peu Natdpan.
—_
Bellefonte, Pa., February 26, 1926.
EE TE SSH UE,
ONLY A COG IN A WHEEL.
A man there was found of unusual gifts,
Bearing an honored name,
Life came to him with outstreached hands
Proffering wealth and fame;
But he carelessly turned his head away,
The prize made little appeal,
Contenting himself with a minor part,
He was “only a cog. in a wheel.”
When opportunity knocked at his door,
It found him inert and deaf;
Long and patiently it waited there,
But he did not come to himself.
Golden chances he wasted like chaff,
He took no account of the real;
Each day a monotonous grind to him,
He was “only a cog in a wheel.”
In the image of God this man was made,
With power to do and to serve;
Strong of mind and body was he,
But he lacked essential nerve.
So he drifted along from day to day,
Without ambition or zeal,
Playing a dull and nondescript part,
He was “only a cog in a wheel.”
What place do you fill in life’s great ma-
chine?
Are you using your gifts aright?
Today have you wrought some truly fine
thing ?
Can you claim to have fought a good
tight ?
Will it surely be said that you “played the
game’ —
That your life was productive and real?
Or will the world say as it goes on its way,
“He was only a cog in a wheel.”
—Grenville Kleiser.
THE TOMBOY.
From the time she was old enough
to climb fences, Jo Meadows was
known all along Farmer's Creek as
“that Meadows tomboy.” She got in-
to more deviltry than the three hand-
some Meadows boys put together; and
beside the two girls, Alice and Lucia—
“Well,” folks said, “there’s always an
odd one in every family!”
Jo was the Meadows odd one. She
learned to shoot when she was ten, and
once she shot a hole through the min-
ister’s hat from the barn window.
When she was fifteen, she killed a
deer up near the salt lick. She never
hunted after that, but people always
remembered that deer.
She used to ride the “belly-flop”
down two-mile Sluice Hill on a home-
made sled. And once she bet Dave
Hershiser, from the next farm, her
best slingshot against a cigar box full
of “aggies” that she could climb the
Farmer’s Creek meeting house steeple.
She won the aggies—and no one ever
knew that she got deathly dizzy at
the top. She trailed her father all
over the farm and mimicked his stride,
his husky voice, his gestures.
“Best farmer of the bunch!” her
father was wont to say of her. And
once, when they were racing against |
a coming rainstorm to get the hay in, |
she kept up with the boys pitching. |
When Alice and Lucia began to hud-
dle in corners, and giggle over notes
they’d received in school, Jo laughed
scornfully at them.
“Don’t see any sense in being crazy
about boys!” she said once. “What's
so wonderful about ’'em? They can’t
do anything I can’t!”
And later, when the two girls began
“going with the boys” to country
dances and parties, Jo stayed at
home.
Now and then she went to coasting
parties. But she pulled her own sled
up the hill and, like as not, walked
home alone afterward—though some-
times Dave Hershiser tagged along.
Alice and Lucia were older; but Jo
took charge of things around the
house. She could cook pretty well at
ten and, even then, made no bones of
a roast or an apple pie. Folks said,
“John Meadows did wonderful to bring
up them six children, stark livin’
alone, and have ’em turn out so good.”
Though sometimes they added, “Of
course, there's Jo—she’s a wild un all
right—but the rest are certainly good
children!”
_ They didn’t know that John Mea-
dows depended more on Jo than on all
the rest put together. He didn’t know
it himself. He took great delight in
Allie and Lucia, they were so like
their mother—and he did not realize
how he always turned to Jo when he
wanted anything done or how he re-
laxed when he was alone with her.
Jo sensed his dependency, even
when she was tiny, and she lived up
to it. She might not be so pretty as
Allie and Lucia with their black hair
and eyes and apple-blossom cheeks—
in fact, she wasn’t pretty at all to
most folks, with her straight brown
hair, and her gray eyes and wide,
boyish grin. But she knew that her
father turned to her, as he had to her
mother—in those dim days when there
had been a mother—and she got more
of a thrill out of that fact than the
other girls did out of their notes and
beaus.
