pi
—
Bellefonte, Pa., June 13, 1924.
Ee
“PM SORRY: I WAS WRONG.”
There may be virtue in the man
Who's always sure he's right,
‘Who'll never hear another’s plan,
And seek for future light:
But I like more the chap who sings,
A somewhat different song
Who says, when he has messd up things,
I'm sorry I was wrong.
It’s hard for any one to say,
That failure’s due to him,
That he has lost the fight or way,
‘Because his light burned dim.
It takes a man to throw aside
The vanity that’s strong,
Confessing, that’s my fault, I know,
And I'm sorry I was wrong.
And so I figure those who use,
This honest, manly phrase,
Hate it too much, their way to lose
On many future days.
They'll keep the path and make the fight,
Because they do not long,
To have to say, when they're not right,
I'm sorry I was wrong.
Have you ever helped another?
Ever earned a grateful smile?
Ever asked a weary brother
In to ride with you a mile?
Have you ever given freely
Of your riches and your worth?
If you haven’t, then you've really
Missed the greatest joy of earth.
Has a thrill of pride possessed you?
Have you felt your pulses run,
With sweet memories arising anew,
For some good that you have done
Have you seen eyes start to glisten
That were sad before you came
If you haven't, stop and listen,
You have missed life's finest game.
—The Square Deal.
CLIFFORD.
I can see him now as he used to hur-
ry acroos the yard, his body bent for-
ward as if it wouldn’t wait for his
short legs to carry him to the meeting
over which he was to preside. There
was always some meeting or other—
“very important,” he would assure
you, with a solemn nod of his long
head. He was a member of every col-
lege organization, and the manager
of every sort of enterprise, from the
varsity crew to the Christmas present
for Billy, the postman. From the day
he arrived at college he had set his
feet toward success, solid success, the
kind that can be vouched for by a
white letter on an athletic cap, by a
club hat-band, a trophy, or mention in
the class album. And he had achieved
it.
Not that he was really popular. We
never quite got over the first distrust
of something a little sinister which
seemed always to be lurking in the
depths of the little vertical furrow
that kept those straight, black eye-
brows of his, which almost hid his
beady eyes, from meeting over his
nose. But he had identified himself
so closely with all the activities of the
college that we felt almost as if friend-
ship for Charlie Clifford and admira-
tion for his nearly proverbial “execu-
tive ability” was a necessary part of
our loyalty to the college. So we
called him our friend, and greeted
him with a smile whenever we met
him. All except Billy Conant. Billy
never tired of telling a story about
what he called “Clifford’s yellow
streak.”
“You fellows can laugh,” he would
say, “but I tell you that doctor’s cer-
tificate didn’t have anything more to
do with his getting off the varsity
squad than my grandfather’s diploma.
‘Member how he played right end
that day against Groton? ’Member
how that big half-back came dodging
down the field with the ball, like a
Knickerbocker Limited trying to do
the snake-dance? Well, Clifford
could have nailed him easy, I tell you,
if he hadn’t been so slow in getting
started. I saw the whole thing. He
missed his man by a good six inches.
When they got their touchdown, I was
mad clean through. ‘Were you afraid
of him?’ I asked. ‘Afraid?’ And
you should have seen the scared look
in his eyes. ‘Good God, Conant, you
don’t think I was afraid?’ ‘Well,’ I
said, ‘you acted darn like it.’ ”
At this point some one would al-
ways protest.
“Come now, Billy, you don’t really
think—"’
“That he was afraid of that half-
back? Not a bit. But he was afraid.”
And Billy would nod that genial
moon-face of his mysteriously.
“Afraid of what?”
“Of me.”
We would laugh again.
“I tell you,” he would continue, hot-
ly, “he was afraid of me thinking he
was afraid.”
“Billy, my boy”—this is an exag-
gerated drawl from the depths of a
morris chair—“What I'm afraid of is
that that exam in psychology has
gone to your head.”
“Well, how do you explain it?”
