== i
Bellefonte, Pa. September 5, 1924.
THE BIRTH OF THE OPAL.
The sunbeam loved the moonbeam
And followed her low and high,
And the moonbeam fled and hid her head
She was so shy, so shy.
The sunbeam wooed with passion,
Ah! he was a lover bold,
And his heart was afire with mad desire
For the moonbeam pale and cold.
But she fled like a dream before him,
Her hair was a shining sheen,
And oh, that fate would annihilate
The space that lay between.
Just as the day lay panting,
The ar ns of the twilight dim,
The sunbeam caught the one he sought,
And drew her close to him.
Out of his warm arms startled,
And stirred by love's first shock,
- She sprang afraid, like a trembling maid,
And hid in the niche of a rock.
And the sunbeam followed and found her,
And led her to love’s own feast,
And they were wed on that rocky bed,
And the dying day was their priest.
And lo! that beautiful opal,
That rare and wondrous gem,
‘With the moon and the sun blend into one
Is the child that was born to them.
JOHN JACKSON’S ARCADY.
(Concluded from last week).
There was so much to say and to
tell that neither of them tried to talk,
but only sat there holding hands, like
two children who had wandered for a
long time through a wdod and now
came upon each other*with unimagin-
able happiness in an accidental glade.
Her husband was poor, she said; he
knew that from the worn, unfashion-
able dress which she wore with such
an air. He was George Harland—he
kept a garage in the village.
“George Harland—a red-headed
boy ?” he asked wonderingly.
She nodded.
“We were engaged for years.
Sometimes I thought we’d never mar=
ry. Twice I postponed it, but it was
getting late to just be a girl—I was
twenty-five, and so finally we did.
After that I was in love with him for
over a year.”
When the sunset fell together in a
jumbled heap of color in the bottom
of the sky, they strolled back along
the quiet road, still hand in hand.
“Will you come to dinner? I want
you to see the children. My oldest
boy is just fifteen.”
» She lived in a plain frame house
two doors from the garage, where two
little girls were playing around a bat-
tered and ancient but occupied baby
carriage in the yard. .
“Mother! Oh, mother!” they cried.
Small arms swirled around her
neck as she knelt beside them on the
walk.
“Sister says Anna didn’t come, so
we can’t have any dinner.”
“Mother’ll cook dinner. What’s the
matter with Anna?” ,
“Anna’s father’s sick. She couldn’t
come.”
A tall, tired man of fifty, who was
reading a paper on the porch, rose
and slipped a coat over his suspenders
as they mounted the steps.
* “Anna didn’t come,” he said in a
non-committal voice.
. “I know. I’m going to cook dinner.
Who do you suppose this is here?”
The two men shook hands in a
friendly way, and with a certain def-
erence to John Jackson’s clothes and
his prosperous manner, Harland went
inside for another chair. .
“We've heard about you a great
deal, Mr. Jackson,” he said as Alice
disappeared into the kitchen. “We
heard about a lot of ways you made
them sit up and take notice over yon-
der.”
John nodded politely,
mention of the city he had just left a
wave of distaste went over him.
“I'm sorry I ever left here,” he
answered frankly. “And I'm not just
saying that either. Tell me what the
years have done for you, Harland. I
hear you've got a garage.”
“Yeah—down the road a ways. I'm
doing right well, matter of fact.
Nothing you’d call well in the city,”
he added in hasty deprecation.
“You know, Harland,” said John
Jackson, after a moment, “I'm very
much in love with your wife.”
“Yeah?” Harland laughed. “Well,
she’s a pretty nice lady, I find.”
. “I think I always have been in love
with her, all these years.”
“Yeah?” Harland laughed again.
That some one should be in love with
his wife seemed the most easual pleas-
antry. “You better tell her about it.
