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by
Zona Gale
(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
Lalu Bett leads a dull, cramped existence,
with which she is constantly at enmity,
though apparently satisfled 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
senian, 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
Ninjan 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
eecretly 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.
“That’s it. So do I. Nothing like a
nice sacred piece,” Cornish declared.
Bobby Larkin, at the end of the
plano, looked directly into Di’s face.
“Give me ragtime,” he said now,
with the effect of bursting out of
somewhere. “Don’t you like ragtime?”
he put it to her directly.
Di’s eyes danced into his, they
sparkled for him, her smile was a
smile for him alone, all their store of
common memories was in their look.
“Let's try ‘My Rock, My Refuge,”
Cornish suggested. *“That’s got up
real attractive.”
Di’s profile again. and her pleased
voice saying that this was the very
one she had been hoping to hear bim
sing.
They gathered for “My Rock, My
Refuge.”
“Oh,” cried Ina, at the conclusion
of this number, “I’m having such a
perfectly beautiful time. Isn't every-
body?’ everybody's hostess put it.
“Lulu is,” said Dwight, and added
softly to Lulu: “She don’t have in
hear herself sing.”
It was incredible. He was like a
bad boy with a frog. About that
photograph of Ninian he found a
dozen ways to torture her, called at-
tention to it, showed it to Cornish,
set it on the piano facing them all.
Everybody must have understood—e~
cepting the Plows. These two gentle
souls sang placidly through the Al-
bum of Old Favorites, and at the
melodies smiled happily upon each
other with an air from another world.
Always it was as if the Plows walked
some fair, inter-penetrating plane,
from which they looked out as do
other things not quite of earth, say,
flowers and fife and music.
Strolling home that night, the
Plows were overtaken by some one
who ran badly, and as if she were un-
accustomed to running.
“Mis’ Plow, Mis’ Plow!” this one
called, and Lulu stood beside them.
“Say!” she sald. “Do you know of
any job that I could get me? I mean
that I'd know how to do? A job for
money, . . . Imeanajob. . .
She burst into passionate crying.
They drew her home with them,
® * LJ * * * *
opyright by D.APPLETON AND
JN EP RR Rete ToT ns LIP
Lying awake somefime after mic
night, Lulu heard the telephone ring,
She heard Dwight’s concerned ‘is
that so?” And his cheerful “Be right
there.” : J
Grandma Gates was sick, she heard
him tell Ina. In a few moments hz
ran down the stairs. Next day they
told how Dwight had sat for hours
that her back would rest easily and
hours of sleep the whole night long.
Next day there came a message
from that woman who had brought up
Dwight—"made him what he was,”
he often complacently accused her. It
was a note on a postal card—she had
often written a few lines on a postal
card to say that she had sent the
maple sugar, or could Ina get her
some samples. Now she wrote a few
lines on a postal card to say that she
was going to die with cancer. Could
Dwight and Ina come to her while
‘she was still able to visit? If he was
not too busy.
Nobody saw the pity and the terror
of that postal card. They stuck it up
by the kitchen clock to read over from
time to time, and before they left,
Dwight lifted the griddle of the cook-
ing-stove and burned the postal card.
And before they left Lulu said:
“Dwight—you can’t tell how long
you'll be gone?”
“Of course not. How sRould I tell?”
“No. And that letter might come
while you're away.”
“Conceivably. Letters do come while
a man’s away!”
“Dwight—I thought if you wouldn't
mind if I opened it—"
“Opened it?”
“Yes. You see, it'll be about me
mostly—"
“I should have said that it'll be
about my brother mostly.”
“But you know what I mean You
wouldn’t mind if I did open it?”
“But you say you know what'll be
nn it.”
see that letter, Dwight.”
- 4A¥d so you shall. But not till I
show it to you. My dear Lulu, you
know how I hate having my mail in-
terfered with.”
She might have sald: “Small souls
always make a point of that.” She
said nothing. She watched them set
off, and. kept her mind on Ina’s thou-
sand injunctions.
