MN)
(Continued from last week).
SYNOPSIS
I—-APRIL.—General factotum in the
house of her sister Ina, wife of Herbert
Deacon, in the small town of Warbleton
Lulu Bett leads a dull, cramped existence,
with which she is constantly at enmity,
though apparently satisfied with her lot.
She has natural thoughts and aspirations
which neither her sister nor her brother-
in-law seemingly can comprehend. To Mr.
Deacon comes Bobby Larkin, recently
graduated high-school youth, secretly
enamored of Deacon’s elder daughter,
Diana, an applicant for a ‘job’ around
the Deacon house. He is engaged, his
occupation to be to keep the lawn in trim.
The family is excited over the news of an
approaching visit from Deacon’s brother
relan, whom he had not seen for many
years. Deacon jokes with Lulu, with
subtle meaning, concerning the coming
meeeting.
II-MAY.—Chiefly because of the ripple
in her placid, colorless existence which
the arrival of Ninian will bring, Lulu is
interested and speculative, meanwhile
watching with something like envy the
boy-and-girl love-making of Bobby and
Diana. Unexpectedly, Ninian arrives, in
the absence of Herbert, at his business,
and of Ina, resting. Thus he becomes
acquainted with Lulu first and in a meas-
ure understands her position in the house.
To Lulu, Ninian is a much-traveled man
of the world and even the slight interest
which he takes in her is appreciated, be-
cause it is something new in her life.
III-JUNE.—At an outing which the
family takes, Ninian and Lulu become in
a measure confidential. He expresses his
disapproval of her treatment as a sort
of dependent in the Deacon home. Lulu
has vaguely had the same thoughts, but
her loyalty to her sister and her own
difidence make Ninian’s comments em-
barrassing. He declares his intention of
giving the family a ‘good time” in the
city before he leaves. Diana and Bobby,
in the course of “soft nothings,” discuss
the possibility of eloping and ‘‘surprising
the whole school.” Lulu, despite herself,
has awakened to pleasant possibilities
concerning Ninian’s intentions toward
herself, the more so because hitherto she
has been a practical nonentity in the
household, having little to do with its
simple social functions. The fact that
Ninian had walked home with her causes
all sorts of speculations to disturb her
slumbers that night.
IV—-JULY.—Ninian redeems his promise
of a ‘‘good time,” and dinner in the adja-
cent city, with the attentions shown her
by her brother-in-law, is a delight to
Lulu, At supper, after the theater, the
conversation languishes, and Herbert
banteringly suggests reading the funeral
service as a rebuke for the dullness. Nin-
ian apparently jokingly urges the substi-
tution of the wedding service, himself and
Lulu participating. As part of the joke
Lulu repeats the words of the civil cere-
mony, with Ninian. The laughter subsid-
ing, Herbert remembers that a civil wed-
ding is binding in the state, and inasmuch
as he is a magistrate, Ninian and Lulu
are legally wedded. The rest of the party
is shocked, but Ninian declares he is per-
fectly satisfied. Lulu is dumfounded but
secretly happy. She and Ninian depart
at once for their honeymoon, without re-
turring to Warbleton. The Deacons lose
no t.me spreading the news in the home
town, though the services of Lulu are
sadly missed in the household.
V—AUGUST.—Lulu’s marriage, now an
event of a month ago, still is a subject
of conversation in the Deacon family, Ina
feeling that there is something vaguely
disquieting in her sister’s letters. Abrupt-
ly, Lulu returns to her former home,
without Ninian, and with the appalling
news that he had a wife living (though
he declares he believed her dead) when
he and Lulu went through the wedding
ceremony at that after-theater supper.
‘With little feeling for Lulu’s unhappy po-
sition, the Deacons think only of the dis-
grace to the family. Reluctantly Herbert
agrees to write tc Ninian, insisting on the
whole truth, and Lulu takes up her old
position. Herbert is Inclined to blame
imu for her part in the proceedings, and
Ina defends her feebly. Billing and coo-
ing between Bobby Larkin and Diana
goes merrily on, though neither Diana's
father nor her stepmother appear to no-
tice anything out of the ordinary.