Billy would retort. “Didn’t he slip
away without a word; didn’t he drop
off the squad two days later with no
excuse but a piking ’pendicitis opera-
tion three years before? Hasn’t he
been looking at me out of the corner
of his eye ever since, as if I was the
ghost of his dead past come back to
haunt him? I tell you”—and he
would pound the desk until the lamp
shook—*“he is one of those fellows
that live on other people’s good opin-
ion of them—breathe it instead of air.
And if they can’t get it—well, it's
good night, that’s all.”
We didn’t put much faith in that
story. Billy was too clearly preju-
diced against the man. I remember
the very first time they met. Clif-
ford, in reply to somebody’s inquiry,
had told us that his father was “in
the—er—produce business;” and Bil-
ly, who had been watching him close-
ly, whispered in my ear, with pro-
found conviction: “Grocer. His old
man is just a common tin-can-and-
sawdust grocer.” Yet he couldn't
have known anything about it. It was
one of those deep-rooted college an-
tipathies that are almost as common
as college friendships, though much
less talked about.
Besides, Clifford had proved often
enough that he was no coward. There
a ——————————————————
|
was a rescue frem drowning down at
the boat-house float, a particularly
plucky thing, I was told. Clifford im-
pressed you as a man who could give
a good account of himself anywhere;
and whenever we would all sit around
some open coal fire during the last’
year, and wonder which of us would
get to be famous in the big world out-
| side, some one would be sure to men-
tion his name. We pictured the world
as a sort of magnified stadium in
which we were all to engage in a long-
distance obstacle race, with Success
on the other side of the tape. And I
always had a vision of Charlie Clif-
ford reaching the goal just a little
ahead of the rest of us.
After graduation I lost track of’
him for half a year. Then one day I|
ran across him on lower Broadway.
He was hurrying along, important as
ever, ignoring the business men, ste- |
nographers, and errand-boys who
hustled about him, ignoring the sky-
scrapers that loomed above, his eye |
fixed on the white building two miles |
above, where Broadway begins to
yield to the seductions of Fifth Ave-'
nue, as steadily as if that patch of
whiteness has been Success itself.
He seemed genuinely glad to see
me. He had gone into the bond and
banking business, he said, and had
managed to push his way in the office
of Barlow & Company—one of the
best on Broad Street. From the hints
he dropped, from the cut of his
clothes, from the metallic click with
which he now ended his sentence, I
gathered that he was well on the way
to financial success. But socially his
career was not quite all that he wish-
ed. Certain rather broad hints final-
ly left me no choice but to offer to put’
him up at the club to which I then be-
longed.
I took him to see Arthur Minturn,
of the membership committee, a
couple of days later. The visit was
hardly more than a formality, yet
Clifford bucked and reared like a sen-
sitive stallion being put through his
paces at the horse show. His indig-
nant eyes asked Minturn. “Can’t you
see I'm all right?” Apparently Min-
turn did see it, for soon he stopped
trying to draw Clifford out, and talk-
ed entertainingly about his own pros- :
pective trip to Mexico for some rail-
road in which he was interested. ;
I took Clifford to the club for din-
ner that evening. And afterward, |
sipping our coffee out of diminutive |
cups in the comfortable leathery dim- |
ness of the lounging-room, we talked
about how the men we knew were get-
ting on in the big world. Clifford had
nothing but kind words for every-
body. Yet you could not help feeling,
as each man’s name was mentioned,
that he was jealously comparing that
man’s chances of success with his
own, and that it was the combined re-
sults of those experiments that had
evoked that complacent, close-lipped
smile. When we had exhausted the
subject of Success, there seemed noth-
ing left to talk about. I called to
Billy Conant, who happened to be
passing through the room, but he pre-
tended not to hear.
