walked the floor
instead of sleeping nights. And when
the sun streaked through those blinds
sg that she could no longer deny her-
self to the penetrating light of day,
she flung her little body with arms
drooping like tired wings into the
white bed that must look as though it
had been slept in.
Judge Grant, fortunately, had been
north on a fishing trip since the begin-
ning of the summer, or his sharp eyes
might have questioned the ones that
only half opened as they looked up
from the paper at breakfast. But
since half opening was their habit,
perhaps he would not have noticed
the troubled depths of them, at that.
His wife didn’t appear to when the
sisters met on the veranda toward
noon. But then she, too, was absorb-
ed in the papers, as was all of a cer-
tain set in the smart section of Long
Island, Once or twice, her lovely
eyes did travel over the sheet to rest
on the figure swinging back and forth
in the porch hammock. The blonde
head, flecked with red was always
bent, buried in fact, in her own print-
ed page.
On one occasion, as’ if feeling her
sister’s troubled gaze, she 100 ied over
the newspaper with a thrusv of im-
patience.
“It’s beastly!” came without pream-
ble. “Why don’t they drop the hing!
Nobody cared about Dickinson, e
was just a crawling worm. What
does. it matter if somebody did squash
him 929
“We haven't the right to squash
even worms.” The lovely eyes prob-
ed hers,
alone, anyway? It’s a crime—hound- |
ing him like this. He’s the sort who
fights in the open when there’s a good |
fight going—not under cover of the
dark.” ]
“Do you think he might have quar-
reled with Dickinson and knocked him
down without knowing he had killed
him?”
“No,” came sphaticany. i
“But that’s what they believe, don’t
they ?” |
“How can you tell what they be-'
lieve from the newspapers?”
“He hasn’t attempted to defend
himself, has he?”
“Why should he ?” Bab’s head rear-
ed defiantly. “They'll never actually
pin the thing to him. They can’t!”
She sprang up, went over to her sis-
ter. “Can they?”
The latter was silent. ;
“Can they, Connie?” Babs repeat- |
ed feverishly.
“I don’t know.”
“But there’s nothing definite.
all supposition. Dare they
man’s life—for that?”
“They dare anything.”
The butterfly fluttered back to the
hammock and turned her face away.
“Connie,” came after a moment, “if
—if they find the woman who address-
ed that envelope, could—could she
help him?” :
“What do you mean?”
“Could her testimony clear him?”
Connie’s eyes probed once more, the
head turned from her.
“Pm afraid not. It might only
make matters worse for him. If he
did go after letters and those letters
were ever produced, they might prove
the most damaging evidence against
him.”
“I see.” It was spoken very low.
“Perhaps they won’t hold him for
it, even though it does look bad now. |
Perhaps they'll never get enough ev-
idence to indict him. Let’s pray for
5 ,Babs. That’s all his friends can
0.
“Yes—Ilet'’s pray.”
With a start, Connie studied the
girl. The tone was different from any
she had ever heard issuing from the
ripe red mouth. |
But women’s prayers must have
floated unheard on summer breezes
that year. Early in September, Judge
Grant, returning from his fishing trip,
kissed his wife and looked over the
head on his shoulder at Babs.
“They're going to arrest Dean Car-
digan for the Dickinson murder,” he
announced. “And if I'm assigned to
sit in December, the case, likely as
not, will come up before me. They’ve
got him pretty tight, too. It’s a de-
plorable mess.”
Bab’s hands clasped tightly behind
her back and her lips twitched but |
she said nothing. Connie drew out of |
her husband’s arms.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
Suddenly there came from Babs a
high laugh which she choked down
like a panicky child, and wheeling
round on her heel, skimmed up the
stairs.
. Judge Grant looked after her, then
in questioning amazement at his wife.
“It’s her nerves,” she breathed.
“We've all been on edge ever since it
happened. Don’t you think there's
any hope for him, dear? Tell me—
don’t you?” !
“Not much—with
achieved for himself.”
“But—but Dean’s not bad.
just reckless and romantic.”
“Dean’s pretty much of a scamp.”
“Dean’s thoroughbred, dear. If—
It’s
risk a
the name he’s!
He’s
have been at white heat——"
“No doubt of that.”
“And perhaps—for some one else.”
“Very likely. But the law wouldn’t
consider that.”
Connie looked a little sadly toward
the stairs.
“We have one very like him in our
own family, you know.”
“Don’t I though!” the judge observ-
ed grimly.