One by one, the boys married and
left Farmer’s Creek.
“You're the only boy I've got left,”
John Meadows said to Jo on Fred's
wedding day. “Guess I'll have to send
you to ‘Ag’ school so as you can help
me run the farm.”
Jo’s heart leaped to that. He was
joking; but she would—that’s just
what she’d do! She got up early every
morning after that, and drove the rat-
tling little motor truck to the milk
station.
But when she finished high school,
there was a bad year for crops. Alice
finished the same year, and Alice had
planned to go to State College. Dave
Hershiser was there, and a couple of
other boys from town.
Jo had one day of rebellion. She left
the house after breakfast and rode
clear up to the Rod and Gun Club.
On the way, she met Dave Hershiser
coming home from the milk station.
“S’matter?” he called to her.
“What’s the grouch about?”
She rode by without answering.
She couldn’t answer. She had a lump
in her throat that made words stick.
There was something about Dave—
he wasn’t like the rest of the boys—
and he had said he’d take her on some
good hikes if she came up to State
this fall for the ‘Ag’ course. So she
couldn’t answer Dave. When she got
up to the camp, she sat down on the
steps, her square chin cupped in her
two brown hands, her steady gray
eyes staring out into the sun-flecked
woods.
“I didn’t know I'd been counting on
it so!” she thought.
Those hikes with Dave—gymnasium
—foothall games—knowing how to
get the most out of soil, how to plant
and prune, how to care for cattle—and
—and those hikes with Dave!
She could see Dave, lean, brow,
gay-eyed, curly-haired. Her own eyes
smarted, but she didn’t cry. Jo never
cried. She never had, since that time
when she'd fallen from the porch raii-
ing and her father had said to a
neighbor, “Jo never cries!” But she
felt all strange and hard within.
“It’ll mean money to us if I go,” she
rebelled. “And Alice, Alice’ll just
get married! It’s all she’s going for
—the boys!”
But that day finished it. She
fought it out up there on the still
camp porch; and Alice never knew
there was a fight. John Meadows
knew a little. The day Alice went he
said to Jo:
“Maybe, next year, we can make it
for the two of you.”
And Jo grinned back at him, as if
it didn’t matter, though both were
thinking that it did matter, a lot.
Aleng in November, a member of
the school board came to the house
and wanted to know if Jo would take
District Number Six for the rest of
the year. The teacher they’d hired
had broken her contract, got home-
sick.
“Couldn’t manage the big boys, I
guess,” he laughed. “But you've got
a lot of spunk, Jo, you’d make out all
right, I bet!”
Jo just laughed.
“Well, you think it over,” he said.
“The wages is good, forty-five a month
and it’s right next door to you, like.”
“I wasn’t cut out for school-teach-
ing,” Jo said. She wasn’t even serious
about it.
But that night she noticed for the
first time how gray her father was
getting.
“I thought Alice had plenty of
clothes to start with,” he said abrupt-
ly at the supper table. “What's this
new dress she’s wanting? I've bor-
rowed on the apples—already—don’t
know where I'm going to rake up any
more.”
It wasn't like him to complain, and
Jo was startled. She made her deci-
sion without much fuss, just one wave
of intense dislike; then she said it:
“Well, if you think we can manage
here at the house, I could take Num-
ber Six. It’s close by, so I could be
here for meals all right.”
The relief in his eyes was payment.
So Jo, just out of high school, went
to teaching—and Alice had her new
dress and joined a sorority. Jo hated
teaching, for all she “had spunk.”
She liked to dig things out for _her-
self, but she didn’t know how to give
them - second-hand to others. And
those big boys! Night after night,
Jo came home, sick-tired with the ef-
fort of making those boys behave.
