Bellefonte, Pa., November 10, 1922.
1 — _ : : oo
Pa
| Miss
| Lulu
Bett
By
Zona Gale
Illustrations by Irwin Myers |
¥ +
Copyright by D. Appleton and Company
(Conclusion).
“Then, for all our sakes, let's drop
the matter. Tell you, Lulu, here
are three of us. Our interests are the
same in this thing—only Ninian is our
reiative and he’s nothing to you now.
Is he?
“Why, no,” said Lulu in surprise.
“Very well. Let’s have a vote, Your
snap judgment is to tell this disgrace-
ful fact broadcast. Mine is, least saic,
soonest mended. What do you say,
Ina—considering Di and all?”
“My poor, poor sister!” Ina said.
She struck together her little plump
hands. “Oh, Dwight—when I think
of it: What have I done—what have
we done that I should have a good,
kind, loving husband—be so protected,
80 loved, when other women. . . .
Darling!” she sobbed, and drew near
tc Lulu. “You know how sorry I am
—we all are. 2
Lulu stood up. Her white shawl
slipped to the floor. Her hands were
giifily joined.
“Then,” she said, “give me the only
thing I've got—that’s my pride. My
pride—that he didn’t want to get rid
of me.”
They stared at her. “What about
my pride?’ Dwight called to her, as
across great distances. “Do you
think I want everybody to know my
brother did a thing like that?”
“You can’t help that,” said Lulu.
“But I want you to help it. I want
you to promise me that you won't
ghame us like this before all our
friends.” .
“You want me to promise what?”
“I want you—I' ask you,” Dwight
said with an effort, “to promise me
that you will keep this, with us—a
family secret.”
“No!” Lulu cried. “No. I won’t do
it! I won't do it! I won't do it!”
It was like some crude chant, know-
ing only two tones. She threw out
her hands, her wrists long and dark on
her blue skirt.
“Can’t you understand anything?”
she asked. “I've lived here all my life
—on your money. I've not been
strong -enough to work, they say—
well, but I’ve been strong enough to
be a hired girl in your house—and
I've been glad to pay for my keep.
. Well, then I got a little some-
thing, same as other folks. I thought
I was married and I went off on the
train and he bought me things and I
saw the different towns. And then it
was all a mistake. I didn’t have any
of it, I came back here and went in-
te your kitchen again—I don’t know
why I came back. I s’pose because
Pm most thirty-four and new things |
ain’t so easy any more—but what have
T got or what'll I ever have? And
now you want to put on to me having
folks look at me and think he run
off and left me, and having ‘em all
wonder. . . I can’t stand it. I
cay't stand it. I can’t. . 2
“You'd rather they'd know he fooled
you, when he had another wife?”
Dwight sneered.
“Yes! Because he wanted me. How
do I know—mayhe he wanted me only
just, because he was lonesome, the
way I was, I don’t care why! And I
won’t have folks think he went and
left me.”
“When a family once gets talked
skput for any reason——" said Ina
end shuddered.
“I'm talked about now!”
“But nothing that you could help.
If he got tired of you, you couldn’t
help that.” This misstep was
Paight’s.
“No,” Lulu said, “I couldn’t help
that. And I couldn’t help his other
wife, either.”
“Bigamy,”
erime.”
“I've done no crime,” said Lulu.
“Bigamy,” said Dwight, “disgraces
averybody it touches.”
“Even Di,” Lulu said.
“Lulu,” said Dwight, “on Di’s ac-
count will you promise us to let this
thing rest with us three?”
“I s’pose so,” said Lulu quietly.
“You will?”
“I s’pose 80.”
Yna sobbed: “Thank you, thank you,
Yalu. This makes up for everything.”
“You'll be happy to think you've
done this for us, Lulu,” said Dwight.
“I g'pose 80,” said Lulu.
Ina, pink from her little gust of soh-
bing, went to her, kissed her, her t=im
tan tailor suit against Lulu’s bine co*-
ton.
“My sweet, self-sacrificing s!ster,”
she murmured.
“Oh, stop that!” Lulu said.
Dwight took her hand, lying limyply
in his. “I can now,” he said, ‘“‘over-
said Dwight, “that’s a |
| morning,” he said.
look the matter of the letter”
Lulu drew back. She put her hair
behind her ears, swallowed, and er‘ed
out.
“Don’t you go around pitying mei
I'll have you know I'm glad the whole
thing happened !”