Clifford and I both became embar-
rassed. After staring for a while in
silence at the flickering reflection of
the wood fire on the chocolate pan-
eling, I rose, saying I had to write
some letters. Clifford asked permis-
sion to do the same. He sat at the ta-
ble opposite me, and I couldn’t help
seeing that he was using paper with
the club seal on it. I noticed, too,
when he dropped the letters in the
box, that one of them was addressed
to “Mr. and Mrs. J. J. Clifford, Pella-
gria, Ill.,” and that his other two cor-
respondents lived in a fashionable
neighborhood in New York. It looked '
almost as if he were trying to make
an impression with that club of which
he was not yet quite a member.
The elections were held six weeks
later. The next morning, to my
amazement, I received a formal noti-
fication that Clifford’s name had “not
been voted on.” Blackballed! I
couldn’t understand it. I inclosed the
committee’s formula in a note to Clif-
ford, asking him to dine with me and
talk it over next evening. Then I tel-
ephoned to Billy Conant. No, he had
not written the committee a letter ob-
jecting to Clifford’s election. I called
up Arthur Minturn at his office. He
had left for Mexico, they told me, !
three days before—a week earlier
than he had intended.
I hung up the receiver with a long
sigh of relief. Next evening I wait-
ed, impatient to tell Clifford that an |
introduction or two was all that was
necessary to get him into the club at]
the next election. But he didn’t come.
He didn’t telephone. He didn’t send a '
letter of explanation, I wrote him a
rather curt three-line note, asking for
another appointment. I received no
answer, If the man didn’t take
enough interest in his own affairs to
be decently civil, I concluded, there
was no reason for me to worry about
them. So for five months I lost sight |
of him completely.
Then one night at a dinner I met
Mr. Barlow. He is a fine old Tory,
impervious to ideas, but susceptible
to impressions as a girl of fifteen.
asked him how Clifford was getting
on. He looked at me queerly.
“Are you a friend of his?”
“Well—" I began, dubiously, then
nodded assent.
“Strange fellow, Clifford,” he mus-
ed. “Why, when he began with us I
thought he was the most promising
green man we had ever taken on.
Went at the work like one of your
football-players tackling the man with
the ball. And then, all of a sudden—
1 dons know” —the old man shook his
e
slumped. Seemed to lose interest.
Sometimes he would sit for half an
hour at a time, staring at the walls in
front of him, and then give a jump,
just like a crooked clerk we once had,
who knew he was being watched by a
detective, and finally killed himself.
Yet Clifford was honest, absolutely
honest. What was it?”
“]—1I really don’t know. And so,”
I asked, “you dismissed him ?” I
“Couldn’t very well keep a man in
my office who was making the most
childish sort of mistakes. Toward the
end you couldn’t trust him to add up
a simple column of figures.”
“Do you know what's become of
him?” :
“Gone out West, I think. Spoke of
joining his father. uce business,
or something of the sort.” :
| plunged through the doorway. I
ried after him and seized his sleeve. |
| just what.
. New York just like him—unsuccess-
in a bewildering way—*‘“he |&°
The more I thought over that con-
versation, |
myself of the notion
or not, that incident at the club was
in some way partly responsible for
1
ily self-important, between the tables
pwien I caught sight of him leaning
against the blue-serge table at the
the change that had mysteriously | rear of the spacious store, was that
was the most single-minded
star-gazer I had ever known.
the one constellation in which he was
interested had become dimmed, or if
he had thought it had become dim-
med, there was no telling what might
happen.
Then one day I met him.
I happened to be sauntering
that part of the down-town business
lie Clifford. Clifford : he looked so very much a part of it
{ome oer Charlie social | all. His face had the yellow pallor
Now if | that comes of living too much in ar-
! tificial twilight. The patches of gray
| that had begun to appear in his hair
! at the temples, the loose droop at the
| corners of his mouth—everything
i about the man was submissive and
| genteel, much too genteel.
through | toward me bravely.
“Didn’t expect to see me here, did
district that was once covered by the you?” he asked, with a queer grimace,
East River and is now covered by din- | apparently a smile of welcome.
giness, when I caught sight of him,
“Well,” ventured, “I had heard
entering a dilapidated brick building | that—"
just ahead.
“Qh, Charlie Clifford!” I called.
He gave me a quick glance,
“Why, Charlie!”