In their room, Ina and Dwight dis-
cussed the incredible actions of Lulu.
“I saw,” said Dwight, “I saw she
wasn’t herself. I'd do anything to
avoid having a scene—you know
that.” His glance swept a little anx-
fously his Ina. “You know that, don’t
you?’ he sharply inquired.
“But I really think you ought to
have written to Ninian about it,” she
now dared to say. “It’s not.a nice po-
sition for Lulu.”
“Nice? Well, but whom has she got
to blame for it?”
“Why, Ninian,” said Ina.
Dwight threw out his hands. “Her-
self,” he said. “To tell you the truth,
I was perfectly amazed at the way
she snapped him up there in that res-
taurant.”
“Why, but, Dwight—"
“Brazen,” he said.
brazen.”
“It was just fun, in the first place.”
“But no really nice woman—" he
shook his head.
“Dwight! Lulu is nice. The idea!”
He regarded her. “Would you have
done that?’ he would know.
Under his fond look, she softened,
“Oh, it was
took his homage, accepted everytiiin
was silent.
“Certainly not,” he said. ‘“Luiu's
tastes are not fine like yours. |
should never think of you as sisters.”
“She’s awfully goed,” Ina said, fee-
bly. Fifteen years of married life be-
hind her—but this was sweet and she
could not resist,
TRE TT TS Nl Ri aA HSS
Copyright by D.APPLETON ANDICOMPA
WHIT
Ilustrations by
Irwin Myers
“She has excellent qualities.” He
admitted it. “But look at the position
she’s in—married to a man who tells
her he has another wife in order to
get free. Now, no really nice wom-
an—"
“No really nice man—" Ina did sa;
that much.
“Ah,” said Dwight, “but you coull
never be in such a position. No. n..
Lulu is sadly lacking somewhere.”
Ina sighed, threw back her head.
caught her lower lip with her upper,
as might be in a hem. “What if it was
Di?” she supposed.
“pi!” Dwight's look rebuked his
wife. “DL” he said, “was born with
ladylike feelings.”
It was not yet ten o'clock. Bohhy
Larkin was permitted to stay until
ten. From the veranda came the in-
distinguishable murmur of those young
voices.
“Bobby,” Di was saying within that
murmur, “Bobby, you don’t kiss me as
if you really wanted to Kiss me, to-
night.”
Vi
Septembe.
The office of Dwight Herbert Dea-
con, Dentist, Gold Work a Specialty
(sic) in black lettering, amd Justice
of the Peace in gold, was above a
store which had been occupied by one
unlucky tenant after another, and had
suffered long periods of vacancy when
ladies’ aid secieties served lunches
there, under great white signs, badly
lettered. Some months of disuse were
now broken by the news that the
store had beer, let to a music man. A
music man, what on earth was that?
Warbleton inquired.
The music man arrived, installed
three pianos, and filled his window
with sheet music, as sang by many
ladies who swung in hammocks or
kissed their hands on the music cov-
ers. While he was still moving in,
Dwight Herbert Deacon wandered
downstairs and stood informally in the
door of the new store. The musi¢ man,
a pleasant-faced chap of thirty-odd,
was rubbing at the face of a piano.
“Hello, there!” he said. “Can I sell
you an upright?”
“If I can take it out in pulling your
teeth, you can,” Dwight replied. “Or,”
said he, “I might marry you free,
either one.”
On this their friendship began.
Thenceforth, when business was dull,
the idle hours of both men were be-
guiled with idle gossip.
“How the dickens did you think of
piancs for a line?’ Dwight asked him
once. “Now, my father was a dentist,
so I came by it natural—never entered |
my head to be anything else. But pi- |
anos—" :
The music man—his name was Neil
Cornish—threw up his chin in a boy-
ish fashion, and said he’d be jiggered
if he knew. All up and down the War-
bleton main street, the chances are
that the answer would sound the
same. “I'm studying law when I get
the chance,” said Cornish, as one who
makes a bid to be thought of more
highly.