And those problems in eighth-grade
arithmetic that she got stuck on one
day when the superintendent came
visiting. Horrible days—Jo never
forgot them,
But she mimicked the superinten-
dent for her father, especially the
scenz when he had informed her that
middies weren’t dignified for a teach-
er; and when the Tolliver-Jones feud
was carried into the schoolrom, she
made 2a serial joke of that.
And all the time, how she hated it!
Some mornings it seemed to her she
absolutely could not go out of that
door over to the little schoolhouss,
with its Bud Tolliver and its saucy
Sally Jones. But she went, and once
a month there was the check for forty-
five dollars. She still managed to tend
the poultry and take the milk to the
station.
Near Christmas she dressed a hun-
dred chickens to send up to the city.
She made her plans for Christmas,
Alice and Dave would be home, and
the boys and Lucia were coming, too.
Lucia worked in Bradfield now. Jo
hadn’t known before how much she
was missing Alice. She planned a
party—Alice loved parties. She had
stuff for a new dress, rose crepe de
chine, for Alice’s present, and Maude
Fremont was coming to make it up.
Maybe one night, if there was snow
enough, they could go coasting. And
Dave—Dave would be over every day.
Dave loved fried cakes; she must
make up a big batch. And butternut
fudge; Alice always wanted butter-
nut fudge. She must get some nuts
down out of the attic and crack them.
But the second night before Alice
was to come home, the ’phone rang.
Jo’s father answered it. When he
came out to the kitchen his face was
sober. y
“Alice isn’t coming,” he said.
“She’s telegraphed she wants to go to
a house party somewhere—Oil City,
I guess they said.”
Jo stood still by the kitchen table—
she was picking a chicken fox the last
order from town—and she dropped
the chicken, and stared unbelievingly
at her father. :
“Seems as if she might have wait-
ed for that,” John Meadows said,
“when all the rest are coming!”
Jo’s own sick disappointment merg-
ed into pity for her father.
“Qh, well, she said something about
coming at mid-year’s, and that’s not
so far off. We'll pack up a good box
and send it!”
But she remembered the hours her
father had spent painting up the old
bobs for the coasting party, and she
felt hard toward Alice. :
They had a jolly time, though, with
Arlie’s little boys there, and all. They
had the party, and danced till morn-
ing. Dave didn’t come over. He was
just home for Christmas Day—he was
invited to the same party as Alice.
But they did have a good time, all of
them. Jo kept them all shouting with
laughter over the Tollivers and the
Joneses.
Only, once, Arlie said, “What you
got all these butternuts cracked for,
1Jo? Come on—make us some butter-
nut candy!”
Jo turned her face away.
“Qh, Jo’s been going since morx-
ing,” her father said. “She’s too tired
to make candy! You go out and get
a pan of snow, Arlie; I'll make some
maple wax.”
Jo felt a surge of love for her father
so big that it seemed her heart would
burst. How good of him—to see she
couldn’t make butternut fudge with
Alice not there. Ten minutes later
Old Lady Tolliver grunting about her
“rheumatiz” and her daughters-in-
law, and no one would have dreamed
that she had a care in the world.
Jo. was pretty well tired out by
spring. She could stand lots of hard
work, Jo—but Sally Jones and Bud
Tolliver had decided to end the feud
between them, and their mothers laid
it all up to Jo. They came to the
schoolhouse and told her so in no un-
certain terms. Jo, frank, and scorn-
ful of petty grudges, almost broke un-
der the strain of acting as buffer. But
she still made a joke of it to her fa-
ther.
Alice didn’t come home for Easter,
either. Jo had made up her mind not
Then one day, Dave came over and
wanted her to go after arbutus with
with color, the trail to the woods came
sweet and glowing.
She laughed more whole-heartedly
than in months, as they swung along
under the faint green of the beeches
and birches. She made Dave throw
back his curly head and shout with
laughter over Sally’s mother. And
Dave seemed more like himself, more
free and happy, more like the old pal
who had bet his aggies against her
slingshot. They sat on an old log, and
he told her stories about college—it
was like old times.
