Beworraic flac
Bellefonte, Pa., March 19, 1926.
OH, PASSING YEARS!
Oh, passing years, how fast you speed!
With what a precious freight.
Dear friends of youth, glad childhood’'s
home,
We plead, you will not wait.
Bright hopes, grave fears and happy hours
You carry in that train,
We wait and gaze with out-stretched arms,
They come not back again.
Yet now we know the coming years
Rich blessings still will bear;
True love, and trust and steadfast faith,
But rarest gift—The Father's Care.
—Fances L. Frueauff, in “The Moravian,”
Bethlehem, Pa.
THE GUEST OF THE TRIBE.
He appeared to be tired and sleepy.
His horse, gaunt and jaded, ambled
in a fox-trot walk along the dusty
road of the Indian reservation, parch-
ing under the relentless smile of the
mid-afternoon sun of early August.
Attached to his belt was a six-shoot-
er in a holster; slung from the pom-
mel of the saddle was a rifle. A
cylindrical roll made up of raincoat
wrapped round a blanket was fasten-
ed behind the cantle. Tied to the sad-
dle horn was a flour sack that ap-
parently contained some kind of sup-
plies.
The man halted his horse and dis-
mounted near a bridge that spanned
a creek. The animal hungrily grab-
bed mouthfuls of the grass that was
growing by the roadside. The rider
inhaled a deep breath of air and ex-
haled it with a sudden puff. He
stretched his arms, his legs, his whole
body. He stroked and patted the
neck of his horse. “Old plug, you
done fine,” he said. “This was some
ride. Come on, we'll git a drink of
water.”
Both man and beast drank of the
refreshing fluid. Then as he permit-
ted the horse to resume its grazing
the traveler detached the flour sack
and emptied its contents on the
ground. There were two loaves of
bread and four cans of corned beef,
a flannel shirt rolled up and tied with
a string and a pair of overalls sim-
ilarly rolled and tied. He examined
the two packages critically, rolled
them more compactly and drew the
strings tighter. Then he put them
back into the flour sack together with
the food, except some that he pro-
ceeded to eat.
He hurried through his meal, gulp-
ed down more water and picked up
the flour sack. He took hold of the
dragging bridle reins and jerked and
pulled the horse away from the grass.
“Let loose, old feller. We'll stop and
rest a few days at some camp that’s
off the road. Indian reservations a
good place to rest. Most of ’em here
don’t savvy much white-man talk,
and it’ll be easy to git out of answer-
in’ questions.”
He mounted his horse and as it
went forward to cross the bridge he
let go the reins and started to tie the
flour sack to the saddle horn.
“Whr-r-r!” It was the warning of
a rattlesnake.
The horse plunged, and the man
dropped the bag. The terrified ani-
mal jumped off the edge of the bridge.
The unseated rider fell upon a pile
of rocks seven or eight feet below.
More than an hour elapsed before
the fallen horseman stirred. He sat
up and fumbled about his head. As
he drowsily examined the clots of
blood that stuck to his fingers he
seemed suddenly to remember what
had occurred. He tried to get upon
his feet, but his right leg crumpled
under him.
From the edge of the bridge above
the sufferer a pair of scintillating
black eyes in a coppery brown face
gazed downward. “Say feller! What
they been doin’ to you?” |
“Horse jumped off the bridge with '
me. Rattlesnake scared him.”
“Know what become of yer horse?”
“No; I've been knocked out.”
“Knocked out? How long?” '
The stunned and disabled man slow- !
ly ran his fingers through his tousled
hair. “Dunno,” he finally replied.
“Seems like it’s jist a few minutes,
but mebbe it’s longer. The sun’s
moved consider’ble.”
The friendly inquirer followed a
path that led down to the injured
traveler. “Say, feller,” he said ser-
iously, “you look like you’re done up
purty bad. T’ll take you to the agen-
cy. There’s a doctor there, and he’ll
fix you up.”
For fully half a minute the victim
of the accident hesitated; then he
asked suspiciously; “Who are you?”
“Me? My name’s Trope—Ben
Trope.”
You look like you had white-man
blood in you,” the prostrate man
mumbled stupidly.
“Well, I'm half Cheyenne and half
white man,” Trope explained. “I
b’long to this tribe, but I'm workin’
fer the gover’'ment, runnin’ the cow
crew here. It’d be handy if I know
your name.”
“My name’s Smith.”
“All right, Smith. They ain’t any
lookin’ fer yer horse. I seen his
tracks, but he’s lame now. Here,
put yer arm over my neck, and I'll
take hold of the good leg, and—yes,
that’s it—now we go.”
Trope staggered to his own horse
and carefully set his burden astride
the saddle.
“I want my sack,” the stranger re-
quested.
“Where is it?”
“Right around this bridge some-
wheres. Here’s where I let it fall
when my horse shied.”
Trope walked to and fro, looking.
“Mebbe you're dreamin’, Smith,” he
suggested. “Ain’t any kind of a sack
here.”