“I gee,” sald Dwight, respectfully
dwelling on the verb.
Later on, Cornish confided more to
Dwight: He was to come by a little
Myers
¢ fablalf
Later On, Cornish Confided More to
Dwight: He Was to Come by a
i.ittle Inheritance Some Day.
inheritance some day—not much, but
something. Yes, it made a man feel a
certain confidence. . . .
“Don’t it?” said Dwight, heartily, as
if he knew.
Ean + =
NTI Np
a
Every cone liked Cornish. He told
Warbleton save to its advantage. So
at last Dwight sald tentatively at
lunch:
“What if I brought that Neil Cor-
nish up for supper one of these
nights?”
“Oh, Dwightie, do,” said Ina. “MH
there’s a man in town, let’s know it.”
“What if I brought him up tonight?”
Up went Ina's eyebrows. Tonight?
“’Scalloped potatoes and meat loaf
and sauce and bread and butter,”
Lulu contributed.
Cornish came to supper. He was
what is known in Warbleton as dap-
per. This Ina saw as she emerged on’
the veranda in response to Dwight’s
informal halloo on his way upstairs.
She herself was in white muslin, now
much too snug, and a blue ribbon. To
her ‘greeting their guest replied in that
engaging shyness which is not awk-
wardness. He moved in some pleasant
web of gentleness and friendliness.
They asked him the usual questions,
and he replied, rocking all the time
with a faint undulating motion of
head and shoulders: Warbleton was
one of the prettiest little towns that
he had ever seen. He liked the people
—they seemed different. He was sure
to like the place, already liked it.
Lulu came to the door in Ninian’s
thin black-and-white gown. She shook
hands with the stranger, not looking
at him, and said, “Come to supper.
all.” Monona was already in her place.
singing under-breath. Mrs. Bett, after
hovering in the kitchen door, entered;
but they forgot to introduce her.
“Where's Di?” asked Ina. “I declare
that daughter of mine is never any-
where.”
A brief silence ensued as they were
seated. There being a guest, grace was
to come, and Dwight said, unintelligi-
bly and like lightning, a generic ap-
peal to bless this food, forgive all our
sins and finally save us. And there
was something tremendous in this
ancient form whereby all stages cf
men bow in some now unrecognized
recognition of the ceremonial of tak-
ing food to nourish life—and more.
At “Amen” Di flashed in, her of-
fices at the mirror fresh upon her—
perfect hair, silk dress turned up at
the hem. She met Cornish, crimsaoned.
fluttered to her seat, joggled the .able
and, “Oh, dear,” she said audibly to
her mother, “I forgot my ring.”
The talk was saved alive by a frark
effort. Dwight served, making jests
about everybody coming back for
more. They went on with Warbleton
happenings, improvements and open-
ings; and the runaway. Cornish trled
hard to make himself agreeable, not
ingratiatingly, but good-naturedly. He
wished profoundly that before coming
he had looked up some more stories
in the back of the Musical Gazettes.
Lulu surreptitiously pinched off an
ant that was running at large upon
the cloth and thereafter kept her eyes
steadfastly on the sugar bowl to see if
it could be from that. Dwight pre-
tended that those whom he was help-
ing a second time were getting more
than their share and facetiously land-
ed on Di about eating so much that
she would grow up and be married,
first thing she knew. At the word
“married” Di turned scarlet, laughed
heartily and lifted her glass of water.
“And what instruments do you
play?” Ina asked Cornish, in an un-
related effort to lift the talk to mu-
sical levels..
“Well, do you know,” said the mu-
sic man, “I can’t play a thing. Don’t
know a black note from a white one.”
“You don’t? Why Di plays very
prettily,” said Di’s mother. “But
then, how can you tell what songs to
order?” Ina cried.
“Oh, by the music houses. You go
by the sales.” For the first time it oc-
curred to Cornish that this was ridic-
ulous. = “You know, I'm really study-
ing law,” he said, shyly and proudly.