It was: “Do you remember how we
used to go ‘poling the creek’?”
“Oh, yes! And one Sunday, when
I had on my first white shoes—you
dared me. It was spring and the
creek was ’most ten feet across, and
I vaulted right into the muddy bank!”
Or: “Do you remember the birch
tree that we used to climb up in and
play tree tag? Lordy, it’s a wonder
you weren’t killed, Jo; I’ve seen you
drop fifteen feet out of that tree!”
But after they had gathered the ar-
poses Dave said, a little embarrassed-
y:
“Kind of thought Alice—away like
this for Easter—might like a box of
this stuff.”
“Sure she would,” said Jo.
But the April blueness was gray.
The sweetness and the lovely green-
ness was rowan-bitter and mistily
colorless.
That night after Jo had done the
dishes, she went to her room. She
sat down on the floor by the windows,
and buried her head in her arms on
the sill. Up the creek came the myr-
iad sweet night smells of April. The
air was warm, caressed like loving
hands. Jo sat there for more than an
hour, her head down, her heart
strangely numb. After that, she got
up abruptly, undressed, and got into
bed, a dry little smile on her lips. She
closed her eyes. /
“Ill get to sleep and forget all
about it,” she said.
But when the dawn came in with
carols and soft whispers, she still lay
wide-eyed, questioning, hurting.
School was over at last; but it was
a strange summer. Alice had a friend
there for three weeks, a sophisticat-
ed, tall, handsome girl, who only
smiled indulgently when Jo tried to
be funny, and who came down at ten
every morning for breakfast. Dave
was there a lot. He took the girls
everywhere.
Sometimes Jo went along, but nof
when she could avoid it. She seemed
out of place in her middy and knickers
beside Alice and her friend in their
pretty, bright sports clothes. She felt
in the way, too, and there seemed
such a host of things to be done at the
house. Alice wasn’t lazy, but she
somehow just didn’t see things.
One day Dave came over, before
the girls were up, to see about a pic-
nic, Jo was in the kitchen making
fried cakes.
“Gee, those smell good!” he said,
helping himself. He grinned at Jo.
“Never think of you as housekeeper.
Always think of you as out in the
fields or riding horseback. Remem-
ber the time you stood up on the old
Doll and trained for a circus lady?”
Then, a little soberly, as he took an-
other fried cake, “But 1 suppose some-
body has to make the fried cakes
here.”
Then Alice calied down to Dave.
But the day was somehow warmed.
There weren’t so many warm places,
though.
Jo hoped, even up to the time col-
lege opened, that she’d be able to go
too. She planned her clothes, fussing
over worn old things, saving pennies
for shoes and the like. But she saw
at the end that it had all been foolish.
There wasn’t a chance.
Jo had held off about the school, but
concluded, finally, that she might as
well take it. She could teach two
years without a normal diploma, and
they hadn’t been able to get anyone
else at the price they wanted to pay.
“I can’t! I can’t!” she rebelled,
above the dishpan. But she knew she
was going to. John Meadows tried
to thank her.
“Don’t know how I'd make out with-
out the school pay, Jo!” he said. He
put his hand across her shoulder, and
patted her awkwardly. She turned
and, for just an instant, clung to her
father, her gray eyes tight shut
against his old blue overalls.
“Oh—Dad!” she whispered.
It was soon after school opened
that she went one day to her father.
“Do you suppose we could manage,
if I used the egg money for something
special 7” she asked.
She saw her father hesitate, but
when he spoke he was heartily enough.
“Why, of course! As to that, you
know your school pay’s yours; I don’t
want as you should feel you've got to
turn it all over to me, Jo.”
“Oh, I'm glad to do that,” Jo said.
