Beworralic Watcmon
"Bellefonte, Pa., June 23, 1922.
TE ANTE.
A PRAYER.
By Beron Bradley.
Lord, let me live a Regular Man,
With Regular friends and true;
Let me play the game on a Regular plan,
And play it that way all through;
Let me win or lose with a Regular smile,
And never be known to whine,
For that is a “Regular fellow’s” style,
And I want to make it mine.
Oh, give me a regular chance in life,
The same as the rest, I pray,
And give me a Regular girl for a wife,
To help me along the way;
Let us know the lot of humanity,
Its Regular woes and joys,
And raise a Regular family
Of Regular girls and boys.
Let me live to a Rgular good old age,
With Regular snow-white hair,
Having done my labors and earned my
wage,
And played my game for fair;
And so at last when the people scan
My face on its peaceful bier,
They'll say, “Well he was a Regular man,”
And drop a Regular tear.
“ALL ASHORE THAT'S GOING
ASHORE.”
“What’s she doing here?
what I should like to know!”
Mrs. Chamberlaine, engaged in that
delicate and fastidious process known
among women as “drawing a thread,”
paused suddenly, lifted her still fine
eyes to the face of Mrs. Wallace who
was having tea with her, wrinkled her
high-bridged nose, and contorted her
eyebrows.
“My dear!” murmured Mrs. Wal-
lace, not so much by way of reply as
to show her complete agreement with
whatever Mrs. Chamberlaine meant.
She had served for a number of years
as Boswell to Mrs. Chamberlaine’s
Johnson, and now no longer felt the
need of personal rumination. She fin-
ished vaguely, “The modern young
girl, of course—" ?
“Modern young fiddlesticks!” retort-
ed Mrs. Chamberlaine briskly. “She’ll
never see twenty-five again.”
“You really think so, Annie? She
has a lovely, fresh skin.”
“A little cold-cream and ice, that’s
all. Her manner is outrageously con-
fident, and her clothes are entirely too
good.”
“She says she’s going around the
For,” suggested Mrs. Wallace meek-
That’s
y.
“Alone!” commented Mrs. Cham-
berlaine with enormous disapproval.
“Why doesn’t she go on, then? She's
been here nearly a month.
“She says she was in France with
the army for over two years.”
“Why didn’t she stay there?”
Something in the harried sharpness
of the thread-manipulator’s query
penetrated the gentle bosom of her
friend, who inquired with timorous
anxiety: “Has Sydney—of course he
wouldn’t be apt to—still—young men
are so susceptible! Do you think
he—"
Mrs. Chamberlaine folded up her
work and attacked the tea-table which
stood at her elbow. She said, handing
a steaming cup across the exquisitely
appointed tray—Mrs. Chamberlaine
was famous throughout Honolulu for
the perfection of her housekeeping—
“I think he’s hopelessly infatuated,
Julia. No question about it. And I
am exceedingly distressed. I need not
tell you that this Miss Van Dorn—
Meg Van Dorn, I believe she calls her-
self—"’ (in a tone to cast sharp sus-
picion upon at least six generations of
Van Dorn rorebears)—*“is not the sort
of girl I should have selected for my
only son. However, one is not apt to
be consulted in such matters, being
only a mother!”
“Oh, Annie!” cried Mrs. Wallace in
horrified protest. “How can you
say—"
“I brought him into the world,” con-
tinued Mrs. Chamberlaine, magnifi-
cently disregarding any part in the
cycle of her son’s life, in which the
late Mr. Chamberlaine might have
been concerned. “I gave up my whole
life to him from the time he lay in his
little white bassinette till the day he
went off to college—and this is the re-
sult! A girl sails in here one day on
a Pacific Mail boat, with a letter from
somebody he knew in his Freshman
year—I got that much out of him.
She isn’t the kind of girl he’s been ac-
customed to. She’s too conspicuous
and too clever and too everything else
to be really good form. And inside of
a week he’s flat at her feet. He
knows nothing at all about her except
what she chooses to tell him herself.
