ILLUSTRATIONS
BY CLARK AGNEW.
Copyright by
Doubleday, Page & Co.
WNU Service,
(Continued from last week.)
SYNOPSIS
irk DeJong
—Introducing “So B!
in his infancy. And his
other, Selina DeJong, daughter of
eon Peake, gambler and gentleman
g fortune. er life, to young woman-
00d in Chicago in 1888, has been un-
eonventional, somewhat seamy, but
generally enjoyable. t school her
chum {s_Julle Hempel, daughter of
ERpuet Hempel, butcher. Simeon fe
ed in a quarrel that is not his own,
and Belina, nineteen years old and
Piscticaly destitute, becomes a school-
cher.
CHAPTER II—S8Selina secures a posi-
tion as teacher at the High Prairie
ool, in the outskirts of Chicago,
iving at the home of a truck farmer,
laas Pool. In Roelf, twelve years
1d, son of Klaas, Selina perceives a
Ingrea spirit, a lover of beauty, like
reelf.
CHAPTER II1.—The monotonous life
of a country school-teacher at that
ime, is Selina’'s, brightened somewhat
y the companionship ot the sensitive,
artistic boy Roelf.
CHAPTER IV.—Selina hears gossip
ooncerning the affection of the “Widow
Yaarjendere. rich and good-looking.
for Pervus DeJong, poor truck farmer.
who is insensible to the widow's at-
ractions. For a community ‘sociable’
elina prepares a lunch basket, dainty,
ut not of ample proportions, which is
“auctioned,” according to custom. The
smallness of the lunch box excites deri-
ion, and in a sense of fun the bidding
Becomes spirited, DeJong finally secur-
ng it for $10, a ridiculously high price.
Over their lunch basket, which Seline
and DeJong share together, the school-
teacher arranges to instruct the good-
atures farmer, whose. education has
een neglected.
CHAPTER V.—Propinquity, in their
pos! tions of “teacher” and “pupil,” and
elina’s loneliness in her uncongenial
urroundings, lead to mutual affection.
ervus DeJong wins Selina's consent
to be his wife.
CHAPTER VI.—Selina becomes Mrs.
Delong, a “farmer's wife,” with all the
hardships unavoidable “at that time.
Dirk is born. Selina (of. Vermont
stock, businesslike and shrewd) har
plans for building up the farm, which
are ridiculed by her husband. Maartje
Pool, Klaas’ wife, dies, and after the
requisite decent interval Klaas marries
the “Widow Paarlenberg.” The boy
Roelf, sixteen years old now, leaves
his home. to make his way to France
and study, his ambition being to be-
come a sculptor.
CHAPTER VIL-—Dirk is eight years
old when his father dies. Selina, faced
with the necessity of making a living
for her boy and herself. rises to the
occasion, and, with Dirk, takes a truck-
Joad of vegetables to the Chicago mar-
ket. A woman selling in the market
place is an innovation frowned upon.
The boy had been almost incredibly
patient and good. At the wagon he
had stood sturdily next his mother,
had busied himself vastly assisting her
in her few pitiful sales; had plucked
wilted leaves, brought forward the
freshest and crispest vegetables. But
now she saw that he was drooping a
little as were her wares, with the heat
and the absence from accustomed soil.
“Where we going now, mom?”
“To another street, Sobig—"
“Dirk !”
“_Dirk, where there's a man who'll
buy all our stuff at once—maybe.
Won't that be fine! Then we'll go
home. You help mother find his name
over the store. Talcott—T-a-l-c-o0-
double t.”
William Talcott had knewn Pervus.
and Pervus’ father before him, and
bad adjudged them honest, admirable
men. But of thelr garden truck he had
small opinion. ;
In his doorway, he eyed the spare
little figure that appeared before him
all in rusty black, with its strained
anxious face, its great deep-sunk eyes.
“DeJong, eh? Sorry to hear about
your loss, ma'am. Pervus was a fine
lad. No great shakes at truck farm-
ing, though. His widow, h’m? Hm.”
Here, he saw, was no dull-witted farm
woman ; no stolid Dutch woman truck-
ster. He went out to her wagon,
tweaked the boy's brown cheek.