“I wouldn’t want Alice to miss col-
lege; but, if you don’t mind, I'll take
the egg money.”
she was giving them an exhibition of
to expect it; but it hurt, nevertheless. |
him, and the April sky began to sing |
RE PBR
She wrote to State College and got
a list of the books used in the ‘Ag’
course. She knew she couldn’t teach
another year without normal, and she
knew there had to be more money
somehow.
She felt it was there in the farm, if
they only knew how to get it out.
There was the big marshy place down
on the flats. If they could only be
drained, it would be good black dirt
for a truck garden. And the hens,
they didn't lay very well—maybe it
was the feed. She bought what books
| the egg money would let her, and
!pored over them nights after her
school papers were looked over. She
was too tired then to study, but it was
all so fascinating that it didn’t seem
like work. It was her own world,
.opened by a magic key, spread out
i clearly before her—she couldn’ drink
;it in fast enough.
“Go on to bed, Jo!” John Meadows
would say. “You'll never hear the
| roosters.”
i “Gh, but listen, Dad, listen to this.
‘It’s a system of drainage; we could
use ourselves, down on the flats.
Listen Dad!”
And John Meadows would sit down
across from her, his own tiredness
vanishing before her enthusiasrn and
: be interested in those printed pages
about their own special problems.
They were very near, those two, as
they sat there by the old kerosene
lamp, but they never made any parade
of the nearness. It was just there—
a fact—sweet to meddle with. Some-
times she would think, with a little
half-smile, that she had more than
lots of girls, even without that—that
other.
There were three weeks, when Lucia
was home sick with the fiu, when
there was no studying. It was hard,
with school and all; but her father
helped when Jo wasn’t there and, after
a while, Lucia was gone again and the
the school and the housework seemed
almost easy. .
The winter set in, with the long
evenings. They made great plans for
the spring, sometimes sat and talked
till midnight. It seemed that her fa-
ther had had big hopes when he had
been a boy, but that he had had just
to sort of stumble along, after all, be-
cause of the need of money at once
for the big brood of them. And he
had thought, now, that he was too old
—but, maybe—even yet! They didn’t
put it as sentimentally as that, but
but that was the way of it.
But things didn’t work out quite as
they had planned.
_ One night John Meadows sat up all
night with a sick horse. It was a
damp, cold night and he was chilled
through and through when he came
in from the barn in the morning. He
drank some scalding coffee, and said
he’d be all right as soon as he got
warmed up.
But when Jo came home from
school, he was lying on the floor by
i living room stove, and he was very
ill.
She got him to the couch and called
the doctor.
“Don’t see how I can get out there
tonight!” the doctor said. “I have
some calls to make here yet, and it’s
commencing to storm. Your roads are
a fright up there!”
“You've got to come,” Jo said even-
ly. “You leave your car down at
Bray's, at the end of the state road,
and Tll meet you with our car.
You've got to come,” she repeated.
He came.
“Bronchial,” he said briefly after
he had examined him. “Heart’s bad,
too. Can you afford a nurse?” He
was cruel sometimes, Doc Thurston.
Jo reddened.
“Of course,” she said, though she
wondered how.
The nurse came in the morning,
took charge. Jo would rather have
cared for her father herself, but they
musn’t take chances! She hired a
substitute, tended to the chores, cook-
ed for the nurse, caught her breath
a hundred times a day at the sound
of her father’s labored breathing.
One day the nurse said to her:
“I'm sorry, Jo, but I think you'd
better send for the rest.”
Jo stood and stared at her, while
every drop of color drained out of her
face. Then she gave alittle ery and
turned, with a lightened, rushing
movement, toward her father’s door.
The nurse put out a hand, shook her
head.
“No, Jo! The least disturbance—
you can’t gc in.”
“Can’t go in? Can’t go in”—to
see her own father—when, maybe—
maybe—
She turned to the telephone, sent
telegrams to Lucia and Alice, called
up two of the boys, sent a message
to the other. Her voice was steady,
but her hands were so cold they could
hardly hold the receiver, and all the
room seemed swaying in her eyes.
