October
®
By
George Barr McCufcheon
(Continued from last week.)
“Pete Hines? Certainly. He is a
tenant of my father’s. Lives In a
shack up at the other end of the
swamp. He has done odd jobs for us
since I can remember. He also does
most of the drinking for the estate,”
he concluded dryly.
“A souse, eh?”
“I've never known him to be com-
pletely sober—and I've never heard of
him being completely drunk.”
“By the way, have you ever seen me
before (~aay?”
“Not to my knowledge.”
“Well,” said Malone, with a twinkle
im his eye. “I've been hanging around
this burg since last Monday—five days,
in all. I'm the fellow that sold Mrs.
Grimes the beautiful illustrated set of
Jane Austen’s works day before yes-
terday. I also sold an unexpurgated
set of the Arabian Nights to Mr. Sam-
uel Parr. He tells me your father car-
ried a $15,000 life policy. I tried to sell
a set of Dickens to Rev. Mr. Sage, and
Succeeded in having a long talk with
his daughter. I’ve had dealings with
Mr. Sikes and Mr. Link, Banker Lan-
sing, John Phillips and a number of
other citizens, male and female.” He
laughed quietly. “Of course, the books
will never be delivered, Mr. Baxter.
Shall we stroll down to the swamp,
Mr. Baxter, or would you rather wait a
day or two? We're in no hurry, you
see.”
“This is obvious,” said Oliver curtly.
“I must notify you, Mr, Malone, that if
you or any of your workmen slip into
one of those pits of mire out there and
never come up again, I am not to be
held accountable.”
“Right-0!” said Malone cheerily.
They were well around the corner of
the house on their way to the swamp
road before Oliver spoke again,
“You are at liberty to go as far out
as you please, however, Mr. Malone.”
“I shall,” said Malone crisply. “I
am an old hand at this business. I
don’t believe such a thing exists as a
bottomless pit. Now, just where was
it that you and your father parted
company that night As I understand
it, you and he sat for some time on
that log over there. It was a clear
night and the road was very dusty.
There had been no rain in over three
weeks. Am I right?”
Oliver stared at him in amazement.
The other detective had turned down
the slope and was striding off toward
the nearest ditch,
“You seem to be pretty well posted,”
said he, his eyes narrowing.
“Well, I am an inquisitive sort of
cuss,” drawled Malone. “And I'm not
what you'd call an idle person.”
“Who told you we were sitting on
that log? We did sit there for 10 or 15
minutes. That was before we began to
quarrel. Then we got up and walked
on a little farther down the road. We
stood there arguing for nearly half an
hour. But who told you we sat on that
log?”
“If you don’t mind, I'll not answer
that question,” said Malone.
“You asked me a while ago if IT had
seen Pete Hines that night. Was it
Peter Hines?”
Malone hesitated. “Well, it was Pete
Hines who is supposed to have seen
You, Mr. Baxter, but it was not he who
told me about it.”
CHAPTER VIII
A Blow for Sammy
Malone changed the subject abrupt-
ly. “That's a great fish story they tell
about the gypsy prophesying you'd be
hung before you were thirty.”
“If you will excuse me, Mr. Malone,
I must be getting back to the house.
It’s nearly 7 o'clock and I am expect-
ing people to dine with me,” said Oli-
ver a little coldly.
“I'm sorry I've detained you,” said
the detective apologetically. “I'll stroll
back with you, if you don’t mind.”
“Where is your partner?” inquired
Oliver, looking out over the swamp.
“Charlie? Oh, he'll be along direct-
ly. He is seeing about how long fit
would take a man to walk out to the
edge of the mire and back,” said Ma-
lone coolly.
Oliver looked at him sharply. “So
that's the idea, eh?" he remarked,
after a moment,
“We intend to conduct this investiga-
tion in an open and above-board man-
ner, Mr. Baxter.”
“And I shall be open and above-
board with you, Mr. Malone,” said Oli-
ver, a trace of irony in his voice. “I
hope, therefore, that you won't take it
amiss if I suggest that the sensible
thing for your man to do would be to
make his calculations at night, when
progress would naturally be a great
deal slower and infinitely more hag-
ardous.”