The man who sent him the letter ad-
mitted he knew her very slightly. And
a man in Sydney’s position—" “Syd-
ney’s mothr thus delicately referred to
the family holdings in lucre and real
estate—“owes a certain something to
his name, in considering the mother of
his children.”
“But young people in love don't al-
ways look upon each other as the
mother and father of their children,”
pleaded Mrs. Wallace confusedly.
“Don’t talk to me about children!”
said Mrs. Chamberlaine. She put
aside her cup and groped in the re-
cesses of a Dbeautifully-draped cor-
sage for her handkerchief. Suddenly
there were tears in her eyes. “When
they are little they step on your toes.
When they are big they step on your
heart.”
Poor Boswell consoled her, panic-
stricken at sight of that strong soul
melting at the edges.
She offered hopefully, “Perhaps it’s
just a young man’s fancy turning—
spring-time, you know, and all that
sort of thing.” ]
“Sydney has always been exception-
ally cool-headed,” his mother replied
with mournful grimness. “Spring
by itself, would not have the slightest
effect on him. Have another cup of
tea, Julia—unless you're reducing
again.”
At the moment at which Julia, who
was happily not reducing just then,
accepted a second cup, Sydney Cham-
berlaine turned from the contempila-
tion of a lacy young waterfall shim-
mering down the side of an exceeding-
ly steep and greenish cliff, to look at
the eyes of a gipsyish creature in ol-
ive-drab shirt and khaki riding breech-
es, with soft, dark hair pushed back
from a flushed and laughing face.
“Will you,” he was asking stubborn-
ly, “or won’t you?” That's what I
want to know!”
A certain likeness between mother
and son was apparent even conversa-
tionally. The waterfall was high and
barred one way of exit. On either
side of it rose walls almost equally
precipitous, masked in swinging, thick-
leaved vines, swathed in treacherous,
velvety grasses. Back of the two, the
trail they had come lay waiting—If one
could call it a trail, the bed of a
chuckling stream sprinkled with giant
boulders.
“Will I—or won’t I—what ?” inquir-
ed Meg Van Dorn with impish gravi-
ty. She straddled a fallen log, folded
her bare, white forearms across her
breast, and gave him back his look,
unflinching. Her eyes were splendid,
twilight-soft and full of a gallant de-
fiance. But there were little lines
about them as if that defiance had
grown by what it had fed on. Also,
her mouth was lovely, a warm and
curving sweetness—but it could
straighten into a line as unyielding as
Mrs. Chamberlaine’s own.
“Marry me,” said Sydney Chamber-
laine simply. His voice shook with
the word.
It was a nice voice, as his were nice !
eyes and compelling hands, just now
doggedly busy with stripping the bark
from a twig. Even a girl who didn’t
love him might have ached to hear
him. Meg looked at him once and
looked away again. Looked back, and
suffered his arms about her with a cu-
rious little cry that was half surren-
der, half exasperation.
“I knew when we came up here, this
afternoon,” she stormed, “just what it
was going to mean. I wanted to get
away from here—free! I didn’t want
to love you. I didn’t want you to love
me. It’s all the most hopeless mud-
dle. I'm not a marrying person—yet.
Didn’t I tell you that from the first?
I’m busy. I've got things I want to
do. I havent got time to marry you
now. I loathe the thought of mar-
riage. I came out “for to admire—
and for to see—'"
“Don’t quote poetry while being
proposed to,” he said against her
fresh, smooth cheek.
She finished in spite of him, ‘ “For
to be-’old this world so wide—’ And
you want to spoil it all.”
“We'll go together, darling!”
“It won’t be the same at all. New
trunks, rolled-up rugs and umbrellas,
shiny, formal hotels, porters bowing
and scraping all over the shop. I
wanted to go by myself! I wanted to
belong to myself! I wanted a lark and
a bat and a spree—to do crazy, ro-
mantic things—to do dangerous things
—to do all sorts of things you’d never
let me do in this world! I'm starved
for adventure—just irresponsible, star
spangled adventure—after that night-
mare over in France!”
“Isn’t marriage the biggest adven-
ture there is?”
