- -_ NE
Bellefonte, Pa., May 16, 1924.
A MISTAKEN ESTIMATE.
When Willie was five he kicked his mother
‘Whenever she washed his face,
And his conduct went from bad to worse
’Till the kid was a hopeless case.
He fought and struggled when put to bed
And his grandfather said, “He’s sp’iled!”
‘He isn’t at all,” his mother said,
“It’s the temperament in the child.”
At school the lad was a skulking sneak,
Who vented his petty spite
On boys who were undersized and weak,
But never would stand and fight.
When home at last was the urchin sent,
Excuses he shrilly whined,
But his mother said that his temperament,
Was proof of a gifted mind.
‘When Bill grew up he was set to work—
He was healthy and big and strong,
But he loved to soldier and loaf and shirk,
And his jobs didn’t last for long.
His grandfather, sour and hard-boiled
gent,
Declared, “I would lick him good!”
But his mother observed, “It’s his temper-
ament
That makes him misunderstood.”
Now Willie resides in a steel-lined cell—
His home for the coming year—
And his work is done extremely well
‘When the guard is standing near.
And perhaps his doting parent knows
‘What his grandfather long has seen,
That excess of temperament often shows,
That a youngster is merely mean!
IN THE LAST MILE.
With head erect, arms up, Bob Shir-
ley swung at an easy, but ground-de-
vouring pace down the road in the
rear of the Topham Academy, in per-
fect condition at the end of his ten-
mile practice jog. Between the road
and the brick school house which stood
on a knoll among great elms, was a
long sweep of greensward, with here
and there one of the monarch trees.
Bob slowed down as he came near
the school, and at a trot approached
the half dozen boys on the bench be-
neath one of the trees not far from
the road.
Bill Kent, the young physical direc-
tor, arose as he came up and looked
over his lithe glistening body, clad
only in running pants. He noted
everything about Bob, his brown
handsome face, fresh and full, his
broad chest rising and falling without
labor. He took Bob’s hand and felt
his pulse.
“0. K.,” he said curtly.
Four of the boys on the bench were
runners, but, despite the warmth of
the late May day, they were swathed
in their long dressing robes, and their
brown faces were beaded with mois-
ture. All were quiet in their efforts
to gain their breath.
Dick Stewart, a pale-faced, under-
sized chap with gold-bowed spectacles,
dressed in a neat blue serge, moved
up and made room for Bob, clapping
him on his broad shoulder as he sat
down. Dick was the dude of the
Academy, and because of his puny
form he never engaged in any athlet-
ic games. But he was a fine scholar
and a good fellow, and he was much
respected among the boys for his
learning and had great influence in
the school because of his enthusiasm
and ability as an organizer.
“I guess it’s an easy victory for you,
Bob,” he said, in his snappy, cock-
sure way. “Tom here”—he indicated
one of the other runners—‘“is running’
in good form all right, but he isn’t
good for better than a second—or
third—several miles behind. The on-
ly fellow who can give you a shave is
Sid Ashley. He’ll be mighty near
your heels, old man.”
“Sid’s out, isn’t he?” asked Bob,
looking to the left. From the bench
he could see a mile of straight road
blazing in the sunlight and disappear-
ing in a patch of woods in the dis-
tance like a brown snake. He valued
Dick’s opinion, and already knew that
Sid was formidable.
“Yes,” answered Ed Towne, the boy
next to Beb.
“Say, Dick,” asked Tom Davis, in
frank ignorance, but with a rather
sheepish grin, “what is this Marathon
business, anyway? I remember read-
ing something about it, but I can't
think of it now.”
Dick leaned forward with his little
bullet head on one side, and with a
grin looked all along the bench. His
bright eyes twinkled behind their lens-
es, for he saw that all the runners
were curious to hear his answer.
"You fellows make me tired,” he
said, frankly. “You've all read about
it. I’'m—surprised at your igno-
rance.” : :
“Well, what is it?” demanded young
Davis, challengingly.