“I've taken that into account,” an-
nounced the detective, looking straight
ahead. “I was about to say that it's
going to take a good deal of tight
Squeezing, Mr. Baxter, to get you fn.
mw | dicted, tried and executed inside of
the next 30 days. The time is pretty
short, eh?” He laughed jovially.
Oliver turned on him. “I'll knock
your d—d head off, Malone, if you
make any more cracks like that. Re-
member that, will you?’ he cried
hotly.
Malone was genuinely surprised. He
went very red in the face.
“Yes,” he said thickly, “I'll be sure
to remember it.”
Oliver apologized to Malone as they
were on the point of separating in
front of the house. They had trav-
ersed the hundred yards or more in
silence.
“I am sorry I spoke to you as I did,
Mr. Malone. I hope you will overlook
it.”
Malone held out his hand. “I’ve been
spoken to a good bit rougher than that
in my time, Mr. Baxter, and never
turned a hair,” he said good-naturedly.
“I don’t blame you for calling me
down. I guess I was fresh. But I as-
sure you I didn’t mean to be.”
A little later on Oliver sat on his
front porch waiting for his guests to
arrive. Mrs. Grimes, in her snug-fit-
ting black silk dress, rocked impa-
tiently in a chair nearby. The guests
were late.
“It's Josephine Sage,” she observed
crossly, breaking a long silence. “She's
the one that’s making ‘em late.”
He looked at his watch. “It's only
7:30, Aunt Serepta. They're only 15
minutes late. I've been losing my tem-
per again,” he said gloomily. “Prob.
ably made an enemy of that detective,
Malone.”
“What difference does that make?
He's not a voter in this county,” said
the old lady composedly. “Here they
come, Goodness!
boy drives!
for—"
But Oliver was at the bottom of the
steps waiting for the automobile. It
swung around the curve in the drive
and came to an unbelievably gentle
stop.
“The best trained automobile in
America,” said Sammy, with his cus-
tomary modesty. “Kindness is what
does it.”
“So sorry to be late” said Mrs.
Sage, as Oliver ceremoniously handed
her out of the car.
“What is that I hear, Oliver?” said
the minister as he stepped out of the
car. Jane and Mrs. Sammy had pre-
ceded him. “Is it true the detectives
are here and expect to start this ridicu-
lous search tomorrow?”
“They're here all right,” replied
Oliver. “One of them tried to sell you
a set of Dickens the other day.”
“What!” cried Jane, gripping Oli-
ver's arm. “What, that man a detec-
tive?” She was startled.
“No less a person than Mr. Sherlock
Hawkshaw Malone, the renowned
sleuth,” said Oliver, smiling.
“The beast—the beast!” she cried
hotly. “Good heavens! That accounts
1 the. the -intefest he took in your fa-
ther’s disappearance.”
“At any rate,” said Mr. Sage, com-
placently, “he did not succeed in sell-
ing us a set of Dickens.”
Jane started to say something, but,
instead, abruptly turned away and
joined the other women on the porch.
A queer little chill as of misgiving
stole over her.
“Hey, Oliver!” called out Sammy
from down the drive where he was
parking the car. “Come here a min-
ute, will you? Say,” he went on, low-
ering his voice as Oliver came up.
“I've just picked up something rich.
Fellow came in day before yesterday
and showed me a volume of the ‘Arabi-
an Nights,’ absolutely unexpurgated—"
“I know. And you fell for it, didn’t
you?”
“Sh! Not so loud. My wife doesn’t
know a thing about it. But say, who
told you about it?”
Then Oliver told him. Sammy
leaned against the mudguard and
swore softly.
“Say, I wish I could remember what
I said to the guy about—about your
father. Lord, he had me talking a blue
streak. Darn my fool eyes! You'd
think I'd have sense enough to— Oh,
well, go ahead and kick me, Ollie.