“Used to be, in the nineteenth cen-
tury limited—not any more!”
“What about love ?”
“There ain’t no such animal’—I
mean I wish there weren't!” she
breathed against his shoulder.
“That’s blasphemy!” he said re-
proachfully.
She whispered:
don’t want to love you. I don’t want
to marry you. You're trying to put a
period to my fun.”
“I’m not. I want to double it.”
She cocked a level eyebrow, smiled
a wry, small smile. “Double, double,
toil and trouble!’ ”
“I wish you cared more for life and
less for books,” he told her, holding
her very close.
“Bless you! It’s life I want! That's
why I'm fighting you off.”
“Fighting me, are you?” The eter-
nal masculine suddenly tightened its
clasp.
“Oh-h, let me go, Syd—now, at
once! I mean it! Please, Honey!”
She wrenched herself free with a rue-
ful laugh. “How can I talk sense to
you—Ilike that!”
“I don’t want you to talk sense to
me. I want to kiss you.”
“The final argument so far as the
man’s concerned. Bien!—Kiss me!—I
don’t mind.”
“I don’t want you not to mind. I
want you to want to be kissed.”
“Oh, you do!” she jibed sweetly.
“Your majesty’s rather fussy about it
—no? Well, how can I tell, dear old
thing, until * * *-*»
She made her apology a moment
later, misty-eyed and shaken. “Oh,
Syd—I never—dreamed—I could care
—Ilike that! My heart’s pounding me
to pieces!”
He begged her huskily: “Say there
never was any one—but me! Say
there never will be.”
At which, like the fine, chill spray
of the waterfall just beyond them,
reason touched and steadied her.
“Let’s sit down here,” she said,
drawing him by both hands to a big,
black rock embroidered with fairy-
like mosses, “and talk it all over, once
again. Oh, if life were only all high
C’s and sunrises, how simple it would
be!”
They sat there together, swinging
their booted feet above the tumble and
swish of the stream. She pushed his
hand away and frowned on his yearn-
ing arm.
“Don’t touch me. No, I mean it! I
want to talk to you. Do you think I
don’t know that you know that your
touch confuses my values, and all
that? You've got me at a disadvan-
tage then. I can’t use my head—and
my heart—at the same time, and you
know it. Be a good sport, Mr. Cham-
berlaine ! All I ask is an even
chance.”
He said a bit moodily, shoving his
hands into his trousers pockets to
keep them neutral, “You sound as if
you were fighting for your life, Meg.”
There was a rapier-gleam in the
eyes she lifted to him swiftly. “I am
—in a way. Fighting for the life I'd
mapped out for myself.”
“I only want to make you happy—
if you'll let me. I'd like to give you
the whole show to play with.”
“I know you would, you dearest—
No—1I didn’t mean to say it! As you
“I know it. But I|
were!—I know you would—but sup-
pose what I want you can’t give me!
Suppose you couldn't give me any-
thing without taking away the imme-
diate jewel of my soul—my freedom!”
“Why are you so keen on free-
dom?” he asked, unsmiling, frankly
wounded.
She folded her arms, a characterist-
ic gesture, curiously implying a sort
of aloneness. “Because I’ve never had
as much as I want of it. And I was
born with a hunger and thirst for it.
Syd I told you my mother once taught
school in a little town in Tennessee,
didn’t 1?”
“Yes,” he said gently. There was
an incredible gentleness in all he said
and did, a sweetness of nature solidly
rooted in strength.
“Well, she married the minister of
the Presbyterian church there. And,
my dear, to the end of her days she
stayed put—if you see what I mean—
when all of her except the merest
smiling shell screamed to be out and
away. I was her only child. I know.
It was in me before I was born, to be
terrified of being bound. I'm choked
| to see—and never did; music she
i wanted to hear—things she wanted to
died out of sight, out of sound, out of
smell of it, shut in by big, blind, moun-
(tains with their heads smothered in
‘ the clouds!”
| “My sweetheart—are you crying?”
{ She dashed the back of her hand
| across her eyes like a boy. “Yes—I
lam. No—don’t touch me, please! I'm
all right.”