She don’t get so many nice compli-
ments as she used to in her young
Six of them sat down at table, in-
, cluding an awkward boy of fifteen;
who looked like his father, and two
little girls whose faces shone from a
hasty toilet. Many things had hap-
pened in the town, John discovered;
the fictitious prosperity which had
promised to descend upon it in the late
90’s had vanished when two factories
had closed up and moved away, and
the population was smaller now by a
few hundred than it had been a quar-
ter of a century ago.
After a plentiful plain dinner they | ed
all went to the porch, where the chil-
dren silhouetted themselves in silent
balance on the railing and unrecog-
nizable people called greeting as they
passed alon,
After a while the younger children
went to bed, and the boy and his fath-
er arose and put on their coats.
“I guess I'll run up to the garage,”
said Harland. “I always go up about
this' time every night. You two just
‘sit'here and talk about old times.”
.* As father and son moved out of
« sight along the dim street, John Jack-
son turned to Alice and slipped his |
arm about her shoulder and looked
into her eyes.
“I love you, Alice.”
“I love you.”
Never’ since his marriage had he
said that to any woman exéept’ his
Te alae fy,
ght, spring all a “in
the air, and he felt as if he were hold-
ing his own lost youth in his arms.
forced jocularity.
‘back and see the old town again.”
but at the |
the dark, dusty street.
“I've always loved you,” She mur-
mured. “Just before I go to sleep
every night, I’ve always been able to
face. Why didn’t you come
never known such happiness. be-
fore. He felt that he had establish-
ed dominance over time itself, so that
it rolled away for ' him, yielding up
one vanished springtime after anoth-
er to the mastery of his overwhelm-
ing emotion.
“We're still young, we two people,”
he said exultantly. “We made a silly
mistake a long, long time ago, but we
found out in time.” :
“Tell me about it,” she whispered.
“This morning, in the rain, I heard
your voice.”
“What did my voice say?”
“It said, ‘Come home.’ ”
“And here you are, my dear.”
“Here I am.” -
Suddenly he got to his feet.
“You and I are going away,”
said. “Do you understand that?”
“I always knew that when you came
for me I'd go.” :
Later, when the moon had risen, she
walked with him to the gate.
“Tomorrow!” he whispered.
“Tomorrow!”
His heart was going like mad, and
he stood carefully away from her to
let footsteps across the way approach,
pass and fade out down the dim street.
ith a sort of wild innocence he kiss-
ed her once more and held her close to
his heart under the April moon.
Iv
When he awoke it was eleven
o'clock, and he drew himself a cool
bath, splashing around in it with
much of the exultation of the night
before.
“I have thought too much these
twenty years,” he said to himself.
“It’s thinking that makes people old.”
It was hotter than it had been the
day before, and as he looked out the
window the dust in the street seemed
more tangible than on the night be-
fore. He breakfasted alone down-
stairs, wondering with the incessant
wonder of the city man why fresh
cream is almost unobtainable in the
country. Word had spread already
that he was home, and several men
rose to greet him as he came into the
lobby. Asked if he had a wife and
children, he said no, in a careless way,
and after he had said it he had a
vague feeling of discomfort.
“I'm all alone,” he went on, with
“I wanted to come
he
“Stay long?” They looked at him
curiously.
“Just a day or so.”
He wondered what they would think
tomorrow. There would be excited
little groups of them here and there
along the street with the startling
and audacious news.
“See here,” he wanted to say, “you
think I've had a wonderful life over
there in the “city, but I haven't. I
came down here because life had beat-
en me, and if there’s any brightness
in my eyes this morning it’s because
last night I found a part of my lost
youth tucked away in this little town.”
At noon, as he walked toward Al-
ice’s house, the heat increased and sev-
eral times he stopped to wipe the
sweat from his forehead. When he
turned in at the gate he saw her
waiting on the porch, wearing what
was apparently a Sunday dress and | nearly five when he dismounted from from his chair in the rear of the plat- |
to him; and yet he fought blindly
against it as he felt his own mood of
ecstacy slipping away. For twenty
hours he had recaptured the power of
seeing things through a mist of hope
—hope in some vague, happy destiny
that lay just over the hill—and now
with every word she uttered the mist
memory, the very face of this woman
before his eyes.