“Qh, is that you?”
He looked up the flight of steps as |
if meditating escape, then looked
down at me very pale. “Well,” he
said, dully, “I suppose you’d better
come up.”
On the second landing I turned to
speak.
“Just one more flight,” he inter-
rupted, hurrying on ahead of me.
As he stopped in front of a dirty
ground-glass office door I laid my
hand on his shoulder.
“Now look here, Charlie—"’
“Come in,” he said, opening the
door. “I want you to meet Mr. Hodg-
kins.”
Mr. Hodgkins was a shabby dealer
in small quantities of—I’ve forgotten
There are thousands in
ful, middle-aged men, meanly com-
petitive in business,
have to be in order to support their
families, sleepy and irritable at home,
“I'm—I'm learning the business,”
he hurried on, in a stuttering, nervous
then accent that caricatured his business-
hur- ' like briskness of the year before.
“You see— there are chances—big
i chances in this sort of thing. For a
‘man with big ideas, of course— A
chain of stores like this—all over the
city—what do you think?”
1 could think of nothing. Nothing,
at least, that I could say to Clifford.
I was wondering why he had come
here. Had he been in actual need of
money? Or had he felt the need of
meeting again, at whatever cost, the
sort of people he used to know ?
He came '
the harder it became to rid ' neatly piled with clothing. And the :
2 ar that, incredible | terible thing about Charlie Clifford,
“Why not?” he went on, very quick-
ly, as if silence was the one thing to
be avoided. “They’ve done it in
drugs, in tobacco, in—"
| He stopped, staring past me, open-
"mouthed. And a deep voice from
| somewhere behind me exclaimed,
| “Something in blue serge for the gen-
i tleman.” The next moment I receiv-
' ed a stinging slap on the shoulder.
“Why, hello, old man!”
I turned and faced Minturn, very
because they brown and animated. “Just got in
“and—"
j his morning,” he cried,
Clifford?” 1
“You remember Mr.
because that is what their business interrupted.
has made of them. And it was for |
this social cipher that Charlie Clif- |
Minturn went over to Clifford, who
had walked a couple of steps down the
ford was working—on a commission aisle, and shook his hand heartily.
so small that his own clothes were be-
ginning to look almost as shabby as said. “Let's all drop over to the c
his employer's. .
“But,” I protested, as I sat down on
a slightly lame chair next to Clif-
ford’s desk at the dark end of the
room, “I thought you were going out
“Did old man
| West—home.”
.He flushed very red.
Barlow tell you that?”
looking away toward a last year’s cal-
' endar that hung on the opposite wall.
It was clear that he had been asham-
ed to go home and confess to those to
“whom he had made—Heaven knows
what boasts.
I talked to him about the men we
exile listening to news from home.
But most of our classmates were more
or less successful.
grinning at us from the corner of that
ugly office, refusing to be ignored.
“Do you know,” he said finally, “I'm
perfectly satisfied here.” Then, look-
ing at me a little suspiciously, “Per- 4} .+ it was only—that 7”
{ “Why, yes. md
“I thought,” he said, in a low voice,
haps you can’t understand that?”
“Oh, of course I can,” I lied, sym-
pathetically; “you’re very nicely fix~ «
ed.”
“Yes,” he went on eagerly, “there’s ;,
none of the perpetual rush that you
got in Barlow’s office. There’s no hur-
of the Elevated train.
“Don’t you ever get tired of that ¢
infernal racket?” I asked.
“No,” he said in a low voice; “I
like it.”
1 stared at him in silent contempt.
Then I noticed his eyes. They were
asking a favor of me—a favor that
his tongue couldn’t bring itself to ask.
He hated all this, even more than I
hated it. But there was no way out—
or so he thought; and his eyes, des-
“Here's a pleasant surprise,” he
and have a drink.”
“My duties,” said Clifford, in a low, |
ling here?”
he demanded, | words into Minturn’s
His pity was more than Clifford
hoarse voice, “make it quite impossi-
ble for me to leave the store.”