“Wa-al now, Mis’ DeJong, you got a
right smart lot of garden stuff here and
it looks pretty good. Yessir, pretty
good. But you're too late. Ten, pret’
near.”
“Oh, no!” cried Selina. “Oh, no!
Not too late!” And at the agony In
her voice he looked at her sharply.
“Tell you what, mebbe I can move
half of 'em along for you. But stuff
don’t keep this weather. Turns wilty
and my trade won't touch it. . . .
First trip in?”
She wiped her face that was damp
and yet cold to the touch. “First—trip
in.” Suddenly she was finding it ab-
surdly hard to breathe.
He called from the sidewalk to the
men within: “George! Ben! Hustle
this stuff In. Half of it. The best.
Send you check tomorrow, Mis’ De-
Jong.”
One hand on the seat she prepared
to climb up again—did step to the
hub. You saw her shabby, absurd
gide boots that were so much too big
for the slim little feet. “If you're just
buying my stuff because you're Sorry
for me—" The Peake pride.
“Don’t do business that way. Can't
afford to, ma'am. My da’ter she’s
studying to be a singer. In Italy now,
Car'line is, and costs like all get-out.
Takes all the money I can scrape to-
gether, just about.”
There was a little color In Selina’s
Ca
~
& % 0
TA BERR
Toa
a,
\
face now. “Italy! Oh, Mr. Talcott!”
You'd have thought she had seen It,
from her face.. She began to thank
him, gravely. !
« the porch. She looked &t-
~+ == 1 brags knob.
“Now, that’s all right, Mis’ DeJong. |
I notice your stuff’s bunched kind of
TA
z
VEGETA)
wo
FRUITS ANP
u « er By en
TA
-
1 \
i nant
As She Gathered Up the Reins He
Stood in His Doorway, Cool, Remote. .
extry, and all of a size.
that way right aleng?’.
- “Yes. I thought—they looked pret-
tier that way-—of course vegetables
aren't supposed to look pretty, I' ex-
‘pect—" she stammered, stopped.
“You fix 'em pretty like that aud
bring ‘em in to me first thing, or send
‘em. .:My trade, they like their stuff
Kind of special. Yessir.”
7 As Selina gathered up the reins he
stoed again in his doorway, cool, re-
mote, unlighted cigar in his mouth,
while hand-tvucks rattled past him,
barrels and boxes thumped to the side-
walk in front of him, wheels and hoofs
and shouts made a great clamor “all
about him.
“We going home now?’ demanded
Fixin’ to do
Dirk. “We going home now?! I'm
hungry.”
“Yes, lamb.” Two dollars ia her
pocket. All yesterday's grim toil, and
all today's, and months of labor. be-
hind those two days. Two dollars In
the pocket of her black calico petticoat.
“We'll get something to eat when we
drive out a ways. Some milk and
bread and cheese.”
The sun was very hot. She took the
boy's hat off, passed her tender work-
calloused hand over the damp hair
that clung to his forehead.
She made up her mind to drive east
and then south. Pervus had sometimes
achieved a late sale to outlying gro-
cers. Jan's face if she came home
with half the load still on the wagon!
And what of the unpaid bills? Bhe
had, perhaps, thirty dollars, all told.
She owed four hundred. Moire than
that.
Fear shook her. Bhe told herself
she was tired, nervous. That terrible
week. And now this. The heat. Soon
they'd be home, she and Dirk. The
comfort of it, the peace of it. Safe, de-
sirable, suddenly dear. No work for
a woman, this! Well, perhaps they
were right.
Down Wabash avenue, with the L
trains thundering overhead and her
horses, frightened and uneasy with
the unaccustomed roar and clangor of
trafic. It was terribly hot.
The boy's eyes popped with excite-
ment and bewilderment.
“Pretty soon,” Selina said. The
muscles showed white beneath the skin
of her jaw. “Pretty soon. Prairie
avenue. Great big houses and lawns,
all quiet.” She even managed a smile.
“I like it better home.”
Prairie avenue at last, turning in at
Sixteenth street. It was like calm
after a storm. Selina felt battered,
spent.