“Never again in, this world,” he
cried with a last despairing effort,
“will you and I have a chance at hap-
piness!” ]
that it had never been a chance; sim-
ply a wild, desperate sortie from two
He looked up to see that George
Harland had turned in at the gate.
“Lunch is ready,” called Alice, rais-
ing her head with an expression of
relief. “John’s going to be with us
too.
“I can’t,” said John Jackson quick-
ly. “You're both very kind.
“Better stay.” Harland, in oily
overalls, sank down wearily on the
steps and with a large handkerchief
polished the hot space beneath his thin
gray hair. “We can give you some
iced tea.” He looked up at John. “I
don’t know whether these hot days
make you feel your age like I feel
mine.”
“I guess—it affects us all alike,”
said John Jackson with an effort.
“The awful part of it is that I've got
“Really ?” Harland nodded with po-
lite regret.
“Why, yes. The fact is I promised
to make a speech.”
“Is that so? Speak on: some city
problem, I suppose.” :
“No; the fact is”—the words, form-
ing in his mind to a senseless rhythm,
pushed themselves out—“I'm going to
speak on What Have I Got Out of
Life.”
Then he became conscious of the
heat indeed;
he felt himself sway dizzily against
the porch rail. After a minute they
were walking with him toward the
gate.
“I'm sorry you're leaving,” said Al-
ice, with frightened eyes. “Come back
and visit your old town again.”
“I will.”
Blind with unhappiness, he set off
up the street at what he felt must be
a stumble; but some dim necessity
made him turn after he had gone a
little way and smile back at them and
wave his hand. They were still stand-
ing there, and they waved at him and
he saw them turn and walk together
into the house.
“I must go back and make my
speech,” he said to himself as he
street. “I shall get up and ask aloud
‘What have I got out of life?’ And
‘Nothing.’ I sahll tell them the truth;
that life has beaten me at every turn-
ing and used me for its own obscure
purposes over and over; that every-
thing I have loved has turned to ash-
es, and that every time I have’ stoop-
jed to pat a dog I have felt his teeth
in my hand. »And so at last they will
| Jeary the truth about one man’s
eart. ;
| A
i The meeting was at four, but it was
was passing, the hope, the town, the
strange when I saw him yesterday;
perhaps he gave in at last under the
strain of trying to do many things for
‘many men. Perhaps this meeting
we're holding here comes a little too
late now. But we’ll'all feel better for
having said our say about him.
“I'm almost through. A lot of you
will think it’s funny that I feel this
way about a man who, in fairness to
him, I must call an enemy. But I'm
going to say one thing more”—his
voice rose defiantly—“and it’s a
stranger thing sitll. Here, at fifty,
But he knew, even as he said this, * this
| me, or ever had it in its power to give. ’
long-beleaguered fortresses by night. |
and still wearing that all
smile he knew so well how to muster,
there before them all I shall answer, |
there’s one honor I'd like to have more
than any honor this city ever gave
: I'd like to be able to stand up here be-
fore you and call John Jackson my
friend.”
He turned away and a storm of ap-
Dlause rose ‘like thunder through the
| Dall.
feet, then sank back again in a stupe-
ed way, shrinking behind the pillar. |
{ The applause continued until a young
man arose on the platform and waved
them silent.
“Mrs. Ralston,” he called, and sat
down, -
A woman rose from the line of,
<hairs and came forward to the edge
of the stage and began to speak in a
quiet voice. She told a story about a
man whom—so it seemed to John
Jackson—he had known once, but
whose: actions, repeated here, seemed
utterly unreal, like something that
had happened in a dream. It appear- | X .
to go back to the city this afternoon.” ed that every year many hundreds of Young man’s shoulder.
babies in the city owed their lives to
something this man had done five
years before; he had put a mortgage
; upon his own house to assure the chil- |
dren’s hospital on the edge of town.