“Well,” began Dick in a provoking
drawl, his air paternal, “don’t you re-
member that Miltiades, with about ten
thousand Athenians, defeated one
hundred and ten thousand Persians at
Marathon and drove them aboard
their ships and thus preserved the lib-
erty of Athens. It’s one of the most
famous battles in the history. Mara-
thon was about eighteen miles from
Athens and a soldier ran to Athens
that day and told the news of the
great victory. I believe the soldier of
Marathon died after telling his yarn
in Athens—done up. But,” he added
drily, “you runners don’t have to fall
down dead. In fact, the ‘dead ones’
will end before they see the end.”
“Oh, I remember now,” exclaimed
one runner after another, exchanging
shamefaced grins.
Dick, for his part, leaned back and
put one leg over the other, looking
whimsically at his fellow students.
The Topham Athletic Association
had planned a Marathon race for the
last Saturday in May, and it was an
event heralded far and wide. The
course was made fifteen miles only,
starting in Clareton and ending be-
fore the green in the rear of the Acad-
emy. The first prize was big—$300
in cash—an amount sufficient to make
the race of real importance. Both the
town and the Academy were at fever
heat over the coming event, and there
were eleven entries in the race. To
win this great run meant honor not
only in the school, but also throughout
the State, and, of course, the first
prize seemed worthy of the race. This
first prize was the only money prize,
the second and third prizes being
cups.
“There’s Sid!” exclaimed Tom Da- +
vis.
At this announcement, everybody |
looked up. Far away on the highway
was a glistening white speck in the
sunshine, and very soon the speck
grew into a figure coming along at an
easy lope. Bill Kent and Dick Stew-
art arose and went down the slope to
the road.
“That fellow can run,”
Tom.
Most of the runners looked at the
athlate with envious eyes, but Bob
leaned back in his robe and watched
his dangercus rival with generous ad-
miration.
“You're right,” agreed Bob, at
length, and he arose when Sid came
walking up the slope with Mr. Kent
and Dick. 3
Sid was a tall, well formed lad, with |
a dark, manly face. He was sweating
freely, of course, but his breath came
easily and he was in fine condition. |
“Hot work, Sid,” said Bob, as Sid
caught the robe Ed Towne threw him
and put it about his naked shoulders.
“You bet,” responded Sid, smiling
at Bob. |
“You’ve improved a whole lot,” de-
clared Bob, in a frank, friendly way
that made Sid flush with pleasure.
“I'm going to give you a close |
shave, Bob,” returned Sid with a nod,
his firm jaw was setting. He and Bob
were not chums, but they liked and re-
spected each other.”
Everybody now arose and went in
to the Academy. The runners, laugh-
ing and talking about the coming race
had a shower bath, then dressed and
left the building, going out to the vil-
lage street in a body and there sepa-
rating.
Bob and Tom Davis went up the
street together while the rest of the
boys went towards the center. i
“I'm going to buy a new piano with |
the prize,” asserted Bob, with a little |
laugh, as he and Tom went on.
Tom was silent for a moment, and
then said, with a slight stammer, “I
think you're the best runner, Bob, but
I'd like to see Sid get the first prize.”
Bob looked quickly at his friend in
astonishment, red coming into his
bronze face. Tom lived next door to
him, and they had been chums all
their lives. Tom’s words hurt a little,
for he did not at that moment under-
stand. He closed his mouth grimly
and determination showed in his clear
cut, handsome face.
“Sid’s a good fellow,” he said, so-
berly, “but—so are you and the oth-
ers.
“Well, you see, Bob, Sid’s father is
—hard up.” Tom’s father was the
leading lawyer in Topham, and Tom’s
kind heart had allowed him to repeat
something he had casually heard in his
home. “Between you and me, I know
the Ashley’s are going to lose their
house unless they pay their interest
pretty soon. And that prize would
mean a whole lot—a whole lot.”
“I wish you hadn’t told me.” Bob
held his head up and went along with-
out speaking. He was a little bit an-
gry. Sid’s affairs at home were noth-
ing to him—although he was sorry.
The winning of the race meant honor,
and just because he himself was the
son of a man in comfortable circum- !
stances was no reason why the mon-
ey prize should be despised. Three
hundred dollars of his own meant a lot
to him as well as to Sid.
He parted good naturedly with Tom
in front of his house and went in to
supper.