She would not even let him have her
hand to hold.
“I'm afraid of you.
You're the
some day—and I'm not ready yet.”
“I won’t touch you,” said Sydney
quietly. “Tell me some more about
your mother. Did she die when you
were a little girl 7”
“Not too little to know what she
died of,” answered the girl beside him
bitterly. “Starvation. She made me
promise, when she knew it was all up
with her—they called it anemie, the
did. My father sent me to his sister
in Boston. I went to school. Then to
a business college. I was secretary
for a while to the head of a big pub-
lishing house back there. It was he
who helped me get over to France
when we went into the war. You
know, Syd—"’
He interrupted her to ask, “Your
father—what became of him ?”
“My father died when I was seven-
teen,” Meg told him simply. “He
didn’t mind the Gap. He liked it. He
was the stuff the early saints were
made of. Long line of it back of him
| do—people she wanted to know. She |
had a passion for the sea—and she’
thing I always knew would get me, |
two local doctors—to get out of Pine |
Tree Gap before I was grown—and Il
cage me any more than you could
cage a frigate-bird, the black-winged
—remember? You’d only break both
by the ears. Better let each other go
—and forget—while we can!”
“Suppose we can’t!” he said stub-
bornly and stooped to kiss her.
She had not feared his touch for
nothing. She knew herself. Words
fell away from her. All her sharp-
edged, glittering defense crumbled
and sank. As his lips touched hers
again, she shut her eyes; her hands
crept up around his neck. She caught
her breath in a sob that hurt. It was
more in that moment than surrender;
it was abandonment.
“I’m my mother’s daughter—both
ways!” she murmured.
He didn’t hear her. She hadn't
meant he should.
That night he told his mother that
he was going to marry Meg Van
Dorn, and asked his mother to go to
see her.
one of those little cottages, you know
—and, Madre, be sweet to her, please!
She’s not like other girls.”
Mrs. Chamberlaine smiled in 2a rath-
i she might be forgiven. Mother and
| son were sitting together after dinner
!on the screened and lamp-lit veranda
| of the big, white house on Wyllie
| Street, and something in Mrs. Cham-
| berlaine’s manner suggested that she
i had just been dealt a mortal blow by
; the hand of a beloved traitor. Which
| was probably about what she felt. She
| was always one to make her implica-
| tions clear.
| She leaned back in a large, chintz-
cushioned armchair of Bilibid wicker
and folded her white, capable hands
in her embroidered linen lap. Sydney
stood against the railing, a fine, dig-
nified figure of a young man, with his
clear hazel eyes tenderly deferential
upon his mother’s face, and smiled
down at her, waiting.
“I will not pretend,” said Mrs.
Chamberlaine, who had, through long
acquaintance with parliamentary us-
age as chairman of one committee
life, a precision of statement most im-
pressive— “I will not pretend that
this comes as a surprise to me. I
have feared it for several days. She
1s a young woman traveling alone, is
she not?”
plied Sydney, amiably, “which I hope
you won’t—to any one but me—in that
especial tone of voice, Madre.”
ive-branch and keeping her chin well
up
—Puritans, abolitionists, all that sort
of thing—you see? Self-sacrifice was |
almost an obsession with him. He!
died a very happy man.” She added
mordantly. “—Having sacrificed my |
mother among his other possessions.” |
“Don’t Meg!”
“All right, I won’t. But, Syd, can’t |
you see it all? She went there to!
teach for a year. She was just out of
school. He had a profile like a stain- |
ed-glass knight and the background of |
an adoring congregation in a little :
white church for romance. She was
all white muslin and apple-blossoms. |
They fell in love. It must have been |
zn idyll while it lasted—white fire at |
the steps of the altar. They were |
married. I was born, and she almost |
died. But she didn’t die—no, she stay-
ed there the rest of her life, going to
church, sewing on fusty flannel petti-
coats, holding mothers’ meetings,
cooking, scrubbing, washing, ironing,
and going to church again. All her
dreams and she had a raft of them—
fell to pieces, unlived. She hadn’t
much time to read, she never saw a
play, never went to a concert again.