“But there’s no harm in her—not a
wee bit. There isn’t dear—you know
that, don’t you?”
“There’s enough trouble in her to
satisfy me.”
“That’s what I want to make you
see—that’s just it! There’s all ‘the
mischief, all the temper in the world
in Dean, too. But he couldn’t be guil-
ty of crime. They couldn’t try him
for murder in the first degree, could
they 7”
“That depends. It all hangs on the
degree of premeditation.”
Connie’s hands closed over his.
“And if they did—and it came up be-
fore you—you’d be lenient, wouldn't
you, no matter what happened? You
could influence the jury in your charge
to them, couldn’t you?”
Judge Grant's lips came together in
a line so thin that their red disappear-
“I should let the law take its course
the same as in any other case.”
His gaze, still puzzled, moved once
more to the staircase. Babs was com-
ing down two steps at a time, feet
scarcely touching them.
It was five in the afternoon but a
big shade hat laden with corn flowers
was pulled over her eyes and she car-
ried a dark blue parasol. .
Connie looked at her with a trace
of nervousness she attempted to hide
from her husband.
“Where are you going, dear?”
Bab’s eyes veiled themselves as she
bent down to smooth the three ruffles
that formed her skirt. Her little hands
traveled over them as if nothing in
the world were at that moment more
important.
“Wait and have tea with your old
brother,” the judge put in fondly.
“I don’t want any tea. Don’t both-
er,” said Babs without looking up.
“I'm just going for a walk. Oh, by
the way,” she glanced back from the
doorway, “do you happen to know
where Dean is staying in town? A
least he hasn’t run away, has he?”
“No. He's at one of his clubs, I
hear. But don’t you try to communi-
cate with him.” Judge Grant started
toward her, “We don’t want you
messed up in it.”
“Of course,” Babs gave another
high laugh, “this is just the time his
friends ought to desert him!”
The judicial pillar of strength turn-
ed helplessly to his wife.
“Connie, reason with her, my dear!
The police by this time know every
move Cardigan makes. inet know
every one he sees, everything he does,
' what he thinks of all of us down
“lay him flat.”
: brought to trial.
“Well, why don’t they let Dean every word almost that he speaks—”
“Everything but what he
Babs interpolated.
De you know that?” he came back
er.
“No. I wish I did. I'd like to know
here
he’s
thinks,”
at
who’ve taken care to forget that
one of us.”
“He’s never been one of us,” Judge
Grant dwelt on the last word, “so far
as I'm concerned. I've never approv-
ed of him.”
“Well, you've never approved of me,
either,” Babs retorted, “but you love
me just the same. And we all do stu-
pid, foolish things we regret after-
ward, even the best of us.”
“Killing a man in a fit of passion
can scarcely be classed as merely stu-
pid or foolish.”
“I don’t believe he did it. I don’t—
I don’t.
“That remains to be proven.”
“But nobody’s waiting for it to be
proven. Just because Dean had a row
* with that beast and they think there’s
a woman mixed up in it, they're judg-
ing him in advance, the public and the
papers. And everybody who knows
him well enough to stand by him is
shutting up tight or running away. It
isn’t fair, I tell you!”
Her face had gone white as paper
but standing with her back to the |
afternoon sun, the judge saw only the |
shadows crossing its pallor.
“Babs, you’re not going to do any-
thing ridiculous? You're not going
to try to communicate with him ?” he
reiterated. With a sort of despera-
tion he looked again toward Connie.
“Don’t worry, dearest,” but her own
voice was trembling, “for our sakes,
Babs will be cautious.”
Babs paused. and her eyes opened
. wide for the flicker of a second.
“No, don’t worry,” she brought out.
. “But if I keep away from him, it’s not
for you—or you. It’s because I think
it's best for him. Gee, but it’s tough,
though—not even to have anybody
brave enough to say ‘hello’ to you!”
Her voice broke on the last words
and she was on the veranda and out
of sight.
A week later they arrested Dean
Cardigan charged with murder in the
first degree. The enterprising young
reporter had constructed his network
so that it fitted link for link. Dean
had forced himself upon his quarry—
“quarry” was the word the reporter
used—accompanied him to his rooms,
| there demanded a compromising letter
—or letters—which Dickinson had in
his possession, and on the latter's re-
fusal, had carried out his threat to
The blows had proved
fatal and Cardigan after searching
for and securing the letter—or letters
| —had burned
it—or them—Ilowered
the body from a windew to the area
way so that it would appear Dickin-
son had been killed outside the house,
| and in the early hours of the morning
! had made his escape.