“You don’t mean that you’re—work-
He fairly spat the
face.
“Oh, of course,” apologized Min-
turn. “Well, some other time, then.”
“Why not?”
‘ could stand.
“Do you think”—and his voice was
| raw with sentiment—" that I'd ever
| set foot in your damned club again?”
: { Minturn turned to me in astonish-
knew, and he listened as eagerly as an |. +
“You see,” I told him, watching
' Clifford out of the corner of my eye,
And there was his «;
failure, like an ugly jack-o’-lantern,
in your absence there was no one on
he committee who knew Mr. Clifford,
so his name was postponed.”
| “What!” shouted Clifford, clutching
‘my shoulder and staring into my face
with a kind of horror. “Do you mean
W hat did you think?”
Conant—ever since Freshman year.”
Minturn, cheerfully. “We'll put
you through at the next election.”
ry here, no worry, no infernal ticker.” ! Clifford stared at him for a moment
Th it d ’ d by th : bi as if he hadn’t understood. Then he
e rest was drowned by the rumble gp,ok his head very slowly.
| slightest trouble.
{
i
“Oh, no,” he said in a tone of pro-
und conviction.
“But I promise you,” said Minturn,
eagerly, “that there won't be the
You’ve got to give
me a chance, you know, to redeem
myself.” But his pleasant smile died
| away as he saw the look of utter wea-
riness at the bottom of Clifford’s eyes.
“No,” said Clifford, dully; “it’s too
”»
“But look here,” protested the oth-
perate, appealing, were begging me to ' 5. “that was just a mistake—"
’
A ne LY, Te- | «It’s too late,” repeated Clifford, in
verberating twilight was not quite in- exactly the same a Then he turn-
help him pretend that this dingy, re-
tolerable. ;
“Yes,” I said. “Oh yes, there are a
good many who'd envy you.”
He flushed and rose from his chair.
I had evidently overdone it.
“Good-by,” he said, holding out his
hand.
“Good-by, and look me up soon.”
He nodded silently. The sight of
him standing there, very stiff, his
white lips pressed together as if to
force back some emotion, determined
me to make a last effort.
“And, Charlie,” I said,
“about the club; it was—"
“Good-by!”
I turned, and without a word left
the office.
It must have been a couple of
months later that I was walking up to
the club-house late one afternoon,
when I noticed some one who seemed
to be watching me from the steps of
one of the near-by houses. As I peer-
ed at him he hurried away down
street. The light was dim, and I
couldn’t be sure of him. Next even-
ing Billy Conant danced into the club,
grinning from ear to ear.
“Guess who I saw outside?”
“Not— 7”
He nodded. “I thought it was a
tramp first, but there was no mistak-
ing the way he slunk away, like the
day of the Groton game.”
frowned. “Why should Clifford
be hanging around here?”
“Why should ghosts be hanging
around the living ?” he retorted. “Oh”
—and his grin broadened—‘“maybe
you haven’t heard the latest. Your
friend Charlie now holds the respon-
sible position of salesman at Os-
od’s. ”
quickly,
“Not the clothier?”
“The same.”
“I don’t believe it, Billy,” I added,
turning to him suddenly; “you’re a
bad sort ordinarily. Why are you al-
ways such a mucker where Charlie
Clifford’s concerned?” :
“Mucker! Because I let his friends
know what he is doing?” He stared
at me for a second in mock indigna-
tion.
“I don’t believe a word of it,” I said.
“Go see for yourself, then,” replied
Billy. So I went.
Some one once said that you have
ow clothes made by a tailor or you
uy them at Osgood’s, or you are no
gentleman. That air of gentlemanli-
ness—a subdued, slightly passe gen-
tlemanliness—hovers like a perfume
about the salesmen who loiter, absurd-
ed to me appealingly. ;
“Can’t you see it?” he cried. “Can’t
you see that I'm—that I'm”—he toss-
| ed both arms out and let them drop at
{ his side in a vague gesture of utter
helplessness—“well—that I'm a
ure?”