High price to pay, wasn’t it—for one
midsummer’s madness!”
“Meg, darling, you shan’t talk like
that! You're distorting things, delib-
erately. She may have been a very
happy woman.”
“So he used to say. I know better.”
“He—your father? What was he
like, Meg?”
“Hz was like you in a way,” said
Meg rather low. She knew the blow
she dealt.
“Like me! How?”
“Oh, he was very gentle, as you are.
And very strong at getting his own
way. And utterly honorable. He even
looked a little like you—tall and slen-
der—with wonderful eyes.”
“Meg, do you think that, honestly ?”
“Do I think what?”
“Are my eyes wonderful—to you?”
She leaped down from the rock and
stood, one hand about the silver mot-
tled stem of a young kukui. The look
she threw over her shoulder was full
of a wistful mockery. “You see, it
means nothing to you. You don’t get
me at all. I might just as well have
been reciting ‘Paradise Lost.” All you
care for is—Me and You—isn’t it?”
He was beside her, his arms relent-
lessly about her. “It’s all there is in
the world. I'll show you.”
“After which I shall choke to death
pleasantly and lingeringly, in the bo-
som of your family. No, dear boy!”
“I say yes, dear girl!” (The feel of
his arms about her slim, young shoul-
ders!)
“You'd want me to pay calls, and
give smug little dinner parties, and
play bridge and talk servants to oth-
er women.”
“Is that just as bad as going to
church and making flannel petticoats
and all the rest of it?”
“It’s worse. There’s an object in
going to church.”
“Isn’t there an object in being a
wife—" his ardent voice caressed the
word, sank to a diffident, deeper note
—‘“and—and a mother, perhaps?”
Meg steeled herself to a semblance
of impersonality: “Of course there’s
an object, a very lofty one—if that’s
the sort of thing you like, Which it
isn’t for me. No, Syd!” She beat the
flat of one hand lightly against his
chest, resisting with every fiber of her
body the“ tender ‘compulsion of his
arms. “I've got the thing I've always
wanted within my reach—almost! Ma-
nila, Yokohama, Tokio, Kobe, Shang-
hai, Peking, Delhi, Singapore, Simla!”
She strung cities like beads upon a
“I know it. That's why I ask vou
to go to see her now.”
“Have you known so few girls of
your kind in the Islands—and else-
where—that you must lose your head
over this—ah—"
“Young lady,” suggested Sydney,
equally the velvet glove upon the hand
of steel.
“Young—Ilady—"
accepted his
mother with an intonation incredibly
disdainful. :
“Does it make any difference, now,
how many I have known—or
haven't?” Sydney lit a cigarette with
steady fingers. “I’ve told you, Madre,
that I'm going to marry her. I hope
vou’ll be friends. She's a very unusu-
al girl.”
“So I should judge!”
An endearing boyishness showed for
a moment through Sydney’s controlled
courtesy.
women look tame as house-cats!”
“Indeed 7”
“See here, Madre,” he begged win-
ningly, “don’t make up your mind be-
fore you meet her! You can be such
means a lot to me. Don’t let yourself
be influenced by anything a lot of gos-
siping old women—"
“Ah—then there is a certain amount
of gossip about her? You admit it?”
“She’s young and good-looking and
going around by herself.” Sydney
stiffened slightly.
“Young women of our class do not
as a rule go about alone, in all parts
of the earth.”
“Oh, Madre, you can’t use the old
vard-stick any longer! The war
changed a lot of things. Girls go
pretty much anywhere they please.”
“A certain sort of girl.”
Sydney folded his arms with a brusk
gesture of controlled resentment.
“Don’t say anything you'll be sorry
for. She’s going to be your daughter,
remember!”
“Oh, I bow to the inevitable,” said
Mrs. Chamberlaine. “Is she—ah—ex-
pecting me?”
“Naturally.”
In the dusk, the two faces so cur-
iously alike in modeling and contour,
so curiously unlike in play of expres-
sion, showed palely composed and
courteous. Then Sydney leaned for-
ward in a way that brought the light
from the open door across his eyes,
and instantly he was another creature,
full of ardent younth.