Right here. Just as hard as you like,”
“Come on. They're walting for us.
You needn't worry, old boy.”
Sammy and Oliver entered the sit-
ting room. Mrs. Sage was standing
almost directly under the chandelier,
talking to dumpy Mrs, Grimes; the
light from above fell upon her au-
burn crown, flooded her magnificent
shoulders and arms, and then wavered
timidly, almost helplessly, as it first
came in contact with resplendent op-
position. The actress was a head tall-
er than Mrs. Grimes, who nevertheless
bravely stood her ground and faced
comparison with all the hardihood of
the righteous.
Mr, Sage, with a distinctly bewil-
dered and somewhat embarrassed ex-
pression keeping company with the
proud and doting smile that seemed
to be stamped upon hig lean visage,
stood across the room with his daugh-
ter and Mrs. Sammy.
“Do you mean to tell me, Oliver,
that those blighters intend to begin
digging up your place tomorrow?”
Josephine asked incredulously.
Oliver laughed. “I think we’ll all
rather enjoy the excitement, Aunt
Josephine,” he said. “I suppose they'll
begin prying up the kitchen floor to-
morrow, or digging trenches in the
cellar, or tearing up the flower-beds.”
8he looked at him narrowly. “What
utter rot! Do they expect to find your
father buried in the cellar or under
the kitchen floor?”
“They don’t expect to find him at
all,” replied Oliver, with unintentional
shortness.
He glanced over his shoulder at
Jane. Their eyes met and their gaze
held for some seconds. He detected
| the clouded, troubled look in hers and
The way that Parr
He ought to be locked up
| was suddenly conscious of what must
have seemed to her a serious intensity
in his own. He knew now that he was
in love—that he always had been in
love with Jane, that he always would
be in love with her. He compressed
his lips and fought against the
strange, mad impulse to shout that he
was in love with her, that she was
his—all his—and that no man should
take her away from him.
And she? She was thinking of that |
dry, hot night when he came to see
her after leaving his father, out of
breath, his shoes covered with fresh
black mud. There had been no rain
for weeks. The roads were thick with |
And Lansing, too, had noticed
dust.
that his shoes were muddy. He had
spoken to her about them, he had
wondered where Oliver had been to
get into mud up to his shoe tops!
And she, herself, had never ceased to
wonder.
Oliver was strangely restless dur-
ing dinner, and immediately after the
company rose from the table at jts |
conclusion he asked Jane to come with
him for a little stroll in the open air.
“I want to speak to you about SoRe-
thing,” he urged. “Better throw some-
thing over your shoulders. The night
air—"
“Ought you to go off and leave the
others, Oliver?” she began, a queer
little catch, as of alarm, in her voice,
“Muriel and Sammy—"
“Come along,” he pleaded. “They
won't mind. I must see you alone for
a few minutes, Jane.”
“I will get my wrap,” she said, after
a moment’s hesitation. “It may be
chilly outside.”
“Why, you're shivering now, Janie,”
he whispered anxiously, as he threw
her wrap over her shoulders. “Are you
cold?”
She did not reply. He followed her
out upon the porch and down the
steps. No word passed between them
until they had turned the bend in the
drive and were outside the radius of
light shed from the windows. He was
the first to speak.
“See here, Jane,” he blurted out,
‘Im—I'm terribly troubled and up-
set.” That was as far as he got,
speech seemed to fail him.
She laid her hand on his arm.
“Is it about—about the detective,
Oliver?” she asked tremulously.
“No,” he answered, almost roughly.
“It’s about you, Jane. You've just got
to answer me. Are you going to be
married ?”
“Yes,” she said, her voice so low he
could scarcely hear the monosyllable.
They walked in silence for twenty
paces or more, turning down the path
that led to the swamp road.
“I—I was afraid so,” he muttered.
Then fiercely: “Who are you going to
marry?”
She sighed. “I am going to marry
the first man who asks me,” she re-
plied and, having cast the die, was
instantly mistress of herself. “Have
you any objections?” she asked, al-
most mockingly. *
If he heard the question he paid no
heed to it. She felt the muscles of
his strong forearm grow taut, and she
heard the quick intake of his breath.