“Don’t let Di see much of Bobby
Larkin. And, Lulu—Iif it occurs to her
of course you ask him. You might
ask him to supper. And don’t let moth-
er overdo. And, Lulu, now do watch
Monona’s handkerchief—the child will
never take a clean one if I'm not here
to tell her... .”
She breathed injunctions-to the very
“step of the ’bus.
In the 'bus Dwight leaned forward:
“See that you play post office
squarely, Lulu!” he called, and threw
back his head and lifted his eyebrows.
In,the train he turned tragic eyes to
his wfie.
“Ina,” he sald. “It’s ma. And she's
going to die. It can't be. . . .”
Ina said: “But you're going to help
her, Dwight, just being there with
her.”
It was true that the mere presence
of the man would bring a kind of fresh
life to that worn frame. Tact and
wisdom and love would speak through
him and minister.
Toward the end of their week’s ab-
sence the letter from Ninian came.
Lulu took it from the post office
when she went for the mail that eve-
ning, dressed in her dark red gown.
There was no other letter, and she car-
ried that one letter in her hand all
through the streets. She passed those
vho were surmising what her story
might be, who were telling one anoth-
er what they had heard. But she knew
hardly more than they. She passed
Cornish in the doorway of his little
music shop, and spoke with him; and
there was the letter. It was so that
Dwight’s foster mother’s postal card
might have looked on its way to be
mailed.
Cornish stepped down and overtook
Ler.
*“Oh, Miss Lulu. I've got a new song
ar two—"
She sald abstractedly: “Do. Any
night. Tomorrow night—could you—"
It was as if Lulu were too preoccupied
to remember to be ill at ease.
Cornish flushed with pleasure, said
that he could indeed.
“Come for supper,” Lulu said.
Oh, could he? Wouldn't that be
. + « Well, say! Such was his accept-
ance.
He came for supper. And Di was
not at home. She had gone off in the
country with Jenny and Bobby, ana
they merely did not return.
Mrs. Bett and Lulu and Cornish and
Monona supped alone. All were at
ease, now that they were alone. Es-
pecially Mrs. Bett was at ease. It be-
came one of her young nights, her
alive and lucid nights. She was there.
that night, holding Grandma Gates so |
she could fight for her faint breath. |
The kind fellow had only about two |
“So I did know—till you—I've got to |
to have Mr. Cornish come up to sing, |
She sat in Dwight’s chair and Lulu
sat in Ina’s chair. Lulu had picked
flowers for the table—a task coveted
by her but usually performed by Ina.
Lulu had now picked Sweet Willie
and had filled a vase of silver gi.
taken from the parlor. Also, Lulu
had made ice cream.
“I don’t see what Di can be think-
ing of,” Lulu said. “It seems like ask-
ing you under false—" She was afraid
of “pretenses” and ended without it.
Cornish savored his steaming beef
pie, with sage. “Oh, well!” he said,
contentedly.
“Kind of a relief, I think, to have
her gone,” said Mrs. Bett, from the
fullness of something or other.
“Mother!” Lulu said, twisting her
smile.
“Why, my land, I love her,” Mrs.
Bett explained, “but she wiggles and
chitters.”
Cornish never made the slightest
effort, at any time, to keep a straight
face. The honest fellow now laughed
loudly.
“Well!” Lulu thought. ‘He can’t
be so very much in love.” And agaip
she thought: “He doesn’t know anjy-
thing about the letter. He thinks Nin-
fan got tired of me.” Deep down in
her heart there abode her certainty
| that this was not so.
{ By some etiquette of consent, Mrs.
| Bett cleared the table and Lulu and
| Cornish went into the parlor. There
] lay the letter on the drop-leaf side-
| table, among the shells, Lulu had car-
I ried it there, where she need not see
it at her work. The letter looked no
more than the advertisement of dental!
office furniture beneath it. Monona
stood indifferently fingering both.
“Monona,” Lulu said sharply, “leave
them be!”
Cornish was displaying his music.
“Got up quite attractive,” he said—it
was his formula of praise for his
music.
“But we can’t try it over,” Lulu
said, “if Di doesn’t come.”
“Well, say,” said Cornish shyly.
“you know I left that Album of Old
Favorites here. Some of them we
know by heart.”