“Madre,” he said winningly, “you
don’t want to ruin everything for me,
do you?”
“That has not been the object of my
life so far,” said Mrs. Chamberlaine,
grappling desperately for her accus-
tomed serenity.
“Do you think I can be happy if you
don’t like my wife?”
“Since you are so determined to
make her that, I see no reason why
you should stop to consider my views
in the matter.”
Sydney dropped down upon the arm
of the Bilibid chair and encircled his
mother’s shoulders with a sudden
coaxing gesture. Just as suddenly her
steely calm relaxed. She drooped to-
ward him, leaned her carefully-coiffed
gray head against his sleeve. Caress-
es were rare between them; this one
had a sort of painful sweetness, almost
the preliminary of a compact.
“Madre,” he whispered, presently.
“Yes, my son.”
“It’s going to be all right, isn’t it?”
For the second time that day Mrs.
Chamberlaine’s eyes were wet. “Have
I ever denied you anything?”
“But I want you to like her—to love
her! Just give her fifteen minutes,
and you won’t be able to help it.”
string her voice broke with the surge
“] will give her fifteen minutes,”
ones that follow in the wake of a ship |
our hearts and set this tidy little town |
i
| “She’s at the beach,” he said, “in
with memories of places she wanted !
er mirthless way for which she feit'
or another, acquired, even in private '
“If you want to call her that,” re-*
“I have not seen her,” said Mrs.
Chamberlaine, ignoring the filial ol-
“She makes all the other '
a peach when you want to—and this
of reluctant humor. She wiped her
, eyes furtively.
“That’s a lady!”
{ “Only, Sydney, my dear—don’t you
really think you might bring her to
‘see me, instead of sending me forth
i to see her? After all, I am the older
{ woman.”
i “Of course, I will,” said Sydney
{ soothingly. “I’ll bring her out tomor-
. row afternoon.” .
' “While the iron is hot,” commente
his mother with tender sardonicism.
| “Exactly!” said Sydney, bestowing
“a kiss on the top of the silvery-netted
head.
i He was, as Meg herself had said of
him, amazingly strong at getting his
own way—and generous after he had
' got it. He went off, half an hour or
| so later, to Meg, of course, leaving his
. mother almost reconciled to the in-
‘ terloper; satisfied at least, of the un-
{ touched depth of her son’s feeling
where she herself was concerned.
: Which was in its way a considerable
. achievement.
| (Concluded next week),
Potato Growers Building State Col-
lege Hospital.
The movement instituted by potato
growers of Pennsylvania to erect a!
hospital at The Pennsylvania State
College as a part of the college devel-
opment program, has swept through
the State during the past week, re-
ceiving unanimous support from all
who hear of its purpose and of Penn
State’s need for health and welfare
buildings.
A feature of the commencement
‘celebration at State College a few
days ago was the presentation of two
$5000 subscriptions from the Somer-
set and Cambria county potato grow-
ers’ associations. The Somerset or-
ganization sent to President John M.
Thomas a one pound potato last Fri-
day. It had been cut in two and hol-
i lowed, and upon opening was found to
. contain a subscription of $5000, mak-
ing the potato worth fifteen times its
weight in gold. The Cambria grow-
ers sent county agent H. C. McWil-
i liams with a crate full of subscription
, cards totaling $5000.
! Potato growers of Potter, McKean
and Luzerne counties had previously
joined the movement with large dona-
| tions, Centre, Lehigh and Berks fol-
‘lowing in very commendable style.
Other counties are to take similar ac-
, tion this and next week.
Plans for the hospital indicate that
it will be one of the most attractive
| buildings on the campus. It will cost
approximately $200,000 fully equip-
ped, and will replace an old frame in-
firmary where only eight beds are
available for a student body of 3200
men and women. The potato industry
of the State is the first to help put
over Penn State’s plans for a $2,000,-
000 emergency building fund, and the
hospital will stand as a monument to
' their achievement.