It told how this had been kept secret
at the man’s own request, because he
wanted the city to take pride in the
hospital as a community affair, when
but for the man’s effort, made after
the community attempt had failed, the
hospital would never have existed at
Then Mrs. Ralston began to talk
about the parks; how the town had
baked for many years under the mid-
land heat; and how this man, not a
very rich man, had given up land and
time and money for many months that
a green line of shade might skirt the
boulevards, and that the poor children
could . leave the streets and play in
fresh grass in the center of the town.
| That this was only the beginning,
she said; and she went on to tell how,
| when any such plan tottered, or the
public interest lagged, word was
brought to John Jackson, and some-
| how he made it go and seemed to give
' it life out of his own body, until there
was scarcely anything in this city
that didn’t have a little of John Jack-
son’s heart in it, just as there were
| have a little of their
| Jackson. !
Mrs. Ralston’s speech stopped ab-
ruptly at this point. She had been
crying a little for several moments,
but there must have been many people
there in the audience who understood
' what she meant—a mother or a child
here and there who had been the re-
cipients of some of that kindness—
because the applause seemed to fill
the whole room like an ocean, and
echoed back and forth from wall to
, wall.
i Only a few people recognized the
‘short grizzled man who now got up
hearts for John
moving herself gently back and forth the sweltering train and walked to- ' form, but when he began to speak si-
in a rocking-chair in a way that he re-
membered her doing as a girl.
‘Alice!” he exclaimed happily.
Her finger rose swiftly and touch-
ed her lips. .
“Look out!” she said in a low voice.
.He sat down beside her and took her
hand, but she replaced it on the arm
of her chair and resumed her gentle
rocking. :
I careful. The children are in-
side.”
“But I can’t be careful. Now that
life’s begun all over again, I’ve for-
gotten all the caution that I learned
in the other life, the one that’s past.”
“Sh-h-h!"” :
Somewhat irritated, he glanced at
her closely. Her face, unmoved and
unresponsive, seemed vaguely older
than it had yesterday; she was white
and tired. But he dismissed the im-
pression with a low, exultant laugh.
“Alice, I haven’t slept as I slept last
night since I was a little boy, except
that several times I woke up just for
the joy of seeing the same moon we
once knew together. I'd got it back.”
“I didn’t sleep at all.”
“I'm sorry.”
“I realized about two o'clock or
three o'clock that I could never go
away from my children—even with
you.” .
He was struck dumb.. He looked at
her blankly for a moment, and then
he laughed—a short, incredulous
laugh. *
“Never, never!” she went on, shak-
ing her head passionately. “Never,
never, never! When I thought of it I
-began to tremble all over, right in my
bed.” She hesitated. “I don’t know
what came over me yesterday even-
ing, John. When I'm with you, you
can always make me do or feel or
think just exactly what you like. But
this is too late, I guess. It doesn’t
seem real at all; it just seems sort of
crazy to me, as if I'd dreamed it,
that’s all.” :
John Jackson laughed again, not in-
credulously this time, but on a men-
acing note.
“What do you mean?” he demand-
She began to cry and hid her eyes
behind her hand because some people
were passing along the road.
“You've got to tell me more than
that,” cried John Jackson, his voice
rising a little. “I can’t just take that
and ‘go away.” =
“Please don’t ‘talk so loud,” she im-
plored him. “It's so hot and I'm so
confused. I guess I'm just a small
town woman, after all. It seems some-
how awful to be talking here with
‘you, when my husband’s working all
day in the dust and heat.”
“Awful to be talking here?” he re-
peated. : !
“Don’t look that way!” she cried
miserably. “I'can’t bear to hurt you
80. You have children; too, to think
of—you said you had a son.”
“A son.” The fact seemed so far
away that he looked at her, startled.