The janitress, now experiencing
with the club steward the thrill of be-
coming a debutante in the public eye,
elaborated considerably her original
story. She distinctly recalled a thud
‘ outside her basement window at about
three in the morning—she did! She
identified Dean absolutely as the man
she had seen going into the house with
Dickinson and affirmed very positive-
ly that although the evening being
warm, she was at her window most of
it, she had not seen him leave.
And so on the spoken word of two
servants and the written word of a
torn envelope, Dean Cardigan was
At that, he might
have got off without too much trouble,
except for the fact that from the ver
if he did do such a thing, it—it must | b y : dr
eginning he maintained absolute si-
lence. The quarrel he acknowledged,
also the visit to Dickinson’s rooms.
But beyond protesting that he had left
Dickinson at ten-thirty, he refused to
go. And beyond the plea of “Not
Guilty,” they could gather from him
no information that might be called
definite—or defensive.
II
In a narrow room of the Criminal
Courts Building, a man strode back
and forth, hair rumpled, eyes ‘tired,
hands clutching the pockets into which
they were thrust. Across his face
shifted the quick and varying expres-
sions of anxiety, pleading, irritation,
and finally temper.
“For God’s sake, Dean,” and he
pounded the table, “get an angle on
this thing, will you? It’s a matter of
life and death—your life—your death!
Open your mouth, man! ‘Say some-
thing—give us something to go on!
If you don’t, I wash my hands of it, I
tell you!”
fhe man addressed spoke very qui-
etly.
“No you won’t Cochran. You're no
quitter. You'll fight for me to the end
—whatever it’s going to be.”
“Why should I—the way you're
handicapping me? By what right do
you demand it?”
“Friendship—and your ability.”
“That’s it—my ability! You ask
me to help you. You call on me to
plead your case. And then you ex-
pect me to risk my standing as a
member of the bar by refusing abso-
lutely to co-operate with me. Do you
want to die, man?”
“God knows I don’t!”
“Then speak up. You didn’t kill
Dickinson, did you?”
we said a thousand times I did
not.
“Then help me establish the fact.
The bare assertion isn’t enough.”
“I—I'm waiting for some one else
to speak.”
“Some one else?”
stopped short. Who?”
“If I told you that, I could tell the
rest.
“Then do it. For the love of your
own life—do it! I've claimed that
you left Dickinson at ten-thirty, that
you left him—alive, The autopsy
showed that when found, at five
o’clock in the morning Dickinson had
The attorney
t | been dead not more than two hours.
That’s as far as I can go. It’s up to
you to establish your alibi, to prove
you were not with the man between
ten-thirty and three.”
“I could have been in my rooms,
couldn’t 1?”
“Establish it, then. Produce some
one who saw you go in or some one
with whom you communicated in the
meantime.”
“Afraid I can’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“Well—if I simply went to my
rooms and to bed, it’s not likely any-
body else would know it.”
“If? But did you? Where did you
g9, Dean, old man? Talk straight to
ime, won't yqu? It’s the one thing
"you can depend on now.”
| He laid a hand on the dark head
| that dropped suddenly as if some one
i had slashed a whip across the back of
i the neck. '
“Out with it, boy!
straight goods.” :
Dean Cardigan sat still a few mo-
ments and but for the shaking of the
hands he raised to his face, one would
have said he sat with no sign of emo-
tion. But the man whose fingers rest-
ed on his forehead, felt the temples
pounding under a cool moisture, sens-
ed the hopeless fear the other man
had never so expressed by so much as
look or word.
“Dean!” he commanded.
The other raised his eyes. Coch-
ran’s voice grew husky at the look of
them.
“Dean, my boy, don’t give up.
Fight! Help me win for you. Sac-
rifice anybody, anything, to save your
life, lad. If you’ve got to pull some
one else into the mud, it’s got to be
done, that’s all. Chivalry has no place
—here.”
Dean’s hands locked and unlocked
and his mouth worked. He got up
finally, began walking back and forth
with a measured tread that had some-
thing hopeless in the very sound of it.
For ten, perhaps fifteen, minutes the
steady swish of his soles against the
bare boards told on the nerves of the
other man like the grating of steel on
stone. At last he turned. Suddenly
the strain of weeks fell upon him with
hammer stroke. His well-set head
fell to his chest. His back curved.