She waited. She began to hum a va-
grant little air. It seemed an age to
her before he spoke.
“Jane,” he said gently and steadily,
“if you were a man and in my place—
I mean in my predicament—would you
80 so far as to ask the girl you love
better than anything in all the world
to marry you?’
“There couldn't be any harm in ask-
ing her. She could refuse you, you
know.”
“There’s the gypsy’s prophecy,” he
murmured thickly. “It—it may come
true Jane.”
“It—it cannot come true,” she said.
“It cannot, Oliver.”
“Still it is something to be consid-
ered,” he said heavily and judicially.
His hand closed over hers and gripped
it tightly. “If you were in my place
wouldn't you hesitate about inviting
her to—to become a widow?”
‘Oh, I love you, Oliver, when your
voice sounds as if it had a laugh in
it,” she whispered.
“In a month I will be thirty,” he
went on, his heart as light as air. “I
might ask her to give me a thirty-day
option, or something like that.”
“You goose!”
He pressed her arm to his side, and
was serious when he spoke again, aft-
er a moment's pause.
“I have never asked a girl to marry
me, Jane. Never in all my life. Do
you know why?”
She buried her face against his shoul-
der. A vast, overwhelming thrill raced
through him. His arms went about
her and drew her close.
“I never realized it, Jane—I never
even thought of it till just a little
while ago—but now I know that I
have always loved you.”
Her arm stole up about his neck,
she raised her chin.
“I began calling myself your wife,
Oliver, when I was a very little girl—
when we first began playing house
together, and you were my husband
and the dolls were our children.”
He kissed her rapturously. “Oh, my
God!” he burst out. “You'll never
know how miserable I have been these
last few weeks—how horribly Jealous
I've been.”
She stroked his cheek—possessively.
“I haven't been very happy myself,”
she sighed. “I—I wasn’t quite sure
you would ever, ever ask me to be
your wife.”
“That reminds me,” he cried boy-
ishly. “Will you marry me, Miss
Sage?”
“Of course I will. Didn't I say I
would marry the first—what was
that?’
As she uttered the exclamation un-
der her breath, she drew away from
him quickly, looking over her shoul-
der at the thick, shadowy underbrush
that lined the road below them:
“I didn’t hear anything,” said he,
turning with her. “It must have been
my heart trying to burst out of it—
sh! Listen. There is someone over
there in the brush. D—n his sneaking
eyes, I'll—"
“Don’t! Don’t go down there!” she
cried, clutching his arm. “You must
not leave me alone. I'm—I'm afraid,
Ollie. I am always afraid when I am
near that awful swamp.”
“Let's walk down the road a little
way, Jane,” said he stubbornly. “Don’t
be afraid. I'll stick close beside you.”
“You won't go down into the
swamp,” she cried anxiously.
“No. Just along the road.”
They ran down the little embank-
ment into the road. After fifteen or
twenty paces Oliver pressed her arm
warningly and stopped to listen.
Ahead of them, some distance away,
they heard footfalls—the slow, regular
tread of a man walking in the road.
They stood still listening. Suddenly
the footfalls ceased.
“He knows we have stopped,” said
Oliver. “He's listening to see if we
are following.” ;
She was silent for a moment. “You
remember what I said about being
spied upon, Oliver. I feel it, I feel it
all about me. You are being watched
all the time, Oliver. Oh, how hateful,
how unfair!”
“See here, Jane, I've been thinking.
It's wreng for me to ask you to marry
me tili all this mess is over. It's
wrong for me to even ask you to con-
sider yourself engaged to me.”
“Nobody believes that you had any-
thing to do with—"
“My dear girl, nobody knows what
to believe,” said he seriously. “That's
the worst of It. My father Is gone.