“Oh, yes, I have a son.” :
A sort of craziness, a wild illogic in
the situation had communicated itself
En
j ward the Civic Club hall. Numerous
cars were parked along the surround-
ing streets, promising an unusually
large crowd. He was surprised to find
thronged with standing people, and
that there were recurrent outbursts of
applause at some speech which was
being delivered upon the platform.
“Can you find me a seat near the
rear?” he whispered to an attendant.
“I'm going to speak later, but I don’t
—I don’t want to go upon the plat-
form just now.”
“Certainly, Mr. Jackson.”
The only vacant chair was half be-
hind a pillar in a far corner of the
hall, but he welcomed its privacy with
relief; and settling himself, looked
curiously around him. Yes, the gath-
ering was large, and apparently en-
thusiastic. Catching a glimpse of a
face here and there, he saw ‘that he
knew most of them, even by name;
faces of men he had lived beside and
worked with for twenty years. All
the better. These were the ones he
must reach now, as soon as that fig-
ure on the platform there ceased
mouthing his hollow cheer.
His eyes swung back to the plat-
form, and as there was another rip-
ple of applause he leaned his face
around the corner'to see. Then he
uttered a low exclamation—the speak-
er was Thomas MacDowell. They
had not been asked to speak together
in several years. :
“I've had many enemies in my, life,”
boomed the loud voice over the hall,
“and don’t think I've had a change of
heart, now that I'm fifty and a little
gray. I'll go on making enemies to
‘the end. This is just a little lull when
I want to take off my armor and pay
a tribute to an enemy—because that
enemy happens to be the finest man I
ever knew.”
John Jackson wondered what can-
didate or protege of MacDowell’s was
in question. It was typical of the
man to seize any opportunity to make
his own hay.
“Perhaps I wouldn't have said what
I’ve said,” went on the booming voice,
“were he here today. But if all the
young men in this city came up to me
Land asked me ‘What is being honora-
ble?’ I'd answer them, ‘Go up to that
man and look into his eyes.’ They're
not happy eyes. I've often sat and
looked at him and wondered: what
went on back of them that made those
eyes so sad. Perhaps the fine, simple
hearts that spend their hours smooth-
ing other people’s troubles never find
time for happiness of their own. It's
the man at the soda fountain who
never makes an ice-cream soda for
himself.” :
There was a faint ripple of laugh-
ter here, but John Jackson saw won-
deringly that a woman he knew just
across the aisle was dabbing with a
handkerchief at her eyes,
His curiosity increased.
“He's ne away now;” said the
man on the platform, bending. his
head and staring down for a minute
at the floor; “gone away suddenly, I
understand. © He seemed a little
that even the rear of the hall was
i lence settled gradually over the house.
“You didn’t hear my name,” he said
in a voice that trembled a little, “and
| When they first planned this surprise
meeting I wasn’t expected to speak at
‘all. I'm John Jackson’s head clerk.
Fowler’s my name, and when they de-
cided they were going to hold the
, meeting, anyhow, even though John
Jackson had gone away, I thought
: perhaps I'd like to say a few words”
—those who were closest saw his
‘hands clench tighter—“say a few
words that I couldn’t say if John Jack-
son was here.
“I've been with him twenty years.
That's a long time. Neither of us had
gray hair when I walked into his of-
fice one day just fired from somewhere
and asked him for a job. Since then
I can’t tell you, gentlemen, I can’t tell
you what his—his presence in this
earth has meant to me. When he told
me yesterday, suddenly, that he was
going away. I thought to myself that
if he never came back I didn’t—I
didn’t want to go on living. That man
makes everything in the world seem
all right. If you knew how we felt
around the office——" He paused and
shook his head wordlessly. “Why,
there's three of us there—the janitor
and one of the other clerks and me—
that have sons named after John
Jackson. Yes, sir. Because none of
us could think of anything better than
for a boy to have that name or that
example before him through life. But
would we tell him? Not a chance. He
wouldn't even know what it was all
about. Why”—he sank his voice to a
hushed whisper—“he’d just look at
you in a puzzled way and say, ‘What
did you wish that on the poor kid
for?”