His eyes closed. Youth, torn from
him by the claws of despair, lay in
shreds at his feet. He looked an old
man. Then his teeth cut
the twitching lips
clenched.
re use! I can’t do it! I can’t do
it!
Give me the
into the
and his hands
(Concluded next week).
GROWING WHEAT SUCCESSFUL-
LY NEAR THE ARCTIC
CIRCLE.
The Alaska Experiment Stations of
the United States Department of Ag-
riculture have demonstrated that it is
possible to raise locally a large part
of the wheat needed by those who
have settled in the Territory. A re-
cent report from the agronomist in
charge of the five Alaska stations
states that in the summer of 1921 a
crop of 3,500 bushels of spring wheat
was produced in the vicinity of the
Fairbanks Station. Most of this
wheat is being ground into flour in a
small mill recently installed at Fair-
banks. The quantity available will
supply the 1,500 people living at or
near Fairbanks. This wheat is the
product of a selection made from a
small sample of grain received from
Siberia in 1914. The grain is hard
and the flour of excellent quality.
About 1,000 bushels of wheat were
produced in the Matanuska Valley in
1921. One field of wheat at the Ma-
tanuska Station yielded 40 bushels
per acre. At the Rampart Station the
varieties of wheat developed from Si-
berian stock and most of the barley
hybrids and oat selections: ripened,
while their parent plants did not fully
mature. Farmers in Tanana Valley
produced 3,000 bushels of wheat, 2,000
bushels of oats, and nearly 1,000 bush-
els of barley. Oats and barley, in ad-
dition to wheat, are being gorwn in
very considerable quantities every
year in the interior valleys from seed
developed at the Rampart and Fair-
field Stations.
The aid of Alaskan agriculture is
chiefly to increase local food supplies.
The main sources of income for Alas-
ka are mining, fishing and timber. It
has long been the belief of those in
charge of Alaska experiment station
work that it is entirely possible to
grow food in sufficient amount to sup-
ply those engaged in all industrial oc-
cupations in the Territoy.
BE ————
ADVOCATES CARP PONDS.
Hundreds of acres of marsh and
waste land in Pennsylvania could be
converted into profitable investments
if the farmers who own them would
convert them into carp ponds, in the
opinion of Daniel N. Kern, an Allen-
town naturalist. A half dozen acres
of land, Mr. Kern declares, would re-
turn greater profits than 30 acres of
soil devoted to agriculture.
The carp, now a more or less de-
spised variety of fish in this country,
the Allentown man asserts, can be
made a ready source of income for
from land which, because of its mar-
shiness, is unfitted for crops. Basing
his opinion on his own = experience
with scale carp and on experiments
with the mirror and leather varieties,
he declares that outside of the labor
involved there is slight expense.
Ponds, he explained, should be con-
structed to prevent a rapid rise or fall
of water, should be of uniform depth
and should be supplied with creek wa-
ter rather than spring water, through
a broad narrow ditch. Feeding is not
necessary as, he pointed out, from 600
to 700 carp to an acre will thrive with-
out feeding. The flesh of the fish is
the best from October to April. . They
spawn in May, the eggs adhering to
grass, weeds, brush and other articles
in the pond and hatching within a
week when they are in shallow, well-
warmed water. :
The ponds should be supplied with
plenty of aquatic plants to provide
food and natural places of deposit for
the eggs. The best method of killing
the fish for food is said to be bleeding
it to death.—Ex.
rr —— A ——————
Study Road Construction.
More inquiries for enrollment in
the new highway instruction course
for home study have been received
by The Pennsylvania State College
engineering extension department
than for any other course ever intro-
duced by the college to working men
of the State. The course was an-
nounced only a few weeks ago and al-
ready hundreds of men interested in
highway construction have written to
the State College extension depart-
ment asking for details of enrollment.
The course, which can be studied at
home, gives detailed instruction on all
phases of road building.
farmers who are getting no return:
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
“Love me little, love me long’—
That is not my style of song.
Riches may be very sweet,
But for love they are not meet.
Bring no maiden unto me
Who is out for £ s. d.
Rather bless me with the sort
That will love me when I'm short.
—John Kendrick Bangs, in Smart Set.
There are always times when each
and every one wishes she could re-
move that disfiguring spot. The fol-
lowing are some simple suggestions
for treating all sorts of stains:
First of all comes the advice. Try
the remedy on a small piece of the
goods first. Every amateur cleaner
ought to do this.
Butter Spots.—These are dissolved
by the application of gasoline. Soap
and water will remove butter from
white woolens.