I was, so far as anyone knows. the last
to see him. As you say, no one may
believe that I had anything to do with
it, but—where is he? A queer thing
has just happened. You know Peter
Hines—that queer old bird who has
always lived in the cabin at the lower
end of the swamp? He has skipped
out. Boarded up the door and win-
dows and—"
He started violently, the words dy-
ing on his lips. Off to the south, be-
yond the almost impenetrable wall of
night, gleamed far-off lights in the
wall of Peter Hines’ shack.
“He must have returned,” he said,
in an odd voice. “Those lights—"
“Let us go in, dear,” she pleaded.
“I—I hear something moving among
gy
a;
=
TT
(3
»
en
HE
Zl
el
fA
He Started Violently, the Words Dying
en His Lips.
the weeds down there. It's grisly, Oli-
ver—creepy.” Oliver yielded to her
entreaties and they made their way
back to the house,
Mrs. Sage was holding forth in her
most effective English when the two
entered the sitting-room. She may
have eyed them narrowly for a second
or two, but that was all,
Sammy Parr, however, who had
been observing Oliver very closely, got
up from his chair and marched across
the room, his hand extended.
“Congratulations, old man!”
shouted joyously.
And little old Mrs. Grimes, from her
place on the sofa, remarked, as she
leaned back with a sigh of content:
“Well, goodness knows it's about
time.”
Proving that since the entrance of
the lovers the great Josephine had
failed to hold her audience spellbound.
CHAPTER IX
Oliver May Withdraw
The ensuing three weeks were busy
ones for Oliver. He wag off “election-
eering” by day and out speechmaking
by night in district schoolhouses, in
town halls and at mass meetings held
at the county seat. The opposition
press, stirred to action by the har-
assed Mr. Gooch, printed frequent re-
ports of their search for old Oliver
Baxter. They made sensation out of
two or three minor discoveries—such
as the finding of an old straw hat in
one of the pools and the unearthing
of a stout spade handle at the edge
of the swamp not far from where the
old man and his son had parted com-
pany.
Malone and his gang of Italian la-
borers were conducting the quest lei-
surely. The chief operative was bored
| —admitted it to Oliver and Mrs.
he
Grimes and Lizzie Meggs and to the
high heavens besides.
Mid-afternoon of a windy day in Oe-
tober—it was the nineteenth, to be ex-
act—he sat in the shelter of the
kitchen wing, his chair propped against
the wall, reading a book. He yawned
frequently and seemed to be having
great difficulty in keeping his pipe go-
ing. From time to time he dozed.
His partner, Charlie What's-his-
name, was out in the swamp directing
the efforts of eight or ten men who
were sounding the scattered “mud-
holes” with long poles or digging st
random in sections where the earth
was sufficiently solid to bear the
weight of man or beast. These men
were now far out beyond the wire
fence, within a hundred yards or so
of the pond.
Mr. Malone’s rest was disturbed
shortly before three o'clock by the ar-
rival of Oliver October. The two had
become quite good friends.
“Say, Malone, would you mind call-
ing off those gravediggers of yours for
half an hour or so? I am expecting
a committee here at three o'clock.”
“Sure,” sald Malone. He got up
slowly. “Hey!” he shouted over his
shoulder. “Come out 0’ that! Knock
off! It's four o'clock. In New York,”
he added in an aside to Oliver. “As
I've sald before, Mr. Baxter, it’s all
d—ad foolishness digging up your place
like this.”
“Mrs. Grimes says the house is likely
to fall down on our heads at any min-
ute,” san! Oliver. “She notified me
this neer that our hired gir!, Lizzie
Meggs, has decided to give up her
place unless your men fill up some of
the graves they've dug in my cellar.”
(To be Continued.)
Filipinos Believe It to Be
Gift of a God.
The mythical account of the origin
of breadfruit is typical of the Turan-
fan culture which still grips the soul
of the common man in the Philippines
despite four centuries of Christian civ-
{lization.
According to the breadfruit myth,
there was once a prolonged famine
which was so severe that the people
were reduced to the extremity of sub-
sisting upon “araea,” & sort of reddisb
earth declared to be edible.