He broke off, for there was a sud-
den and growing interruption. An ep-
idemic of head turning had broken out
and was spreading rapidly from one
corner of the hall until it had affected
the whole assemblage. Some one had
discovered John Jackson behind the
post in the corner, and first an excla-
mation and then a growing mumble
that mounted to a cheer swept over
the auditorium.
Suddenly two men had taken him by
the arms and set him on his feet, and
then he was pushed and pulled and
carried toward the platform, arriving
somehow in a standing position after
having been lifted over many heads.
They were all standing now, arms
waving wildly, voices filling the hall
with tumultuous clamor. Some one
in the ‘back of the hall began to sing
“For he's a jolly good fellow” and
five hundred voices took up the air
and sang it with such feeling, with
such swelling emotion, that all eves
nificence far beyond the
words.
This was John Jackson’s chance now
to say to these people’'that he had got
so little out of life, He stretched out
his arms in a sudden gesture and they
spoken
woman and child.
“I have been asked —” His voice
faltered. “My dear friends, I have
John Jackson half arose to his!
were wet and the song assumed a sig- |
were quiet, Jotning every man and |;
{been asked to—to tell you what I
have got out of life —"
Five hundred faces, touched and
smiling, every one of them full of en-
couragement and love and faith, turn-
ed up to him.
“What have I got out of life?”
He stretched out his arms wide, as
if to include them all, as if to take to
his breast all the men and women and
children of this city . His voice rang
in the hushed silence.
“Everything!”
At six o’clock, when he walked up
his street alone, the air was already
cool with evening. Approaching his
house, he raised his head and saw
that some ong was sitting on the out-
er doorstep, resting his face in his
hands. When John Jackson came up
the walk, the caller—he was a young
i man with dark, frightened eyes—saw
him and sprang to his feet. :
“Father,” he said quickly, “I got
your telegram, but I—I came home.”
| Soa Jackson looked at him and
in
| “The house was locked,” said the
young man in an uneasy way.
“I've got the key.”
John Jackson unlocked the front
door and preceded his son inside.
“Father,” cried Ellery Jackson
quickly, “I haven’t any excuse to make
—anything to say. I'll tell you all
about it if you’re still interested—if
you can stand to hear ——” :
John Jackson rested his hand on the
his kind voice. “I guess I can always
stand anything my son does.”
This was an understatement. For
John Jackson could stand anything
now forever—anything that came,
anything at all.—By F. Scott Fitzger-
ald, in Saturday Evening Post.
SALVAGING HIDDEN WEALTH.
In the rivers of the Lake States
there lies today millions of dollars’
‘worth of wealth in the form of pine
logs which became waterlogged and
sank during the drives of fifty years
ago. These timbers when reclaimed
from the river bottoms are virtually
as good lumber as the day they were
cut from the living tree. The lumber
is slightly brittle but its value. is re-
duced very little. When the drives
| were on in the old days the lumber-
| jacks and rivermen worked feverishly
to keep the logs together that they
{hight take advantage of the freshet
| water which was stored by means of a
{ series of log dams in all the larger
I rivers and their tributaries through-
out the pineries of the Lake States.
| Logs were banked on the river during
the winter and in the spring break-up
| they went tearing down to the mills
: : : : : :3-s far below on the main streams. Dur-
walked on, swaying slightly, down the | few people in this city that didn’t 'ihg periods of extremely high water
! many of these logs became hidden
| from view in quiet backwaters. Be-
' coming waterlogged they sank to the
bottom where they have been pre-
served throughout the long years.
This timber is the property of several
lumber companies, many of which
. have gone out of existence years ago.