Law! How very interesting, from Ina.
Oh, but won't he bring up some songs
some evening, for them to fry over?
Her and Di? At this Di laughed and
said that she was out of practice and
lifted her glass of water. In the
presence of adults Di made one weep,
she was so slender, so young, so with-
out defenses, so intolerably sensitive
to every contact, so in agony lest she
be found wanting. It was amazing
how unlike was this Di to the Di who
had ensnared Bobby Larkin. What
was one to think?
Cornish paid very little attention to
her. To Lulu he said kindly, “Don’t
you play, Miss—?” He had not caught
her name—no stranger ever did catch
it. But Dwight now supplied it: “Miss
Lulu Bett,” he explained, with loud
emphasis, and Lulu burned her slow
red. This question Lulu had usually
answered by telling how a felon had:
interrupted her lessons and she had
stopped “taking”-—a participle sacred
to musie, in Warbleton. This vignette
had been a kind of epitome of Lulu’s
biography. But now Lulu was heard
to say, serenely:
“No, but I'm quite fond of it. I
w:nt to a lovely concert—two weeks
ago.”
They all listened. Strange, indeed,
to think of Lulu as having had experi-
ences of which they did not know.
“Yes,” she said. “It was in Savan-
nah, Georgia.” She flushed, and lifted
her eyes in a manner of faint defiance.
“Of course,” she said, “I don’t know
the names of all the different instru-
ments they played, but there were a
good many.” She laughed pleasantly
as a part of her sentence. “They had
some lovely tunes,” she said. She knew
that the subject was not exhausted
and she hurried on. “The hall was
real large,” she superadded, “and
there were quite a good many people
there. And it was too warm.”
“I see,” said Cornish, and said what
Xe had been waiting to say: That he,
too, had been in Savannah, Georgia.
\' Lulu lit with pleasure. “Weill” ghe
{ said. And her mind worked and she
funny stories, and he never compared:
caught at the moment before it had
escaped. “Isn't it a pretty city?”
she asked. And Cornish assented with
the intense heartiness of the provincial.
He, too, it seemed, had a conversa-
tional appearance to maintain by its
own effort. He said that he had en-
joyed being in that town and that he
was there for two hours.
“I was there for a week.”
superiority was really pretty.
“Have good weather?’ Cornish se-
lected next.
“Oh. yes. And they saw all the dif.
ferent huildings—hut at her “we” she
Lulu’s
flushed and was silenced. She was:
coloring and breathing quickly. This
was the first bit of conversation of
this sort in Lulu’s life.
After supper Ina inevitably pro-
posed croquet, Dwight pretended *o
try to escape and, with his irrepressi-
ble mien. talked about Ina, elaborate
in his insistence on the third person—
“She loves it, we have to humor her,
vou know how it is. Or no! You don’t
know! But you will”—and more of
the same sort, everybody laughing
heartily, save Lulu, who looked un-
comfortable and wished that Dwight
wouldn't, and Mrs. Bett, who paid no
attention to anybody chat night, not
recause she had not been introduced,
an omission which she had not even
noticed, but merely as another form
of “tantrim”—a self-indulgence.
They emerged for croquet. And
there on the porch sat Jenny Plow
and Bobby, waiting for Di to keep an
eld engagement, which Di pretended
to have forgotten, and to be fright-
fully annoyed to have to keep. She
met the objections of her parents with
21 the batteries of her coquetry, set
for both Bobby and Cornish and, bold
in the presence of “company,” at last
went laughing away. And in the mi-
pute areas of her consciousness she
said to herself that Bobby would be
more in love with her than ever be-
cause she had risked all to go with
him; and that Cornish ought to be
distinctly attracted to her because
she had not stayed. She was as primi-
tive as pollen.
Ina was vexed. She said so, pout-
ing in a fashion which she should
have outgrown with white muslin and
blue ribbons, and she had outgrown
none of these things.
“That just spoils croquet,” she said.