During the next few days he ran as
he had before, gaining strength and
speed and confidence all the time; but
he never forgot what Tom had said
about Sid. The knowledge that Sid
was in trouble and running under a
handicap—as his trouble must be—
made him uneasy and uncomfortable,
so much so that he almost wished he
was not so good a runner. But pride
was strong in him, and with all his
heart he desired to win the great fif-
teen mile race. At times he was
tempted to speak to Sid, but there was
something about Sid Ashley that made
broaching such a subject a very diffi-
cult matter. He fancied he saw trou-
ble in Sid’s face, but he kept assur-
ing himself that there was no such
thing as pity or magnanimity in a
race. A race was a trial of speed and
endurance; not of kind acts. In his
heart, however, he knew that he would
not suffer if he lost the prize—except
perhaps a twinge of the pride—and
that really and truly the honor of win-
ning was an empty thing compared to
what he might do. But he couldn't
force himself to pretend a strain to
give an excuse for not running. Pride !
was too strong.
The day of the race was perfect—
hot and clear and sunny. At one
o'clock the contestants, dressed in
their running pants, with their dress-
ing robes thrown about their shoul-
ders, whirled away in automobiles
from in front of the Academy, cheered
by great throngs of wildly enthusias-
tic boys and girls. At two the great
green slope behind the Academy was
densely packed with the Academy stu-
dents and men and women and chil-
dren of the village—a vast garden of
rioting color. A judges’ stand had
been erected at the foot of the green
by the roadside, just opposite the
green tape pegged across the road,
and there was a crowd around the
stand and a fringe of spectators for a
mile or more along the highway.
The race started in front of the
Claretown High school. The eleven
boys, lithe and white, crouched on the
tape there amid a waving, excited
crowd, and Kiles Stock, the jolly, ath-
letic principal of the school, stood at
one side with a revolver in his hand.
“Ready, boys?” he said warningly.
“Get set!” he commanded, in clear,
sharp tones. “Ready!”
The eleven boys, all trembling with
eagerness and excitement, crouching
like a line of white bullfrogs about to
leap, waited with straining ears.
Bang! The revolver cracked sharp-
ly. At the report, the eleven white
forms came upright and flashed away
down the road. i
“Come back!” roared Mr, Steck, fo
asserted
Giant Wreath of Scarlet Poppies Woven to Hallow the Unknown
Soldier’s Tomb at Washington.
A giant poppy wreath, the national tribute of the Veterans
of Foreign Wars, will be laid on the tomb of the Unknown
American Soldier in the National Cemetery at Arlington on
Memorial Day as a special feature of the Poppy Day program
of the V. F. W. observed in connection with its annual poppy
sale,
Fittingly two of America’s Gold Star mothers intertwined .
the final poppies into this wreath symbol of a nation’s rever- down, put on clothes and went out to be covered very lightly.
ence, Mrs. Charles Berger of Pittsburgh, whose son, Elmer M., the street.
Berger of the 111th Infantry, gave his life in France, and Mrs. '
Lydia Regelman of the same city, whose son, Hall, a member of
the same regiment, was also killed in action.
All the poppies used in the official |.
observance of Poppy Day are “Buddy
Poppies,” made by disabled American
ex-service men in a specially equipped
V. F. W. poppy factory in Pittsburgh,
Pa. To date more than 3,000,000 pop-
pies have been completed, each bear-
ing the label, “WEAR A BUDDY POP-
i PY,” and the entire proceeds from
their sale will be devoted to relief of
war-disabled.
All the men employed in the poppy
factory are men suffering from war-
time disabilities, who cannot be re-
habilitated by the Veterans Bureau
because their disability was not con-
templated by the War Risk and Voca-
tional Training laws when passed and
who are designated by the govern-
ment as “non-feasible.” The poppy
making not only affords these war
veterans a livelihood which the ma-
jority of them, because of their crip-
pled condition, would be helpless to
earn in their former occupations, but
in addition helps to renew their self
confidence and rebuild their morale.
President Coolidge, who has signi-
fied his warm accord with the V. F.
W. Poppy Day plan, himself wears the
first Buddy Poppy, a specially made
blossom in whose making every dis-
abled boy in the factory had a hand.