Each log, however, bears the stamp of
the company which cut it and under
the law it remains that company’s
property. An attempt to salvage
these timbers would be, in the eyes of
the law, theft, unless undertaken by
the owners or their heirs, many of
whom have died. It has been estimat-
ed that in the Menominee River alone
there is more than 100,000,000 feet of
lumber worth about $25 a thousand
feet today. The Muskegon, Manistee
and Au Sable rivers in Michigan, the
Chippewa, in Wisconsin, and many of
| the larger streams in Northern Min-
I nesota have these golden hoards in
their beds awaiting the inevitable day
when the laws will permit the exploit- ;
ation and utilization of their hidden
treasures. In the meantime the tim-
bers will keep indefinitely.—Ex.
1,458 Try for State Scholarship.
In the State scholarship examina-
tion held in 332 High schools of the
State orMay 2nd there were 1,458
candidates. Every county in the
State was represented in the examin-
ations. Allegheny county with 176
competitors had the largest number.
That county is entitled to six scholar-
ships, one for each Senatorial distriet.
Philadelphia county, which ranked
second with 92 candidates, is entitled
to eight while Luzerne county with 61
candidates is entitled to two scholar-
ships.
Fred B. Wilson, of Carnegie High
school, Allegheny county, ranked the
highest of all the competitors making
a total of 282 points in the three sub-
jects. Constance Ziegler, of New
Cumberland county, was second with
278 points. Ruth Graham, Mercer
High school, was third with 276
points. Richard N. Thyer, Central
Central High school, Scranton, ranked
fourth with 275 points.
All candidates were required to take
examinations in English and Ameri-
can history. Each candidate had to
elect a third subject from the follow-
ing list: Mathematics, physics, chem-
istry, biology, German, French, Latin
Spanish. The grades made by the
majority in American history were
low. The grades in English, on the
other hand, were uniformly high. The
rades in the elective studies ranged
rom low to high in individual cases.
Pennsylvania to Test the Old Oaken
Bucket.
Analysis of drinking water along
state highways, as a precautionary
move to protect motorists, has been
started by the Pennsylvania State
Health Department.
An ambulance, converted into a field
laboratory and managed by two ex-
pert analysis, has started in this work
at the eastern end of the Lineoln high-
length of that road in Pennsylvania,
sampling and testing the water avail-
able to traveling motorists. Other
highways will then be investigated.
As soon as the tests are completed
the results will be forwarded to the
field engineers, and placards stating
that the water has been examined and
found pure will be posted over the
wells or springs.
~—-—Mail bags are now picked up by
airplanes in full flight by means of a
hook wihch seizes a rope to which the
bags are attached.
“Don’t feel too badly,” he said in
way, and will travel over the entire
FARM NOTES.
—One of man’s friends is one of the
ground beetles known as Calasoma
sycophanta, says Nature Magazine of
Washington. It is a glittering green
and gold beetle with a head and tho-
rax of deep purple. It was imported
from Europe among other natural en-
emies of the gypsy moth and brown-
tail moth. Both adults and young of
the Calesoma beetles are extremely
voracious and f on other insects,
especially the caterpillars of moths.
| —It is quite common for pigs to
i bloat and die quickly when suddenly
turned into green clover when they
are very hungry or not accustomed to
such feed. That often occurs when
pigs have been grazing grass and the
pasture becomes so short that the
owner decides a change is necessary,
and so turns the pigs into a lush
clover without due preparation. Wet
clover, as with cattle, is most likely to
cause bloat. Any green feed may
have the same effect, under similar
circumstances. The modern method
of raising hogs is to let them graze a
succession of green crops from early
spring until late in autumn. Rye,
oats and peas, rape, clover, alfalfa
‘and corn are the crops most used for
this purpose, and losses from bloat or
acute indigestion do not occur under
this system of feeding, as the pigs be-
come accustomed to the green feed
rearly in the season, and take it daily
without becoming inordinately hun-
gry.
—A practical manner of reducing
the production costs of market eggs
‘consists in feeding fresh garbage plac-
ed before the flock as soon as possible
after it has been rejected from the ta-
ble. Used judiciously the United
! States: Department of Agriculture
| says it will reduce the cost of egg and
meat production from 25 to 30 per
{ cent. The garbage must be fresh and
| free from all fermentation and sour-
| ness.