“Nonsense!” I said, with a nervous
laugh. “That’s ridiculous.”
fail-
that perhaps it was ridiculous.
Minturn stood his ground stubborn-
ly. “But, but—"’ he began. Then his
voice trailed away and he stared at
the other, awed, as if suddenly he re-
alized that you can’t come between a
man and his own soul.
Slowly Clifford looked up at him.
“Can’t 1,” he asked—‘“can’t I show
you something in blue serge ?”—By
Gilbert Hirsch, in Harper’s Magazine.
Bees Less Productive.
The 110,675 hives of bees in Penn-
sylvania in 1923 produced 1,328,230
pounds of honey valued at $317,212,
the annual report of Charles N. Green,
chief apiary inspector, State Depart-
ment of Agriculture, made public
showed. The total value of the bees
was estimated at $645,117, an average
of $5.75 a hive, while the average
price of the honey was 24 cents a
pound. :
The report revealed a decrease of
2,601 in number of hives, compared
with 1922, while the production de-
creased 64,376 pounds, compared with
1922. The reduction in the number of
hives was attributed by Mr. Green to
the averages of the American foul
brood disease, for the control of which
the 1923 Legislature enacted a law
now being enforced by the depart-
ment.
British Graft Eyelids on California
Patient.
A wonderful piece of surgery has
been accomplished by surgeons at ‘he
Liverpool hospital, London, who have
successfully grafted two eyelids onto
arm.
Even eyelashes have started to
grow, and the man, a Californian,
who wishes to remain anonymous, is
able to close his eyes and blink as
well as any ordinary person.
—Subseribe for the “Watchman.”
He looked at me eagerly for a mo--
| ment, as if half ready to be convinced
a man’s face with skin taken from his -
i
|
|
{
|
|
|
|
i
|
|
! venison,
Bm——
Odd Words Are Found
in Criminals’ Dictionary
There is slang in the Old World as
well as in the New, and the cockney
lingo, we are told, changes so fre-
quently that a convict, on being re-
leased after five years, might easily
be excluded from a conversation by
his pals through the use by the latter
of words newly come into fashion.
Take the phrase “Tain’t 'alf taters,
guv'nor,” which Edwin Pugh quotes
in John o’ London's Weekly. When he
heard it he expressed surprise, and
was met with this explanation: ‘‘l'a-
ters in the mold,” which he knew
meant that it was extremely cold, for
“potatoes in the mold,” was a way
of saying that it was wintry and the
tubers had to be protected. A “stiff-
pitcher” he found was a person whe
wrote begging letters by profession.
Gypsies have enlarged slang diction-
aries with such a word as pal, but the
cockney needs no aid from outsiders.
A face is a “dial”; a “fly-flat” is a
simpleton who thinks himself extreme-
ly shrewd; a “spark-prop” is a dia-
mond chain; a “shyster” a cheat, and
“dinner for tea” means a bountiful
piece of good luck.
Crime circles are responsible for
many creations, doubtless because
some form of concealment of acts is
thought necessary in tnat life.
Burglars are “cracksmen” or
“serewsmen.” A “gonoph” is just any
kind of thief. *“Poge-hunter” means
pursethief ; “proadman,” card-sharper;
“smasher,” a maker of bad coin, and
“snidesman,” a passer of bad coin;
“fence, receiver of stolen property;
“lag,” convict; ‘“drak,” three months’
imprisonment; “chuck, acquittal;
“fullied,” fully committed for trial;
“squeeze,” silk; “wedge,” silver plate;
“red clock and slang,” gold watch and
chain.—Toronto Globe.
lub Tons of Food Served at
Feasts in Olden Times
Menus of olden times, when kings
and robber knights served tous of food
rand wine to their castle party guests
during feasts which sometimes went
on for weeks, have been appearing re-
cently in German newspapers, which
marvel at the capacities to eat and
drink of individuals living 300 or 400
years ago.