“No. I ain’t dreamin’,” the suffer-
er protested. He moved as if to get
off the horse, but sank limply again
into the saddle. “Say, pardner look
ag’in. I've got to have that sack. It’s
a flour sack, and it’s got—it’s got—
—
all of my clothes in it and— and—
some beef—and everything.”
The half-breed once more searched
carefully about the vicinity of the
bridge. “It sure ain’t here, stranger,”
he announced. “There’s been an old
blind squaw along here while you was
knocked out, and likely she’s got it.
She’s liable to eat yer beef, but she
won't eat yer clothes and other things,
and I'll git everything fer you. But
just now you're goin’ to the doctor.”
“No, I want that sack right now,”
the helpless man persisted anxiously.
“Let's go to the camps around here
and—"
But Trope gathered up the reins of
the bridle and started off. Mile after
mile he tramped ahead of his charge,
calmly ignoring the flood of oral abuse
for his having refused to spend more
time hunting for the lost flour sack.
Over the hill and on to the agency
he hurried his afflicted and weaken-
ing campanion.
“Here, doc, hide this gun away,” he
said to the physician at the infirm-
ary. “He's a bad man, I'm thinkin’.
He tried to crack me over the head
once, and I took it away from him.”
“Who is he?” the doctor inquired.
“I didn’t git much information,” re-
plied Trope. “Says his name’s Smith,
but he’d mumble along and git things
all balled up tryin’ to tell me where
he come from and what he was doin’
on the reservation.”
“Oh, well, we'll take care of him,”
the doctor said cheerfully. “We don’t
need to know just now who heis.”
Six days afterward Ben Trope rode
his saddle horse to the wooden awn-
ing that shelters the front porch of
the infirmary and, dismounting, went
inside. “Hello, Smith. You’re lookin’
lots better’'n you did. The doctor
says you're pullin’ through fine. Meb-
be you’ll be ready to travel in a week
or two.”
“I’m ready most any time,” the dis-
abled man responded eagerly as he
sat up in bed, “Where’s my flour
sack?”
“Well feller,” the half-breed ex-
plained apologetically, “I didn’t go
after—that is, I thought there wasn’t
any rush about it. I ain’t got it yet.”
“Ain’t got it!” yelled the man on
the eot. “You said you'd git it and
bring it to me! Where isit?”
“Looky here Smith, don’t worry
like that,” Trope said soothingly.
“Yer things can’t git away. These
Indians ain’t bad on the steal, and if
they was they'd git found out. Char-
ley Red Bonnet’s got yer horse and
saddle and rifle at his place. He’s
been usin’ ’em, but he’ll turn ’em over
to me anytime I ask him fer ’em. It
was old blind Jennie Two Moons that
come along when you was knocked
out and picked up yer flour sack
and—"
“Has she still got it?” Smith
stared wildly at the Indian cowboy.
“I reckon she has. If she ain’t, it’ll
be easy enough to—”
“Where does she live?”
“She lives about a mile and a half
up the valley road toward the bridge
where you got hurt. I was jist think-
in’ I’d—"
“What kind of a lookin’ place is
rs? x
© %Well, it looks about like the rest
| of ’em. Hers is the second shack on
the right-hand side of the road. But
I'm goin’ up that way this afternoon
and—"
“Say, cowboy, git me a horse and
let me go with you,” Smith implored.
“lI want to be sure to git it. Them
Indians’ll steal everything. There's
| some pictures and—and—some letters
—and—say, Ill give you a hundred
dollars if you'll take me right along
with you.”
“Oh, that part of it’ll be all right,”
Trope said comfortingly. “It won’t
cost you anything only mebbe two
bits for old Jennie as a present fer
keepin’ it fer you. Ill fix that part
of it and then—"
“But let me go with you, and let’s
go right now.”
“No. I can’t go jist now, Smith. I’ve
got to go.and see the agent first about
some business.” Trope walked to-
ward the door.
“Don’t go—wait a minute,” came
the anxious appeal. I'll give you—”"
But the half-breed was gone.
In the agent’s office the conversa-
tion concerned the unusual patient at
the infirmary.
“He’s doin’ a lot of worryin’ about
that flour sack,” said Trope. “He was
ravin’ about it all the time when I
brought him into the agency that day,
and when I went into see him jist now
he jumped me about it the first thing.
When I told him old Jennie had it and
that I'd go and git it he wasn’t sat-
isfied unless I'd take him along. He
don’t ever seem to bother about his
horse and saddle and his rifle, and
there ain’t any better saddle on the
reservation, and it’s a good horse.
Charley Red Bonnet said it was plumb
fagged out when he caught it. I saw
it the next day, and it still looked
tired, and it was lame from havin’
jumped off the bridge, but it’s all
right now.”
“It all seems rather strange,” ob-
served the agent.
“It sure does, Mr. Benson. And
the way he got balled up on what he
was doin’ here didn’t sound right to
me. First he said he was comin’ on
the reservation to visit some Indians,
but I couldn’t git him to name any of
’em. Then he talked about buyin’
horses from ’em, but he never showed
any signs of knowin’ which Indians
had horses to sell. I've asked a lot
of the Indians, but none of ’em seems
to know whe he is. He talked so
nutty that I thought he was dreamin’
about havin’ a flour sack, but he had
one all right.”