Professional organizations and rep-
resentative trades associations cover-
ing practically every branch of the
country’s professional and industrial
life have signified their cordial offi-
cial indorsement of the movement by
fermal resolutions , and letters to
Brigadier General Lloyd M. Brett,
commander in chief of the Veterans
of Foreign Wars, and prominent indi-
viduals, and the outstanding national
women’s patriotic organizations have
also strongly commended it.
At the same time that the mam-
moth wreath of scarlet memorial
blossoms is laid on the tomb of the
American Unknown Soldier a dupli-
cate will be laid by the Veterans of
Foreign Wars on the Soldiers’ and
Sailors’ Monument in New York, and
thousands of smaller similar wreaths
Reuel W. Elton, adjutant general of
the Veterans of Foreign Wars of the
United States, exhibits the giant poppy
wreath to be laid on the tomb of the :
American Unknown Soldier on Memo- i
rial Day as the national tribute of the
Veterans of Foreign Wars in the ob-
servance of their annual national Por
py Day movement.
throughout the country during the
Memorial Day services by the various
local V, F. W. posts. In still further
significance of tribute to the World
War dead on Memorial Day in Paris
a second giant replica of the Arling-
ton wreath will be laid on the tomb
of the Unknown French Soldier at the
Arc de Triomphe in accordance with
a custom annually observed since the
war by the Veterans of Foreign Wars. |
“With their poppies in their helmets
the front files hold the line,” wrote
John Mills Hanson, and to the boys
who were “over there” no other flower
could be more symbolical of our hon-
will be laid on memorial monuments | ored heroes.
re.
-—
. their terrible disappointment.
They all slowed down to a walk and
returned to the tape for a new start,
more excited than ever before. §
Bang! Again they were off—this
time perfectly.
They flashed in the sunlight like an-
imate marble figures, and for fifty
feet ran almost in a line.
Bob Shirley and Sid were elbow to
elbow and each eyed the other from
the corner of his eye. They loped eas-
ily, lithe as tigers, breathing easily,
clear-eyed, determined.
The eleven still well together, came
‘to the village outskirts and there ran
into the open country, leaving the
great crowd behind them, although
the roadside was dotted here and there
with spectators. Several automobiles
followed from the village, but they
were unconscious of them.
In the open the sun was scorching,
and a cloud of dust arose from twen-
ty-two pattering feet. Bob and Sid,
grinning, slowed down and went on
easily, but swiftly enough to keep
well up with the other racers.
On and on went the eleven, now and
then from the roadside by straggling
groups. On and on, they went, up hiil
and down hill across open stretches of
country, through patches of woods.
The pace was terrible, but Bob and
Sid, elbow to elbow, kept their dis-
tance behind and waited, each know-
ing that his race was with the one at
his side.
At seven miles George Carson turn-
ed to the roadside and sat down under
a tree and watched the others run on
‘and on till they were lost to sight in
their own dust and in the distance.
Ed Towne fell out next, then Har-
ry Loomis, then Bill Rood.
On and on, and still on, went the
rest, the leaders still keeping up their
gueling pace, Bob and Sid holding
their relative positions clear of the
dust.
Ten miles were gone. Now came
the test! Few could pass this mark
very far. One by one the runners in
the lead slowed down to a walk or
jogged on to a dog trot or swerved
suddenly to the roadside to tumble on
the grass in a bit of shade, content to
get a ride in.
The twelve-mile mark came and
passed, and Tom Davis was the only
runner still in the lead. Tom was a
surprise. He seemed to run easily,
seemed to be more than holding his
own, and Bob and Sid glanced in sur-
prise at each other. On and on the
strong three flew.
Sid increased his speed in superb
form, and Bob kept with him easily.
They overtook Tom, and before they
were far away they heard him grunt
and give a little cry of dismay. They
did not look back, but they knew he
was run off his feet.
“It’s between us,” thought Bob, and
he gathered his reserve strength and
sped on like a deer. He had run the
whole course several times. Never
had he gone at this racing gait,
though, but his splendid body was in
perfect condition, and he went on
without the slightest distress, sure of
himself.
Sid led him by a few feet, and he
showed ne signs of weakening. Bob
let him lead, but kept his distance. He
saw that Sid ran strongly, but felt
sure that he had little or no reserve
for the spurt he was going to make
in the last mile.
In this moment he thought of the
prize tendered to him and heard his
name thundered in acclaim by the
thousands waiting at the finish. And
in fancy he drank the sweet draught
of victory.