The intrinsic value of garbage
as a poultry feed is due to the fact
that it provides a varied ration which
fits all the needs and requirements of
the flock. .
, One explanation of why the small
flock owner, with his backyard bevy
of hens, secures heavy production of
eggs, hinges around the fact that he
emphasizes the use of table scraps in
the ration. Similar results obtain
where large commercial flocks are
given access to daily allowances of
sanitary, well-selected, and palatable
garbage. Although the character of
garbage varies throughout the year,
due to the fact that more succulent
| vegetables and fruits are used during
the summer, this refuse is also a valu-
: able substitute for costly grains and
| concentrates in the hen menu.
Unfortunate results which in
i some instances have followed the use
of garbage are due to feeding a mix-
ture of table scraps that was not
carefully selected. Hens like fresh
garbage, but are not able to digest
scraps of tin, phonograph needles, and
similar foreign material. Unless such
substances are separated from the
garbage, disastrous results invariably
follow and the poultryman soon aban-
dons garbage feeding and condemns
it as unsatisfactory. The Department
of Agriculture recommends that fresh
garbage be run through a meat or
| vegetable chopper, and mixed with a
'little ground feed before it is fed to
the fowls. :
| As much of the table refuse should
be fed as the flock will clean up with
i a relish in the course of an hour. All
‘ feed which the birds reject should be
removed from the feeding pens or
‘yards as soon as possible thereafter.
| Otherwise, it sours and contaminates
{ the premises and, subsequently, if the
fowls eat it it invariably causes di-
gestive troubles.
Where garbage is fed, it is also pre-
requisite to provide a light ration of
grain twice daily, as well as to supply
dry mash in a hopper before the flock.
As a rule table scraps are rich in pro-
tein and only occasionally is it neces-
sary to supplement the mash with ap-
proximately 5 per cent. of meat meal.
During the summer garbage decom-
poses and forifignts quickly and it
(must be fed before it reaches this
stage. The feeding of garbage is fa-
j vored during cold weather because in
the winter the refuse keeps better.
Suburban flock owners may often se-
cure the garbage from neighboring
families who do not keep hens. This
source of feed may be so plentiful
that the flock owner can expand his
hen-keeping operations and even af-
ford to pay a small amount for the
garbage.
Experiments in feeding garbage at
the government experimental farm at
Beltsville, Md., indicate that ten hens
will consume about one quart of gar-
bage daily. A suitable dry mash as a
supplement to this garbage consists
of 3 parts by weight of corn meal, 1
part of bran, 1 part of middlings, and
5 per cent. of meat scraps. This
mash is kept before the fowls all the
time. The investigations demonstrat-
ed conclusively that where fresh gar-
bage is properly fed a fair egg crop
results, while economical and rapid
gains in growth are secured by the
judicious use of table refuse in the
ration. Where the garbage is plenti-
ful and rather watery it is advisable
to mix in enough supplementary mash
to give the mixture a desirable con-
sistency. If the table scraps contain
much fruit and vegetable peelings,
more mash should be added, while if
the garbage consists chiefly of potato
peelings, bread, and meat less mash
should be used. Care should be exer-
cised to drain off soapy water or ex-
cess liquid from the garbage.
A poultry farm in the District of
Columbia, which handles about 1,000
| fowls reports excellent results from
the use of well-selected garbage. This
material is hauled twice a day and
fed to the birds about ten o’clock in
the morning and again during the
middle of the afternoon so that the
table.scraps are fed fresh only two or
, three hours after they are discarded
from the kitchen. The feeding meth-
od of this poultryman is to scatter the
garbdge on the grass range in such
quantities that the fowls will clean up
all the refuse. He rotates these feed-
ing spots in such a way that no con-
tamination results. The outstanding
feature of the success of this poultry~
man is centralized in his painstaking
selection of the rarbage and the elim-
ination of all objectionable material.
——Read the “Watchman.”
.