Lulu looked. “I'll tell you some-
thing,” she said; “there’s some of
these I can play with one hand—by
ear. Maybe—"
“Why, sure!” said Cornish.
Lulu sat at the piano. She had on
the wool chally, long sacred to the
nights when she must combine her
servant's estate with the quality of be-
ing Ina’s sister. She wore her coral
beads and her cameo cross. In her
absence she had caught the trick of
dressing her hair so that it looked
even more abundant—but she had
not dared to try it so until tonight,
when Dwight was gone. Her long
wrist was curved high, her thin hand
: pressed and fingered awkwardly, and
at her mistakes her head dipped and
strove to make all right. Her foot eon-
tinuously touched the loud pedal—the
blurred sound seemed to accomplish
more. So she played “How €an I
Leave Thee,” and they managed to
sing it. So she played “Long, Long
Ago,” and “Little Neil of Narragan-
sett Bay.” Beyond open doors, Mrs.
fil
, 7
ql i i A
e
“Oh, No,” Lulu Disclaimed It. She
Looked Up, Flushed, Smiling.
Bett listened, sang, it may be, with
them; for when the singers ceased,
her voice might be heard still hum-
ming a loud closing bar.
“Well!” Cornish cried to Lulu; and
then, in the formal village phrase:
“You're quite a mrsician.”
“Oh, no!” Lulu disclaimed it. She
looked up, flushed, smiling. “I've never
done this in front of anybody,” she
owned. “I don’t know what Dwight
and Ina’d say. . . .” She drooped.
They rested and, miraculously, the
air of the place had stirred and quick-
ened. as if the crippled. halting melody
had some power of its own, and
poured this forth, even thus trampled.
“YI guess you could do ’'most any-
thing you set your hand to,” said
Cornish.
“Oh, no,” Lulu said again.
“Sing and play and cook—"
“But I can’t earn anything. I'd like
to earn something.” But this she had
not meant to say. She stopped, rather
frightened.
“You would! Why, you have it fine
here, I thought.”
“Oh, fine, yes. Dwight gives me
what I have. And I do their work.”
“I see,” said Cornish. “I never
thought of that,” he added. She
caught his speculative look—he had
heard a tale or two concerning her re-
turn, as who in Warbleton had not
heard?
“You're wondering why I didn’t
stay with him!” Lulu said recklessly.
This was no less than wrung from her,
but its utterance occasioned in her an
unspeakable relief.
“Oh, no,” Cornish disclaimed, and
colored and rocked.
“Yes, you are,” she swept on. “The
whole town’s wondering. Well, I'd like
’em to know, but Dwight won't let me
tell.”
Cornish frowned, trying to under-
stand.
“‘Won’t let you!” he repeated. “I
should say that was your own affair.”
“No. Not when Dwight gives me all
I have.”
“Oh, that—" said Cornish.
not right.”
“No. But there it is. It puts me—
you see what it does to me. They
think—they all think my—husband
left me.”
It was curious to hear her bring out
that word——tentatively, deprecating-
ly, like some one daring a foreign
phrase without warrant.
Cornish said feebly:
”
“That's
“Oh, well.
Before she willed it, she was telling
him:
“He didn’t. He didn’t leave me,”
she cried with passion. “He had an-
other wife.” Incredibly it was as if
she were defending both him and her-
self.
“Lord sakes!” said Ccernish.
She poured it out, in her passion to
tell some one, to share her news of
her state where there would be neither
hardness nor censure.
“We were in Savannah, Georgia,”
she said. “We were going to leave for
Oregon—going to go through Califor-
nia. We were in the hotel, and he
was going out to get che tickets. He
started to go. Then he came back. I
was sitting the same as there. He
opened the door again—the same as
here. I saw he looked different—and
he said quick: ‘There's something
you'd ought to know before we go.’
And, of course, I said, ‘What? And he
said it right out—how he was married
eighteen years ago and in two years
she ran away and she must be dead,
but lhe wasn’t sure. He hadn't the
proofs. So, of course, I came home.
But it wasn’t him left me.”