They all came the next day—two
of them that night. There wasn’t
much pain, but he seemed to be get-
ting very weak.
The second day Dave Hershiser
came, to help with the milking and
fix the fires. Though she knew he
was there for Alice’s sake, Jo found
his presence curiously comforting.
And, one night, coming in from the
barn, as she went ahead of him with
the lantern, he said:
“I—wish I could do something, Jo.
You seem to—to hurt so!”
She wanted to say it helped, just
to have him there, but she said noth-
ing.
That same night the nurse told
them it would probably be only a ques-
tion of hours.
“Let me go in!” Jo begged.
“I couldn’t answer for anything if
you did,” the nurse said gently.
They sat in the kitchen, silent,
waiting. Once Alice did say to Dave:
“It was good of you to come, Dave—
and you're missing the Senior Prom
too!” .
A great wave of something like
hatred swept over Jo. That Alice
could think of the Prom when death
shadowed their house! Then she
steadied herself. It was like the old
days of “poling the creek”—just the
right swing, and you were over! Alice
had never chummed so with her fa-
ther, maybe it didn’t mean so much
to her. She hadn’t had those winter
evenings—those moments of nearness.
And yet—Jo remembered the letter
her father wrote every Saturday
night, no matter how tired; the
scrimping on clothes for two years;
the painting of the hobs on that first
Christmas. And why did Alice cry
so much?
her, Jo, for not crying?
cries!” It still held her.
Then she heard Dave’s quiet voice.
“I wanted to come,” he was saying.
“I—I've always thought a pile of
your father; he’s been so good to me.
That time when we were burning cat-
tails and caught the barn afire, he
didn’t even scold us. And he was
always giving—whistles and bird-
houses and fishpoles—seems as if I
always see him as he was one day
when some folks stopped to look at
that border of salvia you always have
along the driveway, and wanted to
“buy some. Your father picked a big
armful and said, ‘We don’t sell flowers.
‘Take ’em and welcome!” ”
i “That’s Dad!’ agreed Arlie, huski-
‘ly. Lucia began to cry softly.
Jo looked about at them all, a wave
i of sick resentment sweeping over her.
! What good did it do to cry—mow?
! Why hadn’t they come home oftener ?
{| Dave, only Dave understood; Dave,
i who hated sentiment, had t\ied to tell
: them something real that was in his
heart. He knew John Meadows, the
great heart of him; he had given them
all something to remember, a beauti-
ful thing. Well, she could, too. She
could tell them what he meant.to her.
She stood up by the stove, her face in
the lamp’s glow, tired but somehow
shining.
“This is the way I always think of
Dad,” she said. “You know where we
used to cross the creek to go to the
milk station? I was little then, and
Dad would nearly always drive right
down through the creek and up the
bank, to wash the wheels, I suppose.
There wasn’t much water, and I
wasn’t usually frightened at things
anyway, but I was afraid then. And
Dad would crook out his elbow and I
would clutch it—so tight. And once,
when I was bigger, I asked him why
he did it when he knew it scared me
so, and he said, ‘Because I like to
feel your hands on my arm!’ And he—
he’s always let us hang on—Ilike that
—just because he loves us—and—oh
—” she turned suddenly toward the
door—“ I am going to him!” she
cried, forgetting them all. “I don’t
care what anyone says—I can’t let
him—go—all alone!”
And she was gone, past them and
the nurse, to that shadowed bedside.
She knelt down, took her father’s
hand in hers gently, put her cheek
against it.
“Dad, Dad, it’s Jo!” she whispered.
“Don’t die, Dad; don’t go! You can’t
go! We're going to drain the marsh
together this spring; we're going to
be partners, you and I! Dad—don’t
go!” It seemed to her he smiled ever
so faintly, but he made no movement.
She clung to his hand.
“Dad—stay with me—there’s just
vou and me now—Dad. I won’t let
you go!”