Then another thought came to her.
Her vegetables, canvas covered, were
fresher than those in the near-by mar-
kets. Why not try to sell some of
them here, in these big houses? In an
hour she might earn a few dollars this
way at retail prices slightly less than
those asked by the grocers of the neigh-
borhood.
Agilely she stepped down the wheel,
gave the reins to Dirk. She filled a
large market basket with the finest
and freshest of her stock and with
this on her arm looked up a moment at
the house in front of which she had
stopped. The kitchen entrance, she
knew, was by way of the alley at the
back, but this she would not take.
Across the sidewalk, down a little flight
of stone steps, {nto the vestibule under
| got one, I s’pose.”
‘the bell—a
perate Selina. “I can't! I can't!”
cried all the prim dim Vermont Peakes,
in chorus. “All right. Starve to death
and let them take the farm and Dirk,
then.”
At that she pulled the knob hard.
Jangle went the bell in the hall. Again.
Again,
Footsteps up the hall. The door
opened to disclose a large woman, high
cheek-boned, In a work apron; a cook,
apparently.
“Good morning,” said Selina. “Would
you like some fresh country vege-
tables?”
“No.” She half shut the door, open-
ing it again to ask, “Got any fresh
eggs or butter?’ At Selina’s negative
she closed the door, bolted it. Well,
that was all right. Nothing so terrible
about that, Selina told herself. Simply
hadn't wanted any vegetables. The
next house, and the next, and the next.
Up one side of the street, and down
the other. Four times she refilled her
basket. At one house she sold a quar-
ter’s worth. Fifteen at another. Twen-
ty cents here. Almost fifty there.
Twenty-first street—Twenty-fifth—
Twenty-eighth. She had over four dol-
lars in her purse. Dirk was weary
now and hungry to the point of tears.
“The last house,” Selina promised him,
“the very last ome. After this one
we'll go home.”
The last house. She had almost five
dollars, earned in the last hour. “Just
five minutes,” she said to Dirk, trying
to make her tone bright, her voice gay.
Her arms full of vegetables which she
was about to place in the basket at
her feet she heard at her elbow:
“Now, then, where's your license?”
She turned. A policeman at her side.
“License?” Le
“Yeh, you heard me. License.
Where's your peddier's license? You
“\vphy, no, No’ stared at
him, still.
"“Well, say, where dye think you
are, peddlin’ without a license! A good
mind to run you in. Get along out of
here, you and the kid. Leave me ketch
you around here again!” ;
“What's tlie trouble, officer?” said a
woman's voice. A smart open carriage
of the type known as a victoria, with
two chestnut horses whose harness
shone with metal. “What's the trouble,
Reilly?” The woman stepped out of
the victoria. Pee * ?
“Wonian peddling without a license,
Mrs. Arnold. You got to watch ‘em
like a hawk. . . .' Get along wid
you, then.” He put a hand on Selina’s
shoulder and gave her a gentle push.
"There shook Selina from head to foot
such a passion, such a storm of out-
raged sensibilities, as to cause street.
victoria, silk-clad woman, horses, and
policeman to swim and shiver in a haze
before her: eyes... The rage of a fas-
tidious ‘woman who ‘had had an alien
male hand put upon her. Her face
was white. + Her eves glowed black.
enormous. She seemed tall, majestic
even. . tila
“Take your hand off mel” Her
speech was clipped, vibrant.
dare you touch me! How dare you!
Take your hand!—” The blazing eyes
in the white mask. He took his hand
from her shoulder. The red surged
into her face. A tanned weather-
beaten ‘oil-worn woman, her abundant
hair skewered into a knob and held by
a long gray-black hairpin, her full skirt
grimed with the mud of the wagon
wheel, a pair of old side boots on het
slim feet, a grotesquely battered old
felt hat (her husband's) on her head,
her arms full of ears of sweet corn,
and carrots, and radishes and bunches
of beets; a woman with bad teeth, flat
breasts—even then Julle had known
her by her eyes. And she had stared
and then run to her In her silk dress
and her plumed hat, crying, “Oh, Se-
lina! My dear! My dear!” with a
sob of horror and pity. “My dear!”