Egg Stains.—Plain water will re-
move these from woolens. Benzine
will dissolve them from silks, if you
clean them afterwards with a good so-
lution of soap and water, rubbing
carefully with the same colored silk
as the garment you are working on.
Dry it quickly with a blotter.
Fruit Stains.—On wool, fruit stains
are usually dissolved by warm water
and soap. On silks that are of a fast
color use a little gasoline, then sponge
with cold water to which just a little
soap has been added, using acetic acid
on the stains. This should always ac-
complish their removal.
Grass Stains.—Steaming will often
remove them from wool or flannel.
Any gold paint remover has a splen-
did effect. Or you might try rubbing
butter on the spot and placing the
garment in the sunlight to dry. In
this case rinse with gasoline.
Grease Stains.—If the stain is fresh
sponge at once with gasoline, other-
wise dry cleaning is required to re-
move them altogether.
Scorch.—Sulphuric
over the burn, on tans and grays, and
the garments placed in the sunlight
in a good way. Repeat this several
times and dry between each operation.
Or wash with cold water and dry in
the sunlight. The application of hy-
drogen peroxide repeatedly will re-
move the very worst of scorches.
Tobacco Stains.—Good hot soap
and water to which has been added a
little ammonia will remove these.
Tea Stains.—Soap and water will
generally remove these. Should this
tail try alcohol.
acid sponged
Kitchen shoes are an important—
ond often neglected—detail. Many
‘women work in positively crippling
shoes, and yet they complain that
housework fags them so! No won-
der! You just can’t do housework in
shoes that cramp and inflame your
feet and perch you up on two inch
heels.
Shoes for kitchen wear should have
moderately stout soles—nothing tires
the foot so quickly as a thin, “papery”
sole—and they should fit easily. That
is, they should be loose eneugh for the
foot to lie down comfortably in them,
but they should not be sloppy enough
to slip. And they should be made
either of stout fabric—preferably can-
vas, because velvet is so hot—or of
soft glace kid.
To keep one’s hair in order the
nicest thing is a Dutch cap, of either
voile or muslin. They are perfectly
easy to make, and take very little
stutf, and they save an enormous
amount of hair washing, trouble and
expense. Voile and muslin are better
than more substantial fabrics, because
they keep the dust off the hair quite
efficiently and yet allow the air to
reach it. If they are drawn in by an
elastic at the back they are so com-
fortable that one doesn’t know they
are there.
Care is necessary to make a good
salad. Dressing must be thoroughly
mixed, icy cold, and the ingredients
of the salad itself should be daintily
prepared.
In making either mayonnaise or
French dressing have everything cold.
Chill the bowl with ice water and in
hot weather mix in a larger bowl of
cracked ice, or, if that be not conven-
lent, at least sit in the cellar while
making mayonnaise; otherwise it will
be apt to curdle.
Always keep the eggs in the ice box
for at least an hour before making
dressing and see that they are so care-
fully separated that not a particle of
the white remains.
Patience is the one secret of suec-
cessful mayonnaise. If the drop by
drop principle is not rigidly adhered
to until the dressiing takes on sub-
stance that makes going back im-
probable, dire will be results.
Should the dressing curdle, begin
over again with a fresh egg, mixing
in the curdled part after the new
dressing is well stiffened.
In making a quantity of mayon-
naise it is better to thin with pieces
of cracked ice rather than with lemon
or vinegar, as, otherwise, it may be
too acid.
Even though the dressing looks all
right and has been set away for sev-
eral hours in the refrigerator be care-
ful not to stir it before putting on the
salad; otherwise you may be horrified
to have it go back when just ready to
be served. This is not an infrequent
occurrence, but is usually caused by
too rapid mixing.
If too late to start over again with
the fresh egg, the only thing te do not
to delay the dinner is to hastily mix
a good French dressing, consoling
yourself that it is more healthful after
a big dinner than the heavier mayon-
naise.
Rub a bit of garlic or onion on the
salad bowl in making any dressing
and the flavor will be much improved.
A tablespoonful or two of rich
cream added just at the last to may-
onnaise makes it lighter and richer.
To be sure, the main purpose of
our bath is cleanliness. But your
Poth if taken rightly, can be more
than just a lathery route to a clean
skin, says a writer in the Milwaukee
Journal. wn
It can restore your vitality after a
strenuous day in the office or in home
work. It can hasten the coming of
slumber when your nerves are ragged
It can be the stimulus you need for
the ordeal you are about to face.