“No, no. Of course he didn't,”
Cornish said earnestly. “But, Lord's
sakes—” he said again. He rose to
walk about, found it impracticable
and sat down.
“That’s what Dwight don’t want me
to tell—he thinks it isn’t true. He
thinks—he didn’t have any other wife.
He thinks he wanted—" Lulu looked
up at him. “You see,” she said,
“Dwight thinks he didn’t want me.”
“But why don’t you make your hus-
band—I mean, why doesn’t he write
to Mr. Deacon here, and tell him the
truth—"’ Cornish burst out.
Under this implied belief, she re-
laxed and into her face came its rare
sweetness.
“He has written,” she said.
letter’s there.”
He followed her look, scowled at the
two letters.
“What'd he say?”
“Dwight don’t like me to touch his
mail. I'll have to wait till he comes
back.”
“Lord sakes!” said Cornish.
This time he did rise and walk
about. He wanted to say something,
wanted it with passion. H® paused
beside Lulu and stammered:
“You—you—you're too nice a girl to
get a deal like this. Darned if you
aren't.”
To her own complete surprise Lulu’s
eyes filled with tears, and she could
not speak. She was by no means
above self-sympathy.
“And there ain't,” said Cornish sor-
rowfully, “there ain't a thing I can
do.”
And yet he was doing much. He
was gentle, he was listening, and on
his face a frown of concern. His face
continually surprised her, it was so
fine and alive and near, by comparison
with Ninian’s loose-lipped, ruddy, im-
personal look and Dwight’s thin, high-
boned hardness. All the time Cornish
gave her something, instead of draw-
ing upon her. Above all, he was there,
and she could talk to him.
“It’s—it’s funny,” Lulu said. “I'd
be awful glad if I just could know for
sure that the other woman was alive
—if I couldn’t know she’s dead.”
This surprising admission Cornish
seemed to understand.
“Sure you would,” he said briefly.
“Cora Waters,” Lulu said. “Cora
Waters, of San Diego. California. And
she never heard of me.”
“No,” Cornish admitted. They
stared at each other as across some
abyss,
In the doorway Mrs, Bett appeared.
“] scraped up everything,” she re-
marked, “and left the dishes set.”
“That’s right, mamma,” Lulu said.
“Come and sit down.”
Mrs. Bett entered with a leisurely
air of doing the thing next expected
of her.
“I don’t hear any more playin’ and
singin’,” she remarked. “It sounded
real nice.”
“We—we sung all. 1 knew how to
play, I guess, mamma.”
“I use’ to play on the melodeon,”
Mrs. Bett volunteered, and spread and
examined her right hand.
“Well!” said Cornish.
She now told them about her log-
house in a New England clearing,
when she was a bride. All her store
of drama and life came from her.
She rehearsed it with far eyes. She
laughed at old delights, drooped at
old fears. She told about her little
daughter who had died at sixteen—a
tragedy such as once would have been
renewed in a vital ballad. At the end
she yawned frankly as if, in some ter-
rible sophistication, she had been tell-
*The
ing the story of some one else,
———————————
‘
“Give us one more piece,” she said.
“Can we?”.Cornish asked.
“I can play ‘1 Think When I Read
That Sweet Story of Old’ ” Lulu said.
“That’s the ticket!” said Cornish.
They sang it, to Lulu’s right hand.
“That's the one you picked out
when you was a little girl, Lulie.”
cried Mrs. Bett.
Lulu had played it now as she mue*
have played it then.
Half after nine and Di had not re-
turned. But nobody thought of Di.
Cornish rose to go.
“What's them?’ Mrs. Bett de-
manded.
“Dwight’s . letters, mamma. You
mustn't touch them!” Lulu’s voice was
sharp.
“Say!” Cornish, at the door, dropped
his voice. “If there was anything I
couid do at any time, you'd let me
know, wouldn't you?’ :
That past tense, those subjunctives,
unconsciously called upon her to feel
no intrusion.
“Oh, thank you,” she said. “You
don’t know how good it is to feel—"
“Of course it is,” said Cornish
heartily.