As a vision of his triumph came,
thrilling his whole being, he gathered
himself and swept on and on with the
speed and strength of a Bengal tiger.
The road spun beneath his feet. The
country flashed away behind him. His
breath was free and easy.
strength was superb, glorious; never
had he felt so fit. His heart thrilled
with the joy of his strength and the
foretaste of his great victory. He
seemed to fly! On and on!
He came to Sid’s elbow, passed it
like a new-shot arrow. Away and
away he went, faster and faster.
But Sid’s feet pattered, pattered be-
hind him—he could not lose that
sound.
Again Bob gathered himself,
faster and faster he sped away.
They came then, running like deer,
to the patch of pine woods. They
dashed down the road into the grate-
ful shade and went on and on, Bob
leading, but Sid gamely following,
and
His ;
' most deliriously happy met him and
gripped him by both hands and prais-
ed him in warm words.
| Sid’s bubbling joy was so fine and
great and his happiness was so clear
in his face that Bob had no bitter
taste of defeat. He was glad for him,
supremely glad.
{ After congratulating his opponent
as well as he knew how and laughing
gamely with those who came and gave
FARM NOTES.
—The seed corn situation seems to
be serious in many localities. Care-
ful testing is highly desirable.
| —The average acreage per farm in
' Pennsylvania increased from 84.8 to
: 87.3 during the decade 1910 to 1920.
| —On Pennsylvania farms there
, were 136,942 turkeys in 1910. Ten
‘ years later the total dropped to 87,-
him words of encouragement and con- | 404
solation, he pushed his way through
the crowd on the slope and went into
the dressing room, bathed, rubbed
He was happy enough, but he did
not want to see any one. He slipped
away from the crowds outside and
went quietly off homeward.
| That night Tom Davis, his un,
came over to his room, bringing the
second prize, a beautiful cup. And
Tom, in his understanding of Bob,
knew the truth instantly.
Bob, easily, placing the cup on the ta-
ble.
“Tt certainly was,” agreed Tom,
looking at the other with eves glist-
ening with admiration. “The great-
est race you’ll ever run, old fellow.”
“And perhaps I can win the one
next year,” said Bob, quietly, looking
at the cup with moisture in his eves.
Tom, the kind-hearted, could not
wholly restrain demonstration. He
jumped up impulsively and put his
arm about his chum’s shoulder.
“TI know you can, Bob,” he said, in
queer earnestness.
Then there was a short silence be-
tween them, each looking the other in
the face.
“But don’t ever tell, for heaven’s
sake!” burst out Bob, suddenly, see-
ing that Tom knew. “Promise—on
your honor!”
“T promise!” said Tom, quickly, and
with glistening, sparkling eves, they
gripped hands in that honorable com-
pact.—The Boys’ Magazine.
FARM ACCOUNTS.
Under the present conditions of
farming, according to R. C. Blaney,
county agent, many crops are produc-
ed on a very small margin of profit
and many with no profit at all. Farm-
ing is a business and must be man-
aged as such, this necessitates a com-
plete system of farm accounts.
Last year ten farmers in Centre
county secured farm accounts books
through the Farm Bureau office. The
men who kept these books up to
, feel that it was time well spent and
"they found out the crops that were
' paying and those that were not.
By this system of accounting in
i Lancaster county last year some
' startling conclusions were drawn.
The following figures were taken from
eighty-two farms. Wheat gave a re-
turn of 13c. per hour of man labor,
being the lowest of all crops reported.
Alfalfa 36.1c, corn 36.4c, potatoes
36.2¢ and hay 34.3c per hour of man
labor.
Farmers should put more thought
and time to the business side of their
farming activities and know where
each dollar goes and where it will
bring the biggest returns
An account book has béen drawn up
by the agricultural economic depart-
ment at State College which can be
‘kept with a small amount of time.’
These books can be secured any time
: at the Farm Bureau office.
1000 Freshmen to be Admitted at
“State.”
The next Freshman class at The
Pennsylvania State College will be
limited to 1000 according to action by
the college trustees.