Some important actions concerning
: the future of State College were taken
Monday. The alumni reunion classes
heard and approved every detail of
the campaign for buildings and devei-
opment into the State University. At
their meeting on Monday the college
| trustees approved the establishment
"of a graduate school, which is a sig-
nificant first step towards university
, rating for the college. Dr. F. D.
: Kern, head of the botany department,
is to become dean of the new school.
Farmers Used Ground Limestone.
Many Centre county farmers, who
i realize the need of lime on their soils
are prevented from the extended use
that they would like to make of this
material, because of the necessity of
{ hauling it long distances. How one
i farmer, Mr. Henry Oakes, of McAle-
i vey’s Fort, Huntingdon county, solved
i this problem for himself and his
i neighbors, may be of help to local far-
| mers who are facing the same diffi-
! culty.
| Mr. Oakes, at the instigation of his
i county agent and an extension spe-
i cialist from State College, clubbed
with three of his neighbors in the pur-
chase of a lime pulverizer and started
in grinding the limestone on his farm.
During spare time last fall, he pulver-
ized 30 tons at a cost of $1.50 a ton
for fuel and labor. Applying this at
the rate of two tons per acre Mr.
Oakes gets excellent crops of clover
where little would grow without the
use of lime.
A neighbor last fall paid $12 per
ton for hydrated lime, hauling it 12
miles from the nearest shipping point.
Figuring one ton of hydrated equiva-
lent to two tons of home ground lime-
stone, Mr. Oakes got his lime for less
than one-quarter what his neighbor
paid. Even granting that the cost of
grinding in this case was unusually
low, many farmers would do well to
investigate the possibilities of pulver-
izing local limestone. Farmers who
plan to visit State College during
Farmer’s week, June 15th and 16th
will have an excellent opportunity to
compare several different make of
farm-size pulverizers and see them in
action at that time. This will give
them a chance to judge the possibili-
ties for grinding the home supply of
limestone.
re ————— ree ——
Sees Presidency Candidates
paigning by Radio Phone.
Cam-
The next Presidential campaign will
be conducted largely by wireless tele-
phone, enabling millions of. voters
actually to hear the appeals of can-
didates. Professor G. O. Aubrey, of
Swarthmore preparatory school pre-
dicted in an address before the Radio
club at the school recently.
“Better acquaintance with the var-
ious candidates for the Presidency in
1924 is almost assured with the in-
creasing use of the wireless tele-
phone,” he said. “Voters, millions of
them most likely, will hear the mes-
sages sent by the candidates by wire-
less, for receiving sets will be found in
homes and meeting places through-
out the nation.”—Ex.
of the wanderer’s desire. “You can’t said Mrs. Chamberlaine with a touch
RAPE RGR,
FARM NOTES.
—Spraying—Potatoes: Time for
first application in northern tier coun-
ties; second in central counties.
Grapes, second spraying in mountain-
ous sections.
—Nature’s Vitamine Sources—Na-
ture’s supply of vitamine-carriers is
plentiful. Fresh, green vegetables,
fruits and dairy porducts are all rich
in these essential constituents of food.
Eat more of them.
—Pigs that are turned out in pas-
ture after weaning will be stronger,
healthier, and growthier, if shelled
corn is scattered in the pasture, and
only a thin slop is fed. Ma%- sure
that they have plenty of clean, fresh
water.
—Those who attended Farmers’
week at State College, June 15th, had
an excellent opportunity to pick up a
good bull calf at the dairy husbandry
department’s sale in the judging pa-
villion. Each calf is backed by good
breeding.
—The best method of control for
borers in apple trees is to put carbon
bisulphite in each borer hole and plug
the hole tight with a little mud to
keep the gas in. It is best applied
with the aid of a spring bottom oil
can is the advice of the Bureau of
Plant Industry, Pennsylvania Depart-
ment of Agriculture.
—A curious diseased condition of
honey bees known as “pickle brood”
has been sent into the Bureau of Plant
Industry, Pennsylvania Department of
Agriculture for identification and ad-
vice. The nearly mature larvae are
yellowish in color and lift out of the
cells easily. The method of control is
the same as for European: foul brood,
requeen with a young vigorous Ital-
ian queen.