“I'm vexed. Now we can’t have a
real game.”
From the side door, where she must
have been lingering among the water-
proofs, Lulu stepped forth.
“I'll play a game,” she said.
* * * * * * *
When Cornish actually proposed to
bring some music to the Deacons’, Ina
turned toward Dwight Herbert all the
facets of her responsibility. And Ina’s
sense of responsibility toward Di |
was enormous, oppressive, primitive,
amounting, in fact, toward this daugh-
ter of Dwight Herbert's late wife, to
an ability to compress the offices of
stepmotherhood into the functions of
the lecture platform. Ina was a foun-
tain of admonition. Her idea of a
daughter, step or not, was that of a
manufactured product, strictly, which
vou constantly pinched and molded.
She thought that a moral preceptor
had the right to secrete precepts. Di
got them all. But ~f course the crest
of Ina’s responsibility was to marry
Di. This verb should be transitive
only when lovers are speaking of each
other, or the minister or magistrate
is speaking of lovers. It should never
be transitive when predicated of par-
ents or any other third party. But it
is. Ina was quite agitated by its
transitiveness as she took to her hus-
band her incredible responsibility.
“You know, Herbert,” said Ina, “if
this Mr. Cornish comes here very
much, what we may expect.”
“What may we expect?’ demanded
Dwight Herbert, crisply.
Ina always played his games, an-
swered what he expected her to an-
swer, pretended to be intuitive when
she was not so, said “I know” when
she didn’t know at all. Dwight Her-
bert, on the other hand, did not even
play her games when he knew per-
fectly what she meant, but pretended
not to understand, made her repeat,
made her explain. It was as if Ina
had to please him for, say, a living;
but as for that dentist, he had to
please nobody. In the conversations
of Dwight and Ina you saw the his-
torical home forming in clots in the
fluid wash of the community.
“He'll fall in love with Di,” said
Ina. *
“And what of that? Little daughter
will have many a man fall in love
with her, I should say.”
“Yes, but, Dwight, what do you
think of him?”
“What do I think of him? My
dear Ina, I have other things to think
of.”
“But we don’t know anything about
him, Dwight—a stranger so.”
“On the other hand,” said Dwight
with dignity, “I know a good deal
about him.”
With a great air of having done the
fatherly and found out about this
stranger before bringing him into the
home, Dwight now related a number
of+ stray circumstances dropped by
Cornish in their chence talks.
“He has a little inheritance coming
to him—shortly,” Dwight wound up.
“An inheritance—really? How much,
Dwight?”
“Now isn’t that like a woman, Isn't
it?”
“YT thought®*he was from a good
family,” said Ina.
“My mercenary little pussy!”
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I
snouldn’t be surprised if Di did really
accept him, A yovrag girl is awfully
nattered when a good-looking older
man pays her attention. Haven't you
noticed that?”
Dwight informed her, with an air |
of immense abstraction, that he left |
all such matters to her, Being mar- |
| agony at being spoken to in the pres-
ried to Dwight was like a perpetual |
rehearsal, with Dwight's self-impor-
tance for audience.
A few evenings later, Cornish
brought up the music. There wus
something overpowering in this brown-
haired chap against the background
of his negligible little shop, his whole
capital in his few pianos. For he
foocked hopefully ahead, woke with
nens. rerarded the children in the
street as if, conceivably, children
mizht «ome within the confines of his
Hie ns he imagined it. A preposter-
ous little man. Ard a preposterous
store, empty, echoing, bare of wall.
the three pianos near the front, the
remainder of the floor stretching away
like the corridors of the lost. He was
going to get a dark curtain, he ex-
plained, and furnish tke back part of
the store as his own room. What
dignity in phrasing, but how mean
that little room would look—cot bed,
washbowl and pitcher, and little mir-
ror—almost certainly a mirror with a
wavy surface, almost certainly that.
“And then, you know,” he always
added, “I'm reading law.”
The Plows had been asked in that
evening. Bobby was there. They
were, Dwight Herbert said, going to
have a sing.