After that, she didn’t talk. But
all night she knelt there, clinging to
his hand, willing that her abundant
young strength might be his too.
She just held on. A giver—tHat’s
what she’d been—always. Salvia—-
whistles—love—“Oh, Dad, don’t go!”
In the morning when the doctor
came, she still knelt there.
“Come, child, get up!” The doctor
was very gentle with her. “Your fath-
er’s better, a lot better; looks like
he’d get well. Didn’t think yesterday
he’d last the night out; looks like a
miracle!”
Jo crept out to the kitchen. She
was stiff and tired in every muscle,
but there was a glad song in her heart
as she quietly began to set the table
for breakfast. She felt lifted up, as
if she, herself, had been down in the
shadow and had been suddenly pulled
back into the sunshine. Nothing, not
even Dave and Alice, could ever hurt
so again.
Then, there was Dave in the kitchen
doorway, very sober, looking at her.
He didn’t know.
“He’s better, Dave! He’s going to
get well!” she said softly. His sober
eyes lighted. She tried to pass him
to get the butter, but he reached out
and took her hands, kept her there
facing him in the doorway. Oh, why
did he—didn’t he know that just the
touch of his hands made a magic fire
all through her? Didn’t he know that
she was tired tothe snapping point,
that she couldn’t bear much more?
“Jo,” he was saying humbly, “Jo, I
love you!” :
Startled, unbelieving upward lift
of gray eyes.
«I-—] guess I always have—only I—
I didn’t know—till last night—that
you ever wanted anyone to—to hang
onto! Jo—why, Jo, sweetheart—don't
cry!”—By Nelia Gardner White in The
American Magazine.
“Jo never
Proper Fur Treatment.
Beginners lose thousands of dollars
every year through wrong methods of
taking care of animal pelts, says Cap-
per’'s Weekly. To bring top market
prices, skinning, stretching and dry-
ing must be done just right, and it
pays to learn how before mutilating
a valuable skin. Skins of animals like
mink, weasel, possum, skunk, civet,
muskrat and wolf should be cased,
that is, taken off whole. With rac-
coon, badger, beaver, bear and cougar
open skinning is best—ripping the
skin down the belly before taking it
off. Every bit of flesh and fat should
be cut from the skins, being careful to
avoid cutting the pelt.
Indians and Game Laws.
Indians cannot as a rule kill game
out of season except as specified in a
special treaty governing the particu-
lar tribe to which an individual be-
longs. There are between 20 and 30 of
these treaties drawn up for the various
tribes in this country. Under no cir-
cumstances, however, is an Indian per-
mitted to violate the federal migra-
tory bird treaty, and any provision
made in a special treaty is revoked by
the federal act. Indians, however, are
allowed the privileges of fishing.
em———————————
——Get your job work done here.
How could she criticize
FARM NOTES.
—For dairy cows ensilage should be
fed at the rate of about three pounds
to every hundred pounds live weight,
with hay.
. —The cleanest and sweetest cream
is obtained when milk is separated im-
mediately after milking and then
cooled to near fifty degrees.
—Garden arbors can often be used
to screen objectionable objects. These
arbors can be made easily inside now
and set out later. Vines, such as
Climbing Roses, Clematis, Polygonum,
and Wistaria, may be planted next
spring and trained over the arbor.
—Now is the time to plan the farm
milk house to be built this spring.
Circular 107, entitled “Building the
Farm Dairy House,” will be sent to
you free if you mail your request to
the Agricultural Publications Office,
The Pennsylvania State Coll
College, Pa. ere tm
—Hatch or buy your chicks early.
Early hatched chicks live better, grow
faster, and mature more quickly than
late hatched ones. The broilers from
early hatched chicks also bring a much
higher price. Pullets from early
hatched chicks are more profitable,
because they lay when egg prices are
increasing.