* *
* * * * *
It was not yet nine o'clock of =
vivid morning. Cornish had his iloor
and sidewalk sprinkled, his red and
blue plush piano spreads dusted. He
sat at a folding table well back in the
store, and opened a law book.
For half an hour he read. Then
he found himself looking off the page,
stabbed by a reflection which always
Was He Really Getting Anywhere
With His Law, and Where Did He
Really Hope to Get?
stabbed him anew: Was he really get-
ting anywhere with his law? And
where Gid he really hope to get? Of
late when he awoke at night this ques-
tion had stood by the cot, waiting.
It was behind that curtain that this
unreasoning question usually attacked
kim, when his giant, wavering shadow
had died upon the wall and the faint
smell of the extinguished lamp went
with him to his bed; or when he
waked before any sign of dawn.
the mornings all was cheerful and
night when you played croquet.
“You never told!”
“They don’t know she went.”
“That's a funny thing” he blurted
out, “for you not to tell her folks—I
mean, right off. Before last night. . .”
“You don’t know them. Dwight'd
never let up on that—he’d joke her
about it after a while.”
“But it seems—"
“Ina’d talk about disgracing her.
They wouldn't know what to do.
There’s no sense in telling them. They
aren’t a mother and father,” Lulu
said.
Cornish was not accustomed to deai
with so much reality. But Lulu's
reality he could grasp.
“You're a trump anyhow,” he af-
firmed.
“Oh, no,” said Lulu modestly.
Yes, she was. He insisted upon it.
“You've been a jewel in their home
all right,” said Cornish. “I bet they
miss you if you do go.”
“They'll miss my cooking,” Lulu saiu
without bitterness,
“They’ll miss more than that. 1!
know. I've often watched you
there—"
“You have?’ It was not so much
pleasure as passionate gratitude which
lighted her eyes.
“You made the whole place,” said
Cornish.
“You don’t mean just the cooking?’ |
that first
“No, no. I meun—well,
I felt
. at home when you came out.”
i you—and there's
In |
wonted—the question had not before
attacked him among his red and biue
plush spreads, his golden oak and eb-
ony cases, of a sunshiny morning.
A step at his door set him flying.
. her face unsmiling but somehow quite
“Well!” he cried. when he saw lis |
He wanted passionately to sell a piano.
visitor.
It was Lulu, in her dark red suit and
her tilted hat.
{
“You're out early,” said he, partici-
pating in the village chorus of this :
hright challenge at this hour.
“Oh, no,” said Lulu.
ing, leaned to see it the better.
“Oh, how’d you get along
That look of hers, rarely seen, which
was no less than a iook of lovelincss
came now to Lulu’s face. After a
pause she said: “Well, T must be go-
ing now. I wanted to say good-hy ta
one or two other
places. oo
“I hate to have you go,” said Cor-
nish, and tried to add something. “I
hate to have you go,” was all that he
could find to add.
Lulu rose, “Oh, well,” was all that
she could find.
They shook hands, Lulu laughing o
little. Cornish followed her to the
door. He had begun on “Look here,
I wish .” when Lulu said
“good-by,” and paused, wishing in
tensely to know what he would have
said. Put all that he said was*
“Good-by. I wish you weren't going”
“So do L” said Lulu, and went, still
laughing.
Cornish saw her red dress vanish
from his door, flash by his window,
her head averted. And there settled
upon him a depression out of all pro-
portion to the slow depression of his
days. This was more—it assailed him,
absorbed him.
He came back to his table, and sat
down before his lav'book. But he sat,
chin on chest, regarding it. No
no escape that way. . . .
A step at the door and he sprang
up. It was Lulu, coming toward him,
lighted. In her hund was a letter. %
“See,” she said. “At the office was
this. 2
She thrust in his hand the single
sheet. He read:
* * * * * J ®
just wanted you to know
| you're actually rid of me. I've heard
He looked out the window, pretend- .
ing to be caught by something pass- |
last :
night?” he asked, and wondered why
he had not thought to say it before. |
“All right, thank you,” said Lulu.
“Was he—about the letter, you
know?
matter. You'll be sure,” she added,
“not to say anything about what was !
in the letter?”
“Why, not till you tell me I can,”
said Cornish, “but won’t everybody |
know now?”
“No,” Lulu said.
At this he had no more to say, and |
feeling his speculation in his eyes,
dropped them to a piano scarf from
which he began flicking invisible
specks.
“I came to tell you good-by,” Lulu
said,
“Good-by !”