An example of a feast at the court
of Hanover in the Sixteenth century,
when thirteen different meat dishes
were served, has been published re
cently. The menu, compiled from old
court records, follows:
First section—Two kinds of wine
soups, baked singing birds, meat pie,
mutton breast, wild pork,
veal, roast chicken, boiled beef, two
kinds of fish, vegetables and wine.
Second section—Lobster, trout, carp,
| pickled meats, lamb chops, roast deer,
“Well, it'll be all right now,” broke |
‘nine sheep would be left.
young roast pig, ox feet, artichoke, fig
cake, dessert, wine and brandies. In
those days it is claimed that even in
the homes of persons of the middle
class the dinner usually consisted of
six courses, each course constituting
seven to nine different dishes.—De-
troit News.
Earliest Patriotic Song
The earliest patriotic song in Amer
fca which L. C. Elson has been able
to unearth is a “liberty song” adver-
tised in the Boston Chronicle of Oc-
tober 16, 1763. Mrs. Marcy Warren,
wife of Gen. James Warren of Ply-
mouth, Mass., wrote the words. The
tune was Boyces “Hearts of Oak.”
Mrs. Warren began the old American
custom of setting patriotic verses to
an English melody. “Yankee Doodle”
antedated this song, but, says Mr.
Elson, not as an American patriotic
work, for originally it was a song in
derision of the Americans. The
Americans admired the tune, even
though it was used against them.
Early in our national career Ameri-
cans appropriated the tune of *“God
Save the King.” As early as 1779 the
melody was adapted to American use,
a set of patriotic verses having been
written to it and published in the
“Pennsylvania Pack.” An “Ode for
the Fourth of July” was written to
the same tune, and became very pop-
ular. During the last quarter of the
Eighteenth century “Washington's
March” was the leading instrumental
work of the American repertoire.
She Knew Sheep
A young city woman went out te
teach a country school. The class in
arithmetic was before her. She said:
“Now, children, if there are ten
sheep on one side of a wall and one
jumps over, how many sheep will be
left?”
Then up piped a little tow-beaded
daughter of a farmer:
“No sheep, teacher; no sheep.”
“Oh! oh!” cried the young city wom-
an reproachfully, “You are not so
stupid as that! Think again. If
there were ten sheep on one side of
the wall and one sheep jumped over,
Don’t you
see that?”
“No! no! no!” persisted the child,
“If one sheep jumped over all the oth-
ers would jump after. My father keeps
sheep.”
Then, seeing the puzzled look on the
teacher's face, the little tow-head ex-
plained apologetically : “You know
‘rithmetic, but I know sheep.’—
Charleston News.
Interesting Book
A Berkeley coed was asked by her
English instructor what she had been
reading during her summer vacation.
After a visible, desperate effort to
awaken a recalcitrant memory, she
gald: “Why. ah, now, I've read a fine
book called ‘Edgar Allan,’ by Poe.”
EE
FARM NOTES.
—If laying hens become paralyzed,
they usually need more exercise and
green food. A dose of epsom salts at
the rate of one pound to 100 birds is
a good measure.
—Do not tie fleeces with binder or
any kind of twine except the espe-
cially prepared paper twine. Wool
that is prepared in attractive form
for market brings greater profit.
—The open winter has made the job
of pruning the apple and peach trees
less difficult than usual. This should
give the orchardist the time to put in
a few braces in the weak crotches of
the apple trees which may have been
neglected last year.
—Self-feeders are very useful in
feeding hogs and chickens. They are
great labor savers and are especially
valuable when there is a rush of farm
work, for they can be filled at odd
times and field work can go ahead
with less interruption.
—The cream layer is not all that is
contained in a bottle of milk. Milk
contains on the average, about nine
per cent. of the solids not fat. A
milk that is clean and high in total
solids, both milk fat and solids not
fat, is the cheapest milk as a rule for
the consumer.
—There is much imported red clo-
ver seed on the market. Experiments
at The Pennsylvania State College in-
dicate that as a rule foreign clover
seed is not as good as home grown
seed. The Italian red clover seed es-
pecially has not proven hardy in se-
vere winters.