For many years past large numbers
of applicants have had to be refused
admission due to lack of facilities to
handle more in certain schools and de-
| partments, and there has been no in-
crease in these facilities during the
past year. W. S. Hoffman, the col-
I lege registrar, announces that as us-
ual the full class wil] be admitted dur-
| ing the month of July, after all high
school commencements have been held.
No priority of application will be con- |
sidered, admission to crowded courses
being granted entirely upon a scho-
lastic basis. Assurance is given at
|
“It was a great race, all right,” said
date
| —Very often vegetable seeds are
covered with too much dirt when
planted. Celery and lettuce should
i —The farmer needs clean, sober,
industrious help. They go into his
hame, eat at his table, lodge in his
house, and associate with his family.
—York, Lancaster, Berks, Adams
and Cumberland counties, in the or-
der given, are the five leading coun-
Bes, in the number of mules in this
ate.
—When planting beans discard all
the spotted or discolored seeds. They
‘are likely to carry the anthracnose
disease into the new crop, if they are
planted.
—If docked when a week old
lambs will not suffer much from bleed-
ing. Docking will increase the quali-
ty of the lamb and the market vaiue
considerably.
—Do not put nicotine in the pink
spray as it does not hit the apple red
bug. Extension specialists are advis-
ing putting the nicotine in the “petal
fall’ spray to control this pest.
, —The census gave Clinton county
68 acres of tobacco in 1919. Accord-
ing to J. B. McCool, county agent,
there were 216 acres given to that
crop in 1923, with an average yield of
1358 pounds per acre.
—Milk is one of the highest foods
in mineral content. Minerals are nec-
essary for proper body growth and
the development of a strong, healthy
child. Diseases are also frequently
traced to a lack of minerals.
—When painting this spring, be
sure to burn all rags which are soaked
with linseed oil and turpentine. They
may cause fire from spontaneous com-
bustion. Don’t store paint materials
in the cellar. The fire risk is great.
—Tile drainage pays in many in-
stances. The best land on a farm is
often wet due to spring water from
the higher land. Often a single line
of tile will relieve this condition.
Iowa farmers have spent half as much
for tile drainage as the cost of the
Panama canal.
| —Pennsylvania ranks first in buck-
wheat, last year producing about 4,-
449,400 bushels. This was more than
32 per cent. of the entire country’s
production. The country at large
looks on Pennsylvania as a great in-
dustrial State. We admit it. At the
same time we direct attention to the
fact that it is a wonderful agricultur-
al State as well.
—Be sure to thin the vegetables in
your garden this spring while they
are small. Thick sowing does not
mean a large yield; in fact the reverse
is true. The following distances be-
tween plants should be maintained:
Peas, two inches; beans, four to six
inches; beets, four inches; carrots,
! three inches; lettuce, ten inches; spin-
ach, one inch; radishes, two to three
inches.
—The telephone is finding a more
important place in Pennsylvania farm
life each year. Reports for 1923 point
out that 60 per cent. of the State’s ag-
riculturists enjoyed the convenience
of telephone service. In 1922, 57 per
cent. of the farm houses were con-
nected by wires with the outside
world. Last year more than 121,000
rural subscribers were listed, as
against 116,000 the preceding year.
—The Oriental peach moth, which
‘caused considerable damage to the
peach crop last year, is not out as yet.
It looks now as though the eggs will
be laid about the time the shucks are
dropping. This is the effective time
to control the pest. Unless the eggs
are destroyed, the moth can not be
prevented from working in the twigs.
Formerly, spraying for the peach
moth has been advised when the pet-
als were dropping but the cold spell
this spring made control ineffective at
j this time, 4
i —Encourage early growth of weeds.
grim as death and never yielding in | this time that practically all qualified They should appear before crops are
spirit.
Now they emerged from the woods,
and the last mile lay before them.
The broad highway, a dusty ribbon,
stretched before, and they saw the
green slope, the Academy among the
mighty trees and the crowds along
the road and by the school. A roar
like thunder came to their ears as
they shot into the open, and they knew
it was a mighty cheer of welcome and
encouragement.
In this instant, with triumph almost
within grasp, Bob Shirley thought of
the nobler thing, and, strangely, the
joy of winning did not thrill him
through and through as it had when
he passed Sid’s elbow.
“Sid needs the money, needs it!”