“Yes. I'm going off—for a while. My
satchel’s in the bakery—I had my
breakfast in the bakery.”
“Say!” Cornish cried warmly, “then
everything wasn’t all right last night?”
“As right as it can ever be with me,”
she told him. “Oh, yes. Dwight for-
gave me.”
“Forgave you!”
She smiled, and trembled.
“Look here,” said Cornish, “you
come here and sit down and tell me
about this.”
He led her to the folding table, as
the only social spot in that vast area
of his, seated her in the one chair,
and for himself brought up a piane
stool. But after all she told him noth-
ing. She merely took the comfort of
hig kindly indignation.
“It came out all right,” she said
only. “But I won't stay there any
more. I can’t do that.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
“In Millton yesterday,” she said, “I
saw an advertisement in the hotel-—
they wanted a chambermaid.”
“Oh, Miss Bett!” he cried. At that
name she flushed. “Why,” said Cor-
nish, “ypu must have been coming
from Millton yesterday when I saw
you. I noticed Miss Di had her bag
—" He stopped, stared. “You
brought her back!” he deduced every-
{hing
“Oh!” suld Lulu. “Oh, no-—I menu
”
“TY heard about the eloping again this
“That’s just what
yon did—you brought her back.”
“You mustn't tell that! You won't?
You won't!”
“No. 'Course not.” He mulled it.
“You tell me this: Do they know? I
mean about your going after her?”
“No.”
Fan
from her, in Brazil. She ran out of
money and thought of me, and her
lawyer wrote to me. I've nev-
er been any good—Dwight would tell
you that if his pride would let him tell
the truth once in a while. But there
| ain’t anything in my life makes me
+ feel as bad as this.
I s’pose
,- you couldn't understand and I don't
“Yes,” she said, “but that didn’t
myself. Onlv the sixteen years
keeping still made me think she was
gone sure . . but you were so
downright good, that’s what was the
worst do you see what I want
to say s
Cornish read it all and looked at
Lulu. She was grave and in her eyes
there was a look of dignity such as he
had never seen them wear, incredihle
dignity. :
”
.
“He didn’t lie to get rid of me—ang
she was alive, just as he thought she
might be,” she said.
“I'm glad,” said Cornish,
“Yes,” said Lulu. “He isn’t quite
so bad as Dwight tried to make him
out.”
It was not of this that Cornish hae
been thinking.
“Now you're free,” he said.
“Oh, that .” said Lulu.
She replaced her letter in its en-
velope. “Now I'm really going,” she
said. Good-by for sure this time. . . .*
Her words trailed away. Cornish
had laid his hand on her arm.
“Don’t say good-by,” he said.
She looked at him mutely.
“Do you think you could possibly
stay here with me?”
“Oh!” said Lulu, tike no word.
He went on, not looking at her,
haven’t got anything. I guess maybe
you've heard something about a little
something I'm supposed to inherit
Well, it’s only five hundred dollars.”
His looks searched her face, but she
bardly heard what he was saying.
“That little Warden house—it don’t
cost much—you’d be surprised. Rent,
I mean. I can get it now. I went and
looked at it the other day, but then
I didn’t think——" he caught himself
an that. “It don’t cost near as much
as tl.is store. We could furnish up the
parlor with pianos—"
He was startied by that “we,” and
be again:
“That is, if you could ever think of
such a thing as marrying me.”
s2id Lulu. “You
ny. don’t the disgruce———7"
“There's only this about that,” said
ne, Or course, ir you loved him very
much, then I'd ought not to be talking
this way to you. But I didn’t think
—-—
She said: “I wanted somebody of
my own. That's the reason I done
what I done. I know that now.”
or
4
Hp know!
“Look here,” he said. “I'd ought to '
I’m awful lonesome myself.
A
i fil
tell you.
I:
: His Look Searched Her Face, but Ste
{Hardly Heard What He Was Saying,
This is no place to live, And I guess
| living so is one reason why I want to |
| get married. I want some kind of a
{ home.”
“Of course,” she said.
“Could you risk it with me?” Cor-
nish asked her. “There’s nobody I've
seen,” he went on gently, “that I hke
| as much as I do you. I—I was en-
| gaged to a girl once, but we didn’t get
| along. I guess if you'd be willing te
| try me, we would get along.”
“Isn't there somehody——"
“Look here. Do you like me?”
“Oh. yes!”
“Well enough——""
“It's you I was thinking of,” said
Lulu. “I'd be all right.”