—The inspection of apiaries for the
season of 1922 has started but the
work will be limited for lack of funds.
Four apiary advisors are now working
in the southwestern, central and
northern counties of the State. The
Bureau of Plant Industry, Pennsylva-
nia Department of Agriculture will
assist without cost so far as possible
all apiarists who are troubled with
disease among their bees or have oth-
er difficult problems.
—Insect Control—Rose Bugs: Com-
mon pests attacking wide variety of
plants. Best spray; five pounds dry
lead arsenate, ten pourids confection-
er’s glucose, 100 gallons water. Mo-
lasses is not as attractive to the pests
as is the glucose. Millipedes: Blue
black caterpillars; use one part “Black
Leaf 40” to 200 parts water. Soak
ground around plants. In greenhouse
or cold frames, drench the beds com-
pletely. Shade Tree Insects: Worms
on shade trees are very abundant and
can be controlled by using two pounds
dry arsenate of lead to 50 gallons wa-
ter. Spray trees very thoroughly.
This can be used for all insects feed-
ing on leaves.
—Cherry leaf spot causes a heavy
loss to unsprayed trees and but few
growers realize the loss from this
source. In order that this disease
may be successfully controlled the Bu-
reau of Plant Industry, Pennsylvania
Department of Agriculture recom-
mends that cherry trees be given a
dormant spray as for San Jose scale.
Plow the ground to bury all diseased
leaves there may be on the ground or
rake them up and burn them. Make
three sprayings of 3-3-50 Bordeaux
mixture or 1 to 40 lime sulphur wash;
(1) When the petals fall, (2) two
weeks later and (8) just after the
crop has been harvested. This will in-
sure clean, healthy foliage all the sea-
son and a good set of fruit buds. A
90-10 sulphur dust can be substituted
for these three sprays with good re-
sults.
—That the dog owners of Pennsyl-
vania are showing a decided willing-
ness to comply with the provisions of
the Dog Law of 1921 is shown in fig-
ures compiled by the Bureau of Ani-
mal Industry, which has the supervis-
ion of the Dog Law in charge.
During the first four months of the
current year there were 284,513 indi-
vidual dog licenses issued and 1,714
kennel licenses.
Up until June 1 of this year it was
found necessary to bring only 736
prosecutions, an average of only
slightly more than ten prosecutions
per county. The Bureau of Animal
Industry, between January 1 and June
1 acted on 343 claims for damages
arising from losses inflicted by dogs
on live-siock and poultry, the sheep
losses being the heaviest.
Washington county, the principal
sheep raising county of the State, pre-
sented the largest claims for damages,
the 27 claims from this county total-
ling $1,040.
Westmoreland county leads in the
number of dogs licensed, having is-
sued 13,064 individual and 44 kennel
licenses up until May 1. Cameron
county, with 303 individual licenses
and five kennel licenses stands at the
foot of the list.
—Secretary of Agriculture Fred
Rasmussen is out as a campaign for
the farm horse in Pennsylvania. In an
address delivered several days ago,
the Secretary urged that the farmers
of this State raise more horses. He
pointed out that at the beginning of
the present year there were 505,966
horses and 54,678 mules on the farms
of the State and that yearly, in Penn-
sylvania 50,000 horses and mules are
required to replace those that die off
or are incapacitated.
“Without question many of the far-
mers of this State could profitably
raise their own horses” said the Sec-
retary. “A pair of mares when prop-
erly handled and fed can raise thei
own colts and do almost their full
share of work. The idea that a mare,
if she raises a colt, should be turned
out to pasture all summer, is entirely
wrong. The average farmer cannot
afford to keep a mare just to raise a
colt, but many farmers would find it
profitable to raise at least their own
horses, and where conditions are fa-
vorable, a few horses to sell.
“The idea that the tractor will re-
place the horse on the farm is an illu-
sion. The tractor is here to stay and
become even more useful but it will
never do more than supplement the
horse in agriculture. This is especi-
ally true in a State where the farms,
on the average are small.”