—Early February is a good time
to again take stock of canned and
stored goods. Is there enough of all
types of vegetables to last until May,
the earliest date at which you can ex-
pect any return from the garden, and
plenty of sweet corn, tomatoes, beans,
and such vegetables that will not be
ready until much later? If the farm
garden did not produce an adequate
supply the past season the difficulty
may be remedied by enlarging the
garden, applying more fertilizer, and
taking better care of it.
—Silage alone will not insure cheap
milk. Its “twin” must also be avail-
able. Legume hay must be supplied
if we are to secure the most milk per
acre. A little thought to the feeding
of fall-freshened cows will be well re-
paid in increased returns. Too many
cows freshen in poor condition and
cannot be expected to yield a good
return. To begin with, a dry period
of at least six weeks is essential to en-
able the cow to build a reserve. How
the cow is fed during this interval will
largely determine her production after
she freshens. A little extra grain at
this time means dividends later.
Freshening in good flesh the cow
siaris her lactation at a big advan-
age.
—The feed required in raising cattle
as well as the costof this and other
items of expense will vary considera-
bly with different localities. In winter
there is no better ration than legume
hay, silage and sufficient grain to keep
them thrifty and growing vigorously,
without becoming too fat. The ration
should supply plenty of protein and
hence unless a liberal amount of good
clover or alfalfa hay is fed, a grain
allowance in this element should be
supplied. Heifers over ten menths of
age, especially of the larger breeds,
may make satisfactory gains on silage
and legume hay alone of good quality.
Results of tests conducted at the ex-
periment stations give yearling heif-
ers as requiring from 700 to 800
pounds of hay along with skim milk
and other feeds necessary to keep the
animals in growing thrifty condition.
In regard to the cost of wintering the
heifers this will vary according to the
conditions in the neighborhood, such
as quanity and costs of feeds and
other factors.
KEEPING COWS MEANS $252,040
CENTRE COUNTY,
An added income of $252,040 a
vear is enjoyed by Centre county
farmers indirectly as a result of keep-
ing cows, according to the Larrowe
Institute of Animal Economics. This
income is in the form of a more fertile
soil due to the manure of the dairy
cows in this county. On the basis of
practically a $20.00 fertilizer valua-
tion per animal per year, this means
a total of $252,040 added to the rich-
ness of the soil in this county evely
twelve months. Manure is a source
of the most valuable plant food ob-
tainable, says the Institute, but te
preserve it at its highest value or ef-
ficiency, it should either be put direct-
ly to the fields each day or conserved
until such a time as the opportunity
offers itself to spread it. Feeding
trials have proven that an ordinary
cow, while putting from 15 to 18 per
cent. of the total energy of the feed
she consumes into milk, actually re-
turns to the soil 80 per cent. of the
elements of soil fertility in her feed
in the form of manure.
TO
HATCHED CHICKS MOST
PROFITABLE.
The early bird gets the worm,
and the farmer who hatches his chicks
early is laying the foundation for
profitable egg production next win-
ter, according to the Larrowe Institute
of Animal Economics. November
now brings highest prices for eggs in-
stead of January as in former years,
and progressive farmers are finding
that it pays to advance hatching
formerly done in May and June to
February and March. The advantages
of early hatching are enumerated by
the Institute as follows: Early hatch-
ed chicks are less susceptible to the
common poultry diseases, make a
good normal growth during spring
and summer and come into laying con-
dition when eggs are in excellent de-
mand at a satisfactory price. Uniler
average brooding and rearing con-
ditions, chicks with an early start
make a much better growth and at-
tain a larger size and development
than do late hatched chicks. Another
advantage of early hatching chicks
is that the surplus cockerels can be
marketed as broilers when eight to
ten weeks old on very satisfactory
terms, but if this is not desired, they
can be put on good green pasture and
grown to roaster age, when they can
be marketed advantageously in Oct-
ober or November. Then, too, early
hatched pullets, if allowed to neck-
molt in November and December will
slow up production and, if allowed to
come into production again, make
ideal breeders.
EARLY