And had taken Selina, carrots, beets,
corn, and radishes in her arms. The
vegetables lay scattered all about them
on the sidewalk in front of Julie Hem-
pel Arnold's great stone house on
Prairie avenue. But strangely enough
it had been Selina who had done the
comforting, patting Julle’s plump sliker
She
‘shoulder and saying, over and over,
soothingly, as to a child, “There,
there! It's all right, Julle. It's all
right. Don’t cry. What's there to ery
for! Sh-sh! It's all right.”
Julle lifted her head In its modish
black plumed hat, wiped her eyes, blew
her nose. “Get along with you, do,”
she said to Rellly, the policeman, using
his very words to Selina. “I'm going
to report you to Mr. Arnold, see if I
don’t. And you know what that
means.”
“Well, now, Mrs. Arnold, ma'am, I
was only doing my duty. How cud I
know the lady was a friend of yours.
Sure, I—" He surveyed Selina, cart,
jaded horses, wilted vegetables.
“And why not!” demanded Julie
with superb unreasonableness. “Why
not, I'd like to know. Do get along
with you.”
He got along, a defeated officer of
the law, and a bitter. And now it was
Julie who surveyed Selina, cart, Dirk,
jaded horses, wilted left-over vege-
tables. “Selina, whatever in the world!
What are you doing with—" She
caught sight of Selina’s absurd boots
then and she began to cry again. At
that Selina's overwrought nerves
snapped and she began to laugh, hys-
terically. It frightened Julie, that
laughter. “Selina, don't! Come in the
house with me. What are you laugh-
ing at! Sellnal” .
With shaking finger Selina was point-
ing at the vegetables that lay tumbled
at her feet, “Do you see that cab-
bage, Julle? Do you remember how
1 used to despise Mrs. Tebbitt's be-
cause she used to have boiled cabbage
on Monday nights?”
“That's nothing fo laugh at, iy jt?
“pull it!” said the des-
Stop laughing this
Peake!” ~~
“I'll stop. I've stopped now. I was
just laughing at my ignorance. Sweat
and blood and health and youth go
into every cabbage. Did you know
that, Julie? One doesn’t despise them
as food, knowing that. . . . Come,
climb down, Dirk. Here's a lady moth-
er used to know—oh, years and years
ago, when she was a girl. Thousands
of years ago.”
Chapter 1X
The best thing for Dirk. The best
thing for Dirk. It was the phrase that
repeated itself over and over in Se-
lina’s speech during the days that fol-
lowed. In this period of bewilderment
and fatigue Julie had attempted to
take charge of Selina much as she had
done a dozen years before at the time
of Simeon Peake’s dramatic death. And
now, as then, she pressed into service
her wonder-working father and bound-
en slave, August Hempel.
“Pa’ll be out tomorrow and I'll prob-
ably come with him. I've got a com-
mittee meeting, but I can easily—"
“You said—did you say your father
would be out tomorrow! Out where?”
“To your place. Farm.”
“But why should he? It's a little
twenty-five-acre truck farm, and half
minute, Selina
of>itiunder water a good deal of the
time.”
“Pa’lli find a use for it, never fear.
He won't say much, but he'll think of
things. And then everything will be
all right.”
A species of ugly pride now pos-
sessed Selina. “I don’t need help.
Really I don’t, Julie, dear. It’s never
been like today. Never before. We
were getting on very well, Pervus and
I. Then after Pervus’ death so sud-
denly like that I was frightened. Ter-
ribly frightened. About Dirk. I wanted
him to have everything. Beautiful
things. I wanted his life to be beauti-
ful. Life can. be so ugly, Julie. You
don’t know. You don't know.”
“Well, now, that’s why I say. We'll
be out tomorrow, pa and I. Dirk's go-
ing. to have everything beautiful. We'll
see to that.” : :
. It was then that. Selina had said,
“But that's just. it. -I want. to. do ‘it
myself, for him. I can. I want to
give him all these things myself.”
“But that's selfish.”