They stood for a moment on the
porch. The night was one of low
i
hy
i
[i mn i
in
PN] Wl
“Of Course,” Said Lulu, “Of Course
You Won't—You Wouldn't.”
clamor from the grass, tiny voices, in-
sisting.
“Of course,” said Lulu, “of course
you won't—you wouldn’t—"
“Say anything?’ he divined.
for dollars.
dollars.”
“But I knew you wouldn't,” she told
him,
He took her hand... “Good-night,”
he said. “I've had an awful nice time
singing and listening to you talk—
well, of course—I mean,” he cried,
“the supper was just fine. And so
was the music.”
“Oh, no,” she said.
Mrs. Bett came into the hall.
“Lulie,” she said, “I guess you
didn’t notice—this one’s from Ninian.”
“Mother—"
“I opened it—why, of course I did.
It's from Ninian.”
Mrs. Bett held out the opened en-
velope, the unfolded letter, and a yel-
lowed newspaper clipping.
“See,” said the old woman, “says,
‘Corie Waters, music hall singer—
married last night to Ninian Dea-
con—' Say, Lulie, that must be
her.
Lulu threw out her hands.
“There!” she cried triumphantly.
“He was married to her, just like
he said!”
*®, * * » * * *
“Not
Not.” he repeated, “for
(Continued next week).
Outdecor Body Will Raise Big Fund
for Fish and Game.
For the purpose of financing a cam-
paign to make Central Pennsylvania
one of the best game centers in the
United States, the Central Pennsyl-
vania Fish and Game Conservation
association will stage a drive in Har-
risburg and vicinity early next month.
Plans for the raising of at least $6,-
000 a year for a period of three years
have been outlined by the executive
committee of the organization. The
president of the association, Edson J.
Hockenberry, has contributed the
service of the Hockenberry System
Inc., for the collection of this fund.
The committee in charge of the
raising of the fund is enthusiastic
over the prospects of success and over
the work done by the association thus
far with the small fund in the hands
of the officers. The work has been
confined mainly to the placing of fish
in the streams the past summer, pre-
vention of stream pollution in several
instances where it was threatened and
a survey of the district with regard
to the elimination of so-called vermin
and the stocking with various types
of game net now plentiful. The sup-
port of all the legislative candidates in
the central section of the State was
also obtained to keep intact the fish-
ing and hunting license funds, which
are in danger of being diverted to oth-
er uses.
——— A —————
Ancient Myth of the Forget-Me-Not.
How the forget-me-not was named
goes back to an old, old myth. A
knight and his love were walking by
a lake when she saw at the other shore
some beautiful blue flowers and ex-
pressed her wish for some of them.
For her to wish was for him to obey.
He dashed into the lake, swam to the
opposite bank, plucked the fiowers and
was returning to his love. Near the
shore his strength gave out. He
threw the flowers to his beloved, cry-
ing, “Forget-me-not,” and then sank.
| FARM NOTES.
—An outbreak of the lip and leg
disease affecting sheep has been found
in southern Pennsylvania by field
agents of the Bureau of Animal In-
dustry,
The disease, which should not be
confused with the hoof and mouth
disease affecting cattle, is more or less
prevalent in western States but it has
not been found to any extent in Penn-
sylvania for a considerable time.
The disease is not necessarily fatal
but it may be easily spread and for
this reason steps have been taken to
prevent it from becoming prevalent
in the flocks in the section in which
it has already been found. It is gen-
erally believed that the disease was
brought into Pennsylvania by sheep
purchased in the west.
—So very little is generally known
regarding the origin, composition and
consumption of commercial fertilizers
that the Division of Chemistry calls
attention to the following facts:
The fertilizer business is the larg-
(est group of the heavy-chemical in-
dustries.
More than 90 per cent. by weight of
| the ingredients which enter into the
; composition of the fertilizers consum-
ed in South Carolina—the largest fer-
tilizer-consuming State—are strictly
chemicals.
_ It requires approximately 62 mil-
lion tons of chemicals to supply the
annual demand for fertilizer in the
| United States—the other 10 per cent,
or 750,000 tons, consisting mostly of
| cottonseed meal, packinghouse tank-
. age, fish scrap, blood meal and lesser
tonnage of garbage tankage, process-
, ed leather and other waste products.