Di was to play. And Di was now
embarked on the most difficult feat of
her emotional life, the feat of remain-
ing to Bobby Larkin the lure, the he-
loved lure, the while to Cornish she
instinctively played the role of wom-
anly little girl. |
“Up by the festive lamp, every- |
body!” Dwight Herbert cried.
As they gathered about the upright
piano, that startled, Dwightish instru:
ment, standing in its attitude of un- !
rest, Lulu came in with another lamp.
“Do you need this?” she asked.
They did not need it, there was, in
fact, no place to set it. and this Lulu
must have known. But Dwight found
a place. He swept Ninian’s photo-
graph from the marble shelf of the
mirror, and when Lulu had placed the
lamp there, Dwight thrust the photo-
graph into her hands.
“You take care of that,” he said,
with a droop of lid discernible only to
those who—presumably—Iloved him.
His old attitude toward Lulu had .
shown a terrible sharpening in these
ten days since her return.
She stood uncertainly, in the thin
black and white gown which Ninian
had bought for her, and held Ninian’s
photograph and looked helplessly
about. She was moving toward the
door when Cornish called:
“See here! Aren't you going to
sing?” :
“What?” Dwight used the falsetto.
“Lulu sing? Lulu?”
She stood awkwardly. She had a
piteous recrudescence of her old
ence of others. But Di had opened
the “Album of Old Favorites,” which
Jornish had elected to bring, and now
she struck the opening chords of
“Bonny Eloise.” Lulu stood still,
looking rather piteously at Cornish.
Dwight offered his arm, absurdly
crooked. The Plows and Ina and Di
began to sing. Lulu moved forward,
and stood a little away from them,
and sang, too. She was still holding
Ninian’s picture, Dwight did not sing.
He lifted his shoulders and his eye-
brows and watched Lulu.
When they had finished, “Lulu the
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“Miss Lulu Bett, the Mocking Ba-ird!”
Dwight Insisted.
mocking bird!” Dwight cried. He
said “ba-ird.”
“Fine!” cried Cornish. “Why, Miss
Lulu, you have a good voice!”
“Miss Lulu Bett, the mocking
ba-ird!” Dwight insisted.
Lulu was excited, and in some ac-
cession of faint power. She turned to
him now, quietly, and with a look of
appraisal.
“Lulu the dove,” she then surpris-
ingly said, ‘to put up with you.”
It was her first bit of conscious
repartee to her brother-in-law.
Cornish was bending over Di
“What next do you say?” he asked.
She lifted her eyes, met his own,
held them. “There’s such a lovely, |
Lovely sacred song here,” she suggest-
ed, and looked down.
“You like sacred music?”
She turned to him her pure profile,
her eyelids fluttering up, and said: “I |
love it.”
(Continued next week),
meer me em.
—TIt pays to read the “Watchman.”
| grazing.
| and may be depended upon for stock
FARM NOTES.
—To control white
ly before October 1.
—~September or October is a good
time to have some of the cows fresh-
en.
—As soon as the kernels have fair-
ly hardened it will do to cut corn for
grain and fodder.
wl B SSimated that about $8,000,-
1s harvested in fox farmi in th
United States alone. Pg mbe
— American potash as now produc-
ed is within the standard of purity
set by the government.
—It is figured by the experts that
the new tariff on fertilizers will cost
the farmers of the United States ap-
proximately $18,000,000 a year.
—~September is a good month to or-
der trees for fall setting. Many or-
chardists maintain that fall-set trees
not only grow better, but are a full
year ahead of next spring’s.
—A good, persistent cow ought to
keep milking for 10 months, and she
should keep a pretty good How up for
SIX or seven months if she is to pay
for her keep and a profit besides.
—The lime sulphur now used very
extensively for San Jose scale as a
dormant spray is being used in a dry
form to dust on for control of mil-
dews, fungous diseases of fruits and
vegetables.