“Then!” Cornish cried, and he kissed
her.
. *
“And now,” said Dwight, “nobody
must mind if I hurry a little wee bit.
I've got something on.”
He and Ina and Monona were ai
dinner. Mrs. Bett was in her room.
Di was not there.
“Anything about Lulu?” Ina asked.
“Lulu?” Dwight stared. “Why
should I have anything to do about
Lulu?”
“Well, but, Dwight—we’ve got to do
something.”
“As I told you this morning,” he
abserved, “we shall do nothing. Your
sister is of age—I don’t know about
the sound mim, but she is certainly oi
age. If she chooses to go away, she
is free to go where she will.”
“Can’t you get mother to come out?”
Dwight inquired.
“TI had so much to do getting dinner
onto the table, I didn’t try,” Ina con-
fessed.
voice sounded.
got rested up.”
She entered, looking vaguely about.
“I want Lulie,” she said, and the cor-
ners of her mouth drew down. She
ate her dinner cold, appeased in vague
“I was coming when 1
still at table when the front door
opened.
“Monona hadn’t ought to use the
front door so commonly,” Mrs. Betts
complained.
But it was not Monona.
Lauiu and Cornish.
“Well!” said Dwight, tone curving
downward,
“Well!” said Ina, in replica.
“Lulie!” said Mrs. Bett, and left her
dinner, and went to her daughter and
put her hands upon her.
“We wanted to tell you first,” Cor-
nish said. “We've just got married.”
“Forevermore!” said Ina.
“What's this?” Dwight sprang to his
feet. “You're joking!” he cried with
hope.
“No,” Cornish said soberly. “We're
married—just now. Methodist parson-
age. We've had our dinner,” he add-
ed hastily.
Dwight reeovered himself in a meas-
ure. “I'm not surprised, after all,” he
| said. “Lulu usually marries in this
| way.”
Mrs. Bett patted her daughter's arm.
“Lulie,” she said, ‘why, Lulie. You
ain’t been and got married twice, have
you? After waitin’ so long?”
“Don’t be disturbed, Mother Bett,”
Dwight cried. “She wasn't married
It was
that first time, if you remember. No
marriage about it!”
Ina’s little shriek sounded,
“Dwight!” she cried. “Now every-
body'll have to know that. You'll have
to tell about Ninian now—and his oth-
er wife!”
Standing between her mother and
Cornish, an arm of each about her,
Lulu looked across at Ina and Dwight,
and they all saw in her face a horrified
realization.
“Ina!” she said. “Dwight! You
will have to tell now, won’t you? Why
J never thought of that.”
[THE END.]
ra ——— brn mn
——The number of unemployed in
Pennsylvania dropped 10,000 during
the last two weeks, according to the
commissioner, and the involuntary
idle are now estimated at 40,680. A
shortage in skilled and semi-skilled la-
bor still exists, while the demand for
common labor increases. Reports
from every district indicate a build-
ing boom that will surpass any pre-
vious activity in that line.
“You didn’t have to try,” Mrs. Bett’s |
areas by such martyrdom. They were !
—
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
Life is a leaf of paper white
Whereon each one of us may write
His word or two, and then comes night.
Greatly begin, though thou have time
But for a line, be that sublime—
Not failure, but low aim, is crime!
—J. R. Lowell.
piece suit seems to be the last word
. for winter wear.
Many a woman finds it hard to
choose becoming dresses. In the salon
of the designers she sees a lovely cre-
ation and imagines herself being the
envy of all her friends when she wears
it. But at home, because the dress is
really not “quite her style,” she finds
tragedies be avoided ?
This question is answered here by
Lucille. :
_ Study your personality and figure
is the first maxim of good dressing.
Then you will dress according to your
type, and all will be well.
The tall and statuesque woman
i must stick to straight lines and grace-
ful, long draperies. She must avoid
jeune fille frocks and “baby” dresses.
As for the picture gown and the
| bouffant or billowy skirt, these are for
| the debutante who is not too tall and
inot too plump. For her, too, is the
i long, straight frock with the waist
long, but not too long.
Extremes in this matter of long
waists merely spoil the figure. As to
. the picture gown, attractive as it is,
generally speaking, it is better
i adapted for use at home than at pub-
lic functions. Wide-spreading skirts
are apt to be a nuisance in crowded
. rooms.