“I don't mean to be. I just want to
do the best thing for Dirk.” 3
It was shortly after noon that High
Prairie, hearing the unaccustomed chug
of a motor, rushed to its windows or
| porches to behold Selina DeJong in her
mashed black felt hat and Dirk wav-
ing his battered straw wildly, riding up
the Halsted road toward the DeJong
farm in a bright red automob!le that
had shattered .the nerves of every
farmer's team it had met on the way.
Of the DeJong team and the DeJong
dog Pom, and the DeJong vegetable
wagon there was absolutely no sign.
High Prairie was rendered unfit for
. work throughout the next twenty-four
“How |
' tinction.
hours.
1n the twelve years’ transition from
butcher to packer Aug Hempel had
taken on a certain authority and dis-
Now, at fifty-five, his hair
was gray, relieving the too-ruddy color
of his face. In the last few years he
had grown very deaf in cme ear, so that
when you spoke to him Le koaked of
you intently. This had given him a
reputation for keenness and great
character insight. when it was merely
the protective trick of a man who does
not want to confess that he is hard of
hearing.
Selina’s domain he surveyed with 8
keen and comprehencive eye.
“You want to sell?”
“No.”
“That's good. Few years from Dow
this land will be worth money.” He
had spent a bare fifteen minutes tak-
ing shrewd valuation of the property
from fields to barn, from barn to
house. “Well, what do you want tr
do, heh, Selina?”
They were seated In the cool and
unexpectedly pleasing little parlor,
with its old Dutch luster set gleaming
softly in the cabinet, its three rows
of books, its air of comfort and usage.
Selina clasped her hands tightly in
her lap—those hands that, from much
grubbing in the soll, had taken on
gomething of the look of the gnarled
things they tended. The nalls were
short, discolored, broken. The palms
rough, cailloused. The whole.story of
the last twelve years of Selina's lif-
was written in her two hands.
“] want to stay here, and work the
farm, and make it. pay. I can. I'm
not going to grow just the common
garden stuff any more—not much, any-
way. I'm going to specialize in the
fine things—the kind the South Water
street commission men want. I want
to drain the low land. Tile it. That
land hasn't been used for years. It
ought to be rich growing land by now,
if once it's properly drained. Aad I
want Dirk to go to school. Good
schools. I never want my son to go
to the Haymarket. Never. Never.
“My .life doesn't count, except as
something for Dirk to use. I'm done
«ith anything else. Oh, I don’t mean
that I'm discouraged, or disappointed
In life, or anything like thut. I mean
I started out with the wrong idea. I
know better now. I'm here to keep
Dirk from making the mistakes I
made.”
Aug Hempel’s tone was one of medi
tation, not of argument. “It don’t
work out that way, seems. About mis-
takes it’s funny. You got to make your
own; and not only that, if you try to
keep people from making theirs they
get mad.” He whistled softly through
his teeth following this utterance and
tapped the chair seat with his finger.
“It's beauty!” Selina sald then, al-
most passionately. Aug Hempel and
H
; oy
i
UN
(2 4
“py Life Doesn't Count, Except as
Something for Dirk to Use.”
this remark, so she went on, eager, ex-
planatory. “I used to think that if
you wanted beauty—Iif you wanted fit
hard enough and hopefully enough—it
came to you. You just waited, and
lived your life as best you could,
knowing that beauty might be just
around the corner. You just waited,
and then it came.”
“Beauty!” exclaimed Julie, weakly.
She stared at Selina in the evident be-
lief that this work-worn haggard
woman was bemoaning her lack of per-
sonal pulchritude.
“Yes. All the worth-while things in
life. Work that you love. And growth
—growth and watching people grow.
Feeling very strongly about things
and then developing that feeling to— |
to’ make something fine come of it.”
She threw out her hands in a futile
gesture. “That's what I mean by
beauty. I want Dirk to have it.”
“For plty's sake!” pleaded Julie, the
literal, “let’s stop talking and do some-
thing. Pa, you've probably got it all
fixed in your mind long ago. It's time
we heard it. Here Selina was one of
the most popular girls in Miss Fister's
‘school, and lots of people thought the
prettiest. And now just look at her!”