Organic ammoniates, such as gar-
. bage, scrap leather, feathers, hair and
felt are processed either by digestion
with acid or by long-pressure cooking
in order to convert the complex nitro-
‘gen compounds into forms readily
I available for plant use.
{ Phosphate rock, from a tonnage
point of view, is the most important
iraw fertilizer material. About 2%
million tons of phosphate rock were
i consumed in producing the 7% million
i tons of fertilizer consumed in the
: United States in 1914.
It takes approximately 1,100 pounds
{ of phosphate rock and 1,100 pounds of
! sulphuric acid to produce a finished
{ton of acid phosphate.
{ Ammonia nitrate is the original
' chemical produced at Muscle Shoals.
{ Cyanamid is made in this country
‘only at Niagara Falls.
| —For the first time in the history
{ of the Pennsylvania Department of
| Agriculture, a special report on the
| condition of the apple crop of the
| State, based on the varieties of ap-
ples, has been secured. The report
| has been presented to Secretary of
i Agriculture Fred Rasmussen by L. H.
. Wible, statistician for the department.
i The report shows the condition of
the various varieties of apples on Sep-
‘tember 1. The figures indicate that
, the Stayman Winesap, one of the most
popular varieties of apples, both with
| Pennsylvania growers and consumers,
' came through the frosts of last spring
least well of any of the varieties, the
condition of this variety on September
1 indicating a yield of 43 per cent. of
a normal crop.
The following table shows the per
centage of each variety as compared
| with 2 normal crop:
All varieties - - - - 58%
Fall varieties - - - 69%
Winter varieties - - - 57%
Stayman Winesap - - - 43%
i York Imperial - - - 53%
Baldwin - - - - - 609%
Northern Spy - - - 55%
Ben Davis - - - - 57%
Jonathan - - - - - 60%
Grimes’ Golden - - - 70%
Rome Beauty - - - - 529
_ The report covers thirty-five coun-
| ties of the State, in which Pennsylva-
i nia’s commercial and farm apple crop
is largely raised. The condition of the
apple crop, according to the last re-
: port of the Bureau of Statistics of the
Pennsylvania Department of Agricul-
ture indicates a yield of 11,486,000
bushels as compared with 1,766,000
bushels last year. It is indicated that
this year’s crop will run considerably
above the average crop for the past
ten years, the average for that time
being 7,911,000 bushels.
—The great interest that is being
taken during recent years in the im-
provement of the potato crop has re-
sulted in a closer observation of the
growing crop everywhere. One of the
questions that is constantly being
asked of the Bureau of Plant Indus-
try, is why so many of the hills
“miss.” As this was a very common
occurrence in potato fields this season,
mention of some of the causes for
missing hills may be of interest to
potato growers.
(1) Perhaps the most important
cause of missing hills in Pennsylvania
is the fungus Rhizoctonia which win-
ters as black specks on the tubers and
then attacks and destroys the young
shoots before they can get above
ground. A sprout may be killed and
start again five or six times before it
at last gets a weak, sickly shoot out
of the soil, and often the sprout is al-
together suppressed. Seed treatment
will prevent this type of miss.
(2) A few misses are due to the
inefficiency of the planter.
(3) A few others result from bac
cutting of seed, for a seed piece with-
out an eye will not grow.
(4) Severe seed treatment may
cause misses by killing the buds ir
some eyes.
(5) A few cases of failure may be
due to the attacks on the sprouts oi
insects underground.
(6) Storage conditions are not al
ways given the importance that the)
should receive, and after a cold winte:
seed is apt to be so badly damagec
that some of the eyes will not grow.
(7) Misses are caused by the rot
ting of the seed-piece in the grounc
by various organisms. It is suspect
ed that many misses this season wert
due to late blight rot carried over the
winter from last year’s epidemic. I
the ground is too wet after planting
it favors misses of this kind.
(8) Finally, poor seed grown o!
poor land from weak, diseased stocl
is likely to develop a far larger per
centage of misses than healthy, vig
orous, well nourished seed.