—Now is the time to order lime for
your crops. Don’t wait until the last
minute and expect to get it on on
time. Experiments at The Pennsyl-
vania State College show that medium
applications of any form of lime once
during each rotation are more eco-
nomical than a heavier application at
longer intervals.
_ —Drain tile is lower in price than
it has been at any time since the war.
The wet spring has given farmers an
opportunity to locate wet spots on
their farm. While expenditures for
drainage on a large scale are not to
be recommended, it is an opportune
time to eliminate the wet spots that
break up the fields.
—All young, growing animals
should be given additional feed in
creeps or pens adjacent to the pens or
pastures in which they are running
with their dams. The creeps should
be so constructed that the old animals
can not gain entrance to them. The
size of opening should be regulated
by both width and height.
—The importance of alfalfa or red
clover in the ration of the dairy calf
has long been recognized. In addi-
tion to supplying protein and a liberal
supply of calcium to meet the heavy
demands of the growing calf, these
hays when cured with little bleaching
are very rich in vitamines which are
necessary for the proper storage of
calcium in the calf’s body.
—As soon as you can distinguish
the young cockerels, separate them
from the pullets. The marketable
broilers should be selected and placed
on the market. As a rule, the early
broilers bring the highest prices and
should be sold as soun as they reach
the broiler stage. The remaining pul-
lets will thrive better and will come
into laying sooner if this practice is
followed.
—~Considerable damage to cabbage,
radishes, turnips and cauliiower from
the cabbage maggot has also been re-
ported. The injury to radishes seems
especially bad. Hodgkiss urges the
second treatment for this pest if the
first was not entirely effective. He
recommends the use of one ounce of
corrosive sublimate in eight gallons
of water, applying one cupful to each
cabbage or cauliflower plant and pour-
ing along the row of radishes and tur-
nips. The striped cucumber beetle is
also at work. Dusting with a two per
cent. nicotine dust will control this
insect.
The cool spring has been very fa-
vorable for decreasing the infestation
from the angoumios grain moth.
Hodgkiss believes that with early
threshing and thorough fumigation of
the grain in the bins, the loss sustain-
ed by wheat from the grain moth can
be reduced lower than ever before.
—~ Seventy-five per cent. of Penn-
sylvania soils or the equivalent of
9,000,000 acres are in need of lime, ac-
cording to J. W. White, in charge of
experimental work in soils at The
Pennsylvania State College.
Farmers of the Keystone State, he
says, are now using about 300,000 tons
of agricultural lime annually. How-
ever, he states that they should be ap-
plying 1,500,000 tons a year for the
ay crop alone. In addition, 1,500,000
tons should be used annually as a top
dressing for the rejuvenation and
maintenance of the 4,000,000 acres of
permanent pastures in the State.
“Nature has given to Pennsylvania
an abundance of limestone,” White de-
clares. ‘“One-fourth of the limestone
used for all purposes in America is
quarried in this State. Over 1,200,000
acres of farm land is under-laid with
high grade limestone and all our great
limestone valleys have an abundance
of this valuable soil-building mater-
ial.
—Insects are exacting their usual
toll on the farms, gardens, and orch-
ards of Pennsylvania, according to H.
E. Hodgkiss, extension specialist in
insect control work at The Pennsyl-
vania State College.
Severe local infestations of the red
bug, leaf-eating caterpillar and cod-
ling moth have been reported, espe-
cially in orchards where spraying has
not been practiced regularly. The
cluster apple spray to control these
pests has been applied in southeast-
ern Pennsylvania and is under way at
the present time in the remaining
counties.
Hodgkiss reports that a great many
adult oriental peach moths have gone
into the peach orchards and he ex- .
pects twig injury from this pest to
show up soon. Any dying back of the
peach terminals should be reported to
the college or the county agent. An
injury quite similar to that caused by
the oriental peach moth is being done
by the peach twig moth. This worm
resembles the oriental moth but is
reddish brown instead of white.
—Get your job work done here.