For those who are stout the dress
' problem is more complicated, but with
i care and thought many becoming so-
¢ lutions can be found. In brief, if you
rare stout, tanciful draperies and too
| tight gowns are not for you.
| The straight panel back will give
the correct “line” ‘and help to give an
impression of slimness. The best coi-
sage is some variant of the becoming |
; cross-over, and carefully draped ef-
fects, according to the figure, can
i safely be used.
If there were any old ladies these
days, a beautiful lace fichu allied with |
' soft gray brocade, made with a point-
‘ed bodice and a skirt slightly full at
. the sides would make an ideal dress.
: Some wear such gowns, but the num-
- ber is not great.
| Bearing these general rules in mind,
| any woman can dress well. Failure to
, do so is, in nine cases out of ten, not
! the fault of fashion, but want of taste.
If a man beats hi~ horse in the
| street, a threatening crowd gathers:
i and he is arrested and goes off under
! police escort, with the hoots of the by-
i standers assailing his ears.
i Should a thoughtless lad stone a dog
or a cat, there is always some one!
about who makes his error plain to
him in short order. “Leave that poor
thing alone, or I'll come out there to
you, young man!”
i man has strong interests on the oth-
| er side of the street in no time at all.
| Yet a woman may beat a helpless
child, and, while folks frown and
, move away from her immediate pres-
; ence, nobody says a word or lifts a fin-
| ger in protest. But we ought to.
| What we do as a matter of course for
{ animals we ought to do instinctively
: for little children.
Two mothers were standing on the
| street corner having a chat. A two
i year old girl was swinging on her
i mother’s skirts and she shook her off.
| She was deeply interested in what she
| was telling her friend and the young-
| ster annoyed her.
i The little one wandered off to the
| roadway and shouts and toots and
, cries informed the mother that she
{ was in danger. A car was almost up-
on her when she was snatched up and
carried to the curb again. Then her
mother fell upon her. Nobody said
| anything; just walked away in dis-
gust.
I saw another mother dragging a ti-
ny girl along the station platform.
The mother was striding along and the
child’s feet scarcely touched the floor.
Her hat slipped back and hung by ihe
elastic around her neck. Her hair
ribbon fell off. Her hair fell into her
eyes. Still her mother strode ahead,
oblivious to the plight of the little
! daughter.
| Then one tiny pump fell off. The
i child tried to tell her mother, tried to
i pull back against the arm that was
| dragging her along, but the mother
| gave her a powerful jerk and lifted
{her a few feet into the air and hur-
i ried faster. The other pump fell off.
i People called, “Wait! Wait! Her
! shoe! ! Her shoe!”
i The gathering din of voices calling
: at last attracted her attention and the
mother stopped and looked about her
and then down at the disheveled child
she was holding by the hand, a tows-
eled wreck. A man offered one shoe,
a woman the other, and a small boy
handed in the hair ribbon. And the
mother promptly spanked the little
girl, right there in full view of 1600
: people, had they cared to watch her
performance.
It might be a good thing for the
children if we abandoned our conserv-
ative attitude toward mothers with
their children and spoke out our minds
exactly as we do to the ignorant driv-
er and the thoughtless small boy.
Beating children for every little thing
they do that happens to annoy folk of
little patience and no understanding
ought to stop or be stopped.
There is such a distinct difference
between the bags which we carry with
our summery frocks and the ones we
sport with our spiffy new fall suit,
isn’t there? The former may be dain-
ty and lovely and charming, but the
latter must have richness and distine-
tion.
Among the very newest are the
duvetyne bags which are woven in
the delightful colorings and patterns
of the popular paisley design. There
doesn’t seem to be such a thing pos-
sible as the passing of either paisley
or duvetyne. Both are as popular to-
day as they were when we first knew
them, and both harmonize with nearly
every type of costume.
The dressy top coat or the three-'
|it disappointing. How can these dress |
And the young |
_
FARM NOTES.
~The improvident man who sold
his heating stove in July because the
circus was near and the winter far off
differs only in the degree of his short-
sightedness from the poultry raiser
who waits until spring to select the
breeding stock that is to be used to
replenish his flock. This important
! work of picking out the superior birds
must be done in the fall to get the
best results, says the United States
Department of Agriculture, for it is
then that the greatest contrast be-
tween the profitable birds and the
poor ones shows up. Of course the
culling out of the poor layers should
go on all through the summer and fall,
but at least the top notchers should
be selected as foundation for the com-
ing flock, which ought to be better
each year.
i One good rule to follow is to keep
‘the pullets out of the breeding flock
until they are fully matured. An im-
‘ mature bird may be a good layer and
may be from the best stock, but still
it is undesirable. Eggs from pullets
not yet fully developed will not pro-
duce as large or as strong chicks as
those from older hens or fully grown
pullets. There is no difficulty in
knowing when a bird is mature enough
to be used as a breeder, as at that
time the eggs laid will have reached
the size of the average produced by
the general run of hens in the flock.