That thought ran through his mind,
but on and on he ran, faster still fast-
er. He was like a glorious machine
now as he sped away in the last spurt
—and he lost the sound of Sid’s feet.
A queer disappointment, something he
could not understand, shot through
him, and conscious of what he was do-
ing, he imperceptibly slowed down,
even while boys and girls and men
stood up by the track and roared his
name again and again and urged him
on.
Half a mile away—a few feet—was
the judges’ stand—triumph—and still
he slowed down, although no one
could know the truth. “nd then a
white figure, spotted with st, shot
past him, and the thunder of I--*ndreds
and hundreds of wildly-excited voices
rose and fell again and again like
mighty surges of the sea.
In this very instant Bob stum!’~1
and fell sprawling prone in the du-t.
He waved aside assistance. arose by
himself and with a very slight smile
about his lips went like lightning to-
ward the tape.
He looked forward. Sid was cross-
ing the line. A revolver cracked
sharply, and cheer upon cheer greeted
the winner.
Bob ran gamelv across the tape in
second place, and Sid, proud and al-
applicants for admission to the schools
i of SgTiculture and mines can be ad-
Very Strange.
It is related that a young magazine
: editor of New York took a trip to Cal-
| ifornia and happened in upon Holly-
| wood. He was invited to a motion
' picture party and decided to put off
his usual reserve and diffidence and
enter fully into the spirit of the occa-
sion. He devoted his attention
; throughout the evening to a young
film actress. 3
“I will be wild,” he determined. “I
: will be rowdy. 1 will behave with all
the abandon for which Hollywood is
| famous.”
he was playing the role to the limit of
| his capacity, the young woman broke
down and wept. The editor asked the
| cause of her distress, and with tears
in her eyes she looked up and said:
“I’ve been here almost a year now and
i you're the first fellow that’s acted to
me like a gentleman.”
Streams are Well Stocked with Trout.
Harrisburg.—Streams in 26 coun-
ties were stocked with fish during
March, according to a distribution
table made public by the Department
of Fisheries. Brook, brown and rain-
bow trout and a few minnows com-
prised the kinds used for the stocking.
Counties which have large reaches
of unpolluted water and are most pon-
ular with trout fishermen were cen-
| ters of the March stocking. In a ma-
jority of those counties low water last
fall prevented the usual autumn stock-
ing.
Fifteen streams in Potter county
were stocked, 21 in Schuylkill, 17 in
Tioga and 13 in Warren.
Fish Commissioner Nathan Buller
said that the majority of the fish
used in stocking were much larger
than usual because those which - were
intended for that use last fall had
been held in the hatcheries.
He did his best, but suddenly, as |
planted or before the crops are so
large as to make it difficult to fight
| them. An hour’s work on the weeds .
i early in the spring may save days of
i labor later in the summer. This ad-
| vice is suggested by Dr. E. M. Gress,
botanist of the Pennsylvania Depart-
! ment of Agriculture.
| Garden soil contains many weed
seeds. Some of these have been in
the soil for a number of years, others
only from last year’s crop.
Most gardens are allowed to grow
‘up with weeds in the latter part of
the summer and fall. These, of
course, scatter an abundant crop of
seeds. The best time to give this at-
tention was last fall before the weeds
matured their seeds.
It is too late now to think about
that. Therefore, if the garden was
not spaded or plowed last fall it
should be done as early as possible
this spring. This will induce the weed
seed to germinate and many seedlings
can be killed even before the garden
crop is planted. Every seedling that
is destroyed this spring means one
less weed during the summer.
The best time to kill a weed is in
its seedling state. It has been using
the food stored in the seed and has
not yet developed a root system,
therefore, a little injury or disturb-
ance of the soil will kil] the young
plant. The seed having spent its en-
ergy on producing one plant will, of
course, not produce a second.
| In addition to the saving of labor
there are several other advantages. A
weed, the same as one of the crop
plants, needs food material and water.
Every particle of food material and
every ounce of water that goes into
| the weed robs the garden crop of just
that amount of food and water.
Weeds harber insects and diseases
which often give trouble during the
summer and which reduce the yield of
the garden crops. Also the margin of
profit is often lost in the extra labor
and the decrease in yield caused by
weeds. This is true not only of the
{ ganden crops but of farm crops as
well.