A poor man and his wife had only
one son, whom they tenderly loved. Not
being able to bear the sight of the
slow starvation of this son during the
fearful famine, the father vowed that
he himself would die and become food
for the child. He asked the special
boon of Bathala, god of gods in the
Philippine pantheon, that when he
should be dead Bathala would convert
his remains into a food, and Bathala
granted the prayer. Thereupon the
father told the afflicted mother to
grieve no more, but when he should be
dead to bury his head .in' one place,
his vitals in another and”his body In
another. When she should hear the
sound of a leaf falling, then of an un-
ripe fruit, and then of a ripe fruit,
she would know that his prayer had
been answered and hers and the child's
life were to be spared.
Death came to the father. The
widow buried the heart and stomach in
the garden near the house, and Bath-
ala lost no time in complying with his
promise to a father ready to sacrifice
life itself for a suffering child. Soon
the widow heard a leaf fall, then an
unripe fruit, then a ripe fruit. In a
paroxysm of fear and hope she looked
out into the garden—where behold! a
breadfruit was growing! It was al-
ready full of ripened fruits curiously
shaped like the human stomach! The
famine was broken, the child’s life
saved, as the father had wished. Now,
with many varieties of breadfruit
growing without the least care through-
out the Philippines, famine is not likely
to recur in any degree of intensity ;
and if breadfruit does not suffice, then
there are bananas and coconuts, each
of which no doubt has quite as miracu-
lous an origin as the breadfruit itself.
Chick Embryo in Glass
For the first time in history, the de-
velopment of the embryo of a warm-
blooded animal has been carried on
under such conditions that it can be
watched. This feat has been accom-
plished by two scientists at the Uni-
versity of Leyden, Drs. J. P. M. Voge-
laar and J. B. van den Boogert, who
have placed common hens’ eggs, with
the shells removed, In small glass
dishes in an Incubator, and have suc-
ceeded in keeping the embryo alive
and growing for five days. Hitherto
the only way in which embryos could
be studied has been by placing large
numbers of eggs in the incubator and
removing and opening them one by one
at Intervals. By this older method it
has been possible to study closely
spaced stages of development, but not
to observe the growth as a continuous
process, now made possible by the new
way.
Trace Old Etruscan Wall
Remains of the old city wall built
oy the Etruscans centuries before the
arrival of the Romans, have been dis-
covered at Lucca, Italy, accidentally.
First traces of the wall were found
when repairs were being made to the
church of Santa Maria Della Rosa.
Excavations were continued and traces
of the old wall were found under the
archbishop’s palace. Another large
section of the ancient city defense
has just been discovered under one of
the busiest streets of the city where
water pipes were being laid.
Excavations of as much of the wall
as possible will be made, so that the
ancient defenses which protected the
primitive settlement from enemies may
be clearly defined.
FARM NOTES.
—Milk pail results will be shown
that it pays to keep the cows shelter-
ed on cold days. They also indicate
the difference between good and bad
feeding. Some cows are only board-
ers at the best but good cows pay well
for plenty of good feed.
—Now is the time to start collect-
ing hardwood cuttings. The intense
cold of February sometimes injures
the new wood. Cut in January, this
wood is almost certain still to be un-
harmed. Almost all vines and most
shrubs can be grown from cuttings.
—The red-banded leaf roller has
caused. serious losses to fruit growers
of the Shenandoah Valley, especially.
Having completed a study of the life
history, habits, and control of this in-
sect, the Pennsylvania State College
has now issued a bulletin on the sub-
ject.
—Now that cold weather is coming
on make a practice of carefully col-
lecting eggs and storing them in a
suitable place. Eggs should be held
at a temperature of 50 to 60 degrees
Fahrenheit. The storage place should
be free from odors and not too dry.
Ship eggs regularly.
—Keep the poultry houses well
ventilated to prevent colds. Ventila-
tion means dry houses. Do not en-
tirely close the ventilators on cold
nights as this permits moisture to
gather in the houses with resulting
colds. An ounce of prevention is
worth a pound of cure.