A flicker of the old flame leaped up
in Selina. “Flatterer!” she murmured.
Aug Hempel stood up. “If you think
giving your whole life to making the
boy happy is going to make him happy
you ain't so smart as I took you for.
You go trying to live somebody else's
life for them.” ?
“Fm not going to live his life for
him. I want to show him how to live
it so that he'll get full value out of
ity
“Keeping him out of the Haymarket
if the Haymarket’s the natural place
for him won't do that. How can you
tell! Monkeying with what's to be.
I'm out at the yards every day, in and
out of the cattle pens, talking to the
drovers and herders, mixing in with
the buyers. I can tell the weight of a
hog and what he’s worth just by a look
«t him, and a steer, too. My son-in-
law, Michael Arnold, slis up .2 the of
fice all day in our plant, dictating let-
ters. His clothes they never stink of
the pens like mine do. . . . Now I
ain’t saying anything against him,
Julle. But 1 bet my grandson Eu-
gene”’—he repeated it, stressing the
name so that you sensed his dislike of
it—*“Eugene, if he comes into the busi-
ness at all when he grows up, won't go
within smelling distance of the yards.
His office, I bet, will be In a new office
building on, say Madison street, with
a view of the lake. Life! You'll be
hoggin' it all yourself and not know
it.”
“And I suppose,” retorted Selina,
spiritedly, “that when your son-in-law,
Michael Arnold, is your age he'll be
telling Eugene how he roughed it In
an office over at the yards In the old
days. These will be the old days.”
August Hempel laughed good-humor-
edly. “That can be, Selina. That can
be.” He chewed his cigar and settled
to the business at hand.
(Continued next week.)
CENTRE HALL.
Crowded out last week.
The primary school closed on Tues-
day, May 19th.
The Henney property is being im-
proved by new paint.
Miss Martha Ransom, of Boston,
spent several days at the home o
Mrs. Margaret Smith. .
Miss Beulah Foss, the daughter of
our one-time Evangelical minister,
was recently married to Harry B. De-
Arment, of Howard.
The home of J. William Bradford
has been given a very attractive ap-
pearance by the new porches. The
paint now being put on will increase
its attractiveness still more.
Mrs. W. D. Crooks Jr., Mrs. Paul
D. Weis, Mrs. William Hough, all of
Williamsport, enjoyed Tuesday at the
Mrs. Margaret Smith home, and took '
Miss Ransom with them to Williams-
| port. 2
|
Julie plainly could make nothing of °
On Wednesday morning, Mrs. Kry-
der Frank, Miss Ethel and Master
Kenneth Frank, and Mrs. Andy Zet-
tie were taken to Baltimore ia an au-
to, hy Paul Fetterolf. Ernest Frank |
Jr. was the drawing card,
Last Saturday Mr. and Mrs. C. A.
Spyker and part of their family mo-
tored to Marklesburg, where Mrs.
Spyker and two small children -re-
mained for a week. Mr. Spyker, My-
la and the twins returned home on
Sunday.
| puree.
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
Endurance is the crowning quality,
And patience: all the passion of great
hearts. —Lowell.
Summer is the luckiest season for a
wedding. June is the luckiest month,
and Wednesday is the luckiest day. It
is a good omen if the day is fine, but
a wet day bodes a troubled future.
“A weeping sky, a weeping wife,” is
the old saying, but even if the day be
wet, the bride may avert the omen by
carrying in her left shoe three grains
of rice.
If the bride has older sisters who
are unmarried, they should wear
something green about them on the
wedding day, or they will never mar-
ry. In returning home after the wed-
ding the bride should be sure to step
across the threshold with her right
shoe first, for if it is the left she wiil
have trouble in her house.
. It is unlucky for the bride to look
in the mirror at the last moment,
when she is fully dressed. She should
not put on her gloves until after she
has looked at her reflection in the
glass, and been satisfied that all is in
order, and then, having put on her
gloves, she must not look again.
| When the bride changes her dress to
go away, every pin that may have
been used in dressing her for the wed-
ding must be thrown away. If one is
left there will be a quarrel between
the newly-married pair before three
days are over. It is a bad omen if the
bride’s shoes pinch her feet and a sign
that she will not get on well with her
future in-laws.