—The first fall frost may be expect-
ed about this time of the year. Sev-
eral weeks may elapse between the
first and second frost, which makes it
worth while to protect and probably
save tender plants of such vegetables
as tomatoes, peppers, and eggplants.
—Grapes are perhaps the easiest
fruit raised. A good start can be
made in September by taking cuttings
of last year’s well matured wood and
cutting into lengths of 10 or 12 inches.
If tied in a bundle and stored in damp
sand, butt ends down, they will be
ready for setting out next spring.
—Hogs of different ages and sizes
will not do well in the : herd. They
should be separated into small lots,
according to their ages and conditions.
Sows and growing pigs should not be
allowed in the same lot with fattening
hogs. The excessive corn diet is not
so good for their growth and produc-
tion, and with large fattening hogs
the smaller ones will be crowded and
injured.
—There were 400,000 more dairy
cows in the United States in 1921 than
there were in 1920. The production
of milk in 1920 was 89,65%,000,000
pounds, and in 1921 it was 98,862,000,-
000 pounds. This increase in produc-
tion was taken care of by an increase
in consumption. There is no danger
of overdoing the production end of the
dairy industry if the selling end is
properly taken care of. What this
country needs is more good cows and
fewer scrubs in making the dairy pay.
—Why Early Plowing is Desirable
This Fall—We did not have the
drouth this year, which generally vis-
its us annually. Instead there was
rainstorm after rainstorm until every
foot of available earth has become a
mass of weeds and grass. This fact
points out the necessity of early plow-
ing so that this vegetation may be
turned under, thus replenishing the
soil in humus and getting rid of nox-
lous plants. It is important that the
plowing be done before cold and wet
weather interferes with it, in order
that the land may be in condition for
late fall rains and early winter freez-
es.
Land upon which is intended to sow
wheat or oats should be gotten ready
as soon as possible. On land that is
not yet turned it will require consid-
erable labor to prepare a seed-bed for
wheat or oats. It can be done, how-
ever, but at a greater cost. If it can
possibly be avoided, there should be no
longer a delay in preparing the land
for grain.
It is best to plow deep, especially
on such soils that have been plowed
rather shallow for several seasons.
The deepening should he gradual and
the breaking should be done early
enough to allow the vegetation to de-
cay and permit the clods to crumble
sufficiently to make a good seedbed.
There is great value in green ma-
nuring. It maintains soil fertility and
is of untold value where soils are low
In organic matter, notably humus, and
where soil fertility and mechanical
condition need improving.
In soil improvement the first step is
to increase the vegetable matter. Sat-
isfactory results from fertilizers can-
not be obtained without humus. Un-
less the soil has sufficient organic mat-
ter to render it light, crumbly and fri-
able, there can be no successful rota-
tion of crops.
Early breaking and sufficient prepa-
ration of the soil is desirable, but
there are some soils that will do bet-
ter if planted in a winter clover or
grazing crop. There are some sea-
sons when considerable plant food is
wasted by exposing the soil to winter
conditions without some protection.
Sandstorms in parts of the State of
New Jersey are frequently destruc-
tive. If broken in the fall or winter,
such soils require the protection of a
winter cover crop. A cover crop in
favorable seasons will assist in bind-
ing the soil particles so that there will
be less loss on account of wind.
Besides protecting the soil, cover
crops hold soil particles together and
the roots make use of the readily
available plant food. This is especial-
ly so in nitrates, keeping them from
being wasted. When these cover
crops are turned under these plant
foods are returned to the soil to stim-
ulate larger crops. When grazing the
cover crop, the crop helps the growth
on animals and the roots and rem-
nants can be turned under.
Where legumes can be grown to ad-
vantage they will be found to be the
most suitable for cover crops. Vetch
when sown with wheat, oats or rye is
excellent. Crimson clover does well
grubs plow deep-
| on some soils.
Rye is one of the most satisfactory
non-legumes for cover crop and for
It is comparatively hardy
| and soil protection, even on quite thin
{ land.
Wheat, barley and emmer are also
| adapted to sowing for cover erops and
oraz
ing on some farms.