—In planting deciduous shrubs in
the fall they should be cut back about
one-third. Sometimes it is advisable
not to cut back quite so heavily. It
is well to prune but not as severely
as in the spring. This is a safety
measure for severe winter. Then in
the spring the one-third pruning can
be done.
—With all the roots, celery, and
cabbage now in storage, it is time to
complete the garden record to de-
termine the profit for the past season.
It is only by keeping careful accounts
that the actual value of the garden in
dollars and cents is realized; of course,
its value in contributions to a health-
ful diet are of much more importance.
—The proportion of mash and grain
eaten by the farm poultry flock may
be controlled by the method of feed-
ing used. The dry mash should be in
hoppers before the birds at all times.
The grain is fed by hand. The birds
like grain and will eat it first. If
they eat too much grain cut down on
the amount fed to get a greater mash
consumption.
—If bulbs have been planted for in-
door bloom they should be placed in
a cellar that is cool, dark, and dry.
The bulb part should be kept slightly
moist but not wet. This enables the
bulbs to form root systems. They
should be brought into the light about.
two weeks before blooming is desired.
This practice may be used with hya-
cinths, tulips, and narcissi.
—A short course in dairy manufac-
turing will be given atthe Pennsyl-
vania State College from January 7
i to February 19, 1926. It is composed
| of three divisions. A course in test-
ing butter and cheese making runs
from January 7 to 23. There will be
an ice cream makers’ short course,
January 25 to February 5, and a
market milk and milk condensing
i course from February 8 to 19.
—Due to the low cost of corn and
oats this year they should be incor-
porated into the grain mixture for
dairy cows as much as possible, for
in that way the best market price for
them will be realized. These grains
should be supplemented with linseed
oil meal and cottonseed meal to make
up their protein deficiency. The 32
Os
per cent high protien mixtures may
also be used to supplement corn and
oats, say dairy specialists of the
Pennsylvania State College.
As soon as the ears are off, feed °
the stalks as green fodder. Do not
feed more than the animals will clean
up. The stubble should be cut as short
as possible, and not higher than two
inches above the ground.
Sweet cornstalks may be placed in
the silo if there is enough to make
this practice worthwhile.
In many cases it will be impossible
to feed all the sweet cornstalks as
green fodder, or to turn it into en-
silage. Where this is the case, allow
such stalks to stand until fall or win-
ter, when they may be handled as dry
fodder, or burned.
—The present corn borer infested
territory of Pennsylvania is blessed
with many silos. More silos mean
fewe» borers. Fermentation in the
silo kills all the borers in the corn.
Corn for ensilage should be cut as
early as practicable and cut as low as
it is possible to adjust the cutter bar.
Stubble should not be left more than
six inches in length. This stubble
should be plowed under after Novem--
ber first.
The stalks of sweet corn may be:
placed in the silo. Field corn stalks,
shredded, make good ensilage if water
i added as they are packed into the
silo.
Cut field corn as early as good
practice will allow, and as low as pos-
sible. Husk and remove from the field
before freezing weather to allow for
late fall plowing. If it is the practice
to husk from the standing stalk, the
stalks may later be cut with a mow-
ing machine,
Corn stalks allowed to stand until
the ground is frozen may be broken
off at the ground level by dragging a
heavy pole or iron rail across the field.
Where fall plowing is impossible, this
is the best practice. All corn rem-
nants should be removed from such
fields before the spring plowing.
Shredding of corn fodder helps to
control the European corn borer, for
in the process most of the borers in
the stalks are killed. To some extent
shredding also improves the feeding
qualities of corn fodder, inducing the
animals to clean up.
Under climatic conditions prevailing
in most parts of Pennsylvania it is not
advisable to shred large quantities of
corn fodder in the fall as it is almost
sure to heatand spoil in the mow.
Quanities sufficient fora week can be
shredded at one time. An efficient and
inexpensive shredder can be made
from an old threshing machine cylin-
{der and concaves. There are several
makes of shredders on the market.