The bride should be careful not to
break anything on her wedding day
morning, for if she does there will not
be much peace in her married life.
Should she break anything, however,
she may avert ill-luck by burying the
broken articles, together with one of
her hairpins.
A piece of bread and honey eaten
on the eve of the wedding will make
certain that things go smoothly on the
| wedding day. Before leaving for the
church the bride should feed any
, household pets herself, for this will
| secure plenty for her new home. Pea-
cock feathers bring ill luck to the new
home, but a feather dropped from a
swan will bring good fortune to it.
| Many consider cheese solely as a
: side service with pie or as a garnish
for macaroni, potatoes, rice and other
dishes. Others never think of eating
cheese except as a digestant after a
heavy meal. Both are wrong. :
Cheese should be eateen instead of
meat. It contains all the food ele-
ments of meat without waste.
| Cheese should be eaten as a meat
course, not after a heavy meat dinner.
Cheese is not a digestant in itself, and,
in fact, does not digest in the stom-
i ach, but in the intestines, hence that
| stuffy feeling brought on by eating
| cheese after a heavy meal and the
l after taste of cheese accompanied by
| indigestion symptoms which cause
people to say cheese is indigestible.
{ Easily Digestible—The government
! made a series of tests to determine
whether cheese is digestible or not,
: whether it could furnish a complete
| food ration and other things about
cheese and its uses. These tests
proved cheese is thoroughly digestible
and one of the most easily assimilat-
ed foods we can eat. In fact, it was
proved that over 90 per cent. of
cheese is absorbed in the assimilating
processes, which is perhaps the high-
est percentage of any food. :
It was shown cheese is a splendid
body and muscle builder. Being the
concentrated meat food of milk, it is
all nourishment.
Cheese should be eaten as a “meat
food.” It is the most economical
“meat food” you can buy, one pound
of cheese being equivalen. in nutri-
ment to three pounds of lean beef.
One pound of cheese is the concentrat-
ed poses food” of a gallon of whole
mi wh
Those who stand much often neg-
lect the feet.
An application of cool water is very
soothing.
A tin foot bath costs little, though
a bucket may be used.
Upon reaching home at night tired
feet should be rested in cool water, in
which a quarter pound of bicarbon-
ate of soda has been dissolved.
After resting the feet in this bath
for 20 minutes much of the inflamma-
tion will have been drawn out and the
feet will not swell as they would in
hot water. .
Then fresh hosiery and thin, soft
slippers should be put on for the even-
ing.
Poison Signals.—A plan adopted by
a mother of a large family for mark-
ing poison bottles on her medicine
shelf is so good that it is worth pass-
ing on.
She purchased a number of tiny
bells that are sold in toy shops to sew
to home-made rattles or similar toys,
and when a bottle containing any kind
of poison or poisonous mixture is add-
ed to the stock of home medicines a
bell is threaded on a bit of narrow
ribbon and then tied to the neck of the
bottle. Thus all danger of making a
mistake is avoided, because even
though the bottle were taken from the
shelf in the dark, the tiny bell sounds
! its warning note.
Stuffed Prunes.—Steam until ten-
der but not broken one-half pound of
prunes. Then pit and fill the cavities
with chopped nuts, raisins or dates.
Return the liquor drained from the
fruit to the fire, bring to a boil, ani
stir in one-third box of geletin ¢ .-
solved in one-fourth cup of cold 1 u-
ter. Pour this around the pruncs,
then stand in a cold place to harden.
Serve with sweetened cream.
Cauliflower Soup with Dumplings.
— Have ready a cupful of water in
which caulifiower has been cooked and
a cupful of the cooked vegetable,
pressed through a seive. Combine
and add 13 cups of chicken stock.
Cook until soft, but not browned, in
2 tablespoons of butter, a slice of
minced onion and a chopped stalk of
celery; remove the vegetables, blend
in 2 level tablespoonfuls of flour and
combine with the stock and vegetable
Season to taste with salt and
paprika, reheat to the boiling point
| and add six small steamed dumplings.