Young pullets always lay a rather
small egg, sometimes very small at
the start. Those that mature early
may be picked out by keeping track
of the birds that start laying first in
the fall. These birds may be marked
with leg bands, so that they will not
become mixed during the winter with
those that started their work later.
The late molters are the birds that
stick to the job longer, and conse-
quently they make up another group
that should be used in forming the
breeding flock next spring. Leg bands
may be used to distinguish these prof-
itable birds, or, better, the early molt-
ers may be marketed so that they will
no longer have an opportunity to keep
down the average egg production of
the flock.
E The general-purpose breeds which
iinclude the Plymouth Rocks, Rhode
| Island Reds and Wyandottes, as a rule
| are not profitable after the second
year. It is therefore advisable to cull
out all of the older birds of this class.
Of these, the late molters are the ones
| to select for breeders, just as in the
case of fowls of any other breed.
_ But the selection of birds on the ba-
sis of age and time of molting is not
all the preparation that need be made
for raising the foundation of the new
flock. The health and thrift of the
fowls must be looked after carefully
during the winter. After selecting the
breeding birds the poultry house needs
close attention. Keeping it in sani-
tary condition is one of the important
points; also the comfort of the house,
which is closely connected with the
i health of the birds.
Fowls are very sensitive to moisture
conditions, and these should be con-
trolled carefully by ventilation. When
moisture from the fowls gathers on
the ceiling and walls there is apt to be
trouble soon. In cold weather this
moisture may collect in the form of
frost, but the heat from the sun in
the middle of the day will melt the
frost, and the water, dripping down,
will make the litter wet. Hens are a
good deal like sheep in their sensi-
tiveness to wet feet, either in the
house or when outside, and they can
not be kept in good health on damp
litter.
A sick hen is a hard proposition to
deal with if you expect to get out with
a profit on her. It is a lot cheaper to
depend on dry litter than on medicines
to cure colds and roup. Roup is the
sequel of colds, and when it gets into
a flock, as one poultryman puts it, you
are on the rocks.
Plenty of fresh air in the house is a
well-recognized preventive of colds in
humans, and it is just as efficacious
in the case of poultry. The open front
house with cloth curtains is the most
practical means for the average flock
owner to keep the house thoroughly
aired, and the fowls will not suffer
from the cold if the building has been
properly planned; also the egg produc-
tion will keep up. By going into the
house frequently in changing winter
weather it will be easy to judge of the
condition of the atmosphere and bring
it to normal by adjustments of cur-
tains and windows. Moisture can be
kept from accumulating by opening
up the house for a thorough ventila-
tion on sunny days.
The most successful houses, as
found by the experiences of hundreds
of poultry raisers and by experiments
of the Department of Agriculture
and State experiment stations, are
from 16 to 20 feet deep if the open-
front plan is followed. From this
point the nearer toward the front the
fowls are moved the fewer eggs are
produced. In smaller houses the rel-
ative proportion of openings in the
front of the house must be reduced
during the winter months in order to
keep the fowls comfortable. Open
fronts or openings covered with cotton
cloth are most practical in deep
houses.
—The detailed survey of Pennsyl-
vania’s $22,000,000 swine industry,
which is being made by the State De-
partment of Agriculture, promises to
show, in every concrete form, the real
present day problems of the swine
raiser. The survey was officially
launched on August 1 with the holding
of group conferences of the workers
assigned to this compilation of sta-
tistics. These enumerators will dis-
tribute several thousand question-
naires, the answers to which will
throw considerable light on the pro-
duction of one of the most important
livestock classes in the corn-belt area
of the State.
It has been discovered that the bare
figures given in the latest census, do
i not answer certain questions that the
hog farmer might properly raise in
regard to prevailing feeding, manage-
ment and marketing practices. The
Pennsylvania State College is co-op-
erating in making the survey, and Dr.
H. H. Havner, in charge of the animal
husbandry extension, stated that the
completed survey would give a com-
prehensive view of this important in-
{ dustry in which such widespread in-
" terest has been developed.