“How do you know Jennie got it?”
“Well, I saw her moccasin tracks
by the bridge. She’s part blind, you
know, and walks with a stick and
limps a little. Her tracks was made
after the feller’s horse tracks was
made, and I saw she was carryin’
somethin’ when she went off the
bridge that she didn’t have when she
went on it.”
“Ben, the doctor and I have been
talking together about this man’s
business on the reservation,” said the
agent, “but I'd like to hear from you.
What do you think?”
“Mr. Benson, my guess is that he
had somethin’ in that sack that he
thinks an awful lot more of than he
does of the beef.”
“Yes, of course; but what is it?
Had you thought of its being peyote
buttoms ?”
“No, sir I hadn’t thought of that.”
“Have you heard of any peyote-
eating parties around Jennie’s neigh-
borhood or among any of the rest of
Shem lately. Anybody been drug-
ged?
“No, nor I ain’t seen any Indian
that acted like they’d been eatin’
peyote,” Trope replied.
The agent leaned back in his chair.
For a few moments he looked dream-
ily out of the open doorway. “III tell
you what you do, Ben,” he proposed;
“you go right up to Jennie’s place and
find out about that flour sack. If she
has it, you get it and bring it to me.
Tell her if she keeps out anything
that was in it when she got it I'll send |
a Dakiceman after her and put her in!
jail. ;
“Mr. Benson, I'd like to look into
that sack myself, and I'm thinkin’ i
this feller’s a bad man and not en-
titled to much favorin’, but I couldn’t
hardly git out of promisin’ him I'd
bring it to him. Mebbe it'd be better
if you sent one of the policemen to
git it.”
“No, I'd rather you’d go, Ben if yout
will. T'll assure you we won’t harm
anything that honestly belongs to
him. But you understand how I have
a right to know all about the business
of any man that comes on this reserva- |
tion, and you can—”"
The agent sprang to his feet. “0
Ben! Look! Why, the crazy fool!
There he goes new on your horse!”
Rushing past the agency office
building was Smith on Ben Trope’s
horse traveling up the valley. He was
hatless, coatless and shoeless. His
broken right leg, encased in a plaster
cast splint, was dangling free of the
stirrup. With his left hand he alter-
nately guided the horse and grasped
the saddle horn. With his right he
applied the riding quirt.
“Go after him, Ben!” the agent
shouted. “Take a policeman’s horse
from the hitch rack. I'll send some
police to help you. Bring back the
man first. Don’t bother about the
sack until you get the man.” 2
Ben Trope mounted a horse and
headed it up the road. His own steed,
which the fleeing man was riding, was
the strongest and speediest saddle
horse on the reservation, and it was
a quarter of a mile up the road ahead
of Trope on his inferior animal.
But the pursued man turned aside
in his flight and dashed up to the
doorway of Jennie Two Moons’ log
hut. The old woman and two girls
fled and dived into the brush like wild
rabbits. The desperate horseman dis-
mounted carefully and tossed the
bridle-reins over the animal’s head.
Hopping and hobbling into the hut,
he looked quickly about the interior
of it. A soiled white bag was lying
near the head of a pallet of quilts on
the dirt floor. He pounced upon it
and hurriedly examined its contents.
A thrill of joy seemed to sweep
through his whole being and to put
new life and courage into him. He
uttered a half-suppressed cheer.
Moving with an added agility, he hop-
ped to the doorway and out to the
horse. As he was about to tie the bag
to the horn of the saddle Ben Trope
galloped his panting animal up to the
hut and dismounted.
“What do you want here, you dirty
breed?” the white man thundered.
“The agent wants to see you,”
Trope replied quietly, though his
beady black eyes glittered a more im-
perative message.
“Well, he don’t need to see me now.
I'm goin’ away from here right
quick.”
The crippled fugitive tied the sack
firmly to the saddle horn, grasped the
pommel and moved as if to clamber
upon the horse. He paused when
Trope laid a strong detaining hand
upon his shoulder.
“Say, looky here, cowboy,” Smith
coaxed, “I'll pay you whatever you
want fer yer horse, and I'll give you
a hundred dollars besides if you'll let
me—=" .
“No, we’re goin’ back to the agency
together,” Trope interrupted him as
he took hold of the horse’s bridle bit.
Smith held in his right hand the
riding quirt reversed. The loaded
butt of it swung free by some twelve
inches. With a sudden movement in-
dicative of his having had training as
a boxer he wielded the weapon. The
half-breed crumpled under the blow
and went to the ground.
The liberated man climbed upon the
horse. With the quirt he lashed its
flank, and the spirited animal bound-
ed forward. A hundred feet distant
it turned into the main roadway. At
that instant there was the crack of a
pistol shot. The speeding horse plung-
ed, staggered, fell dead.
Within five minutes thereafter the
recent guest and fugitive was a pris-
oner and on his way back to the
agency. He was seated upon the
policeman’s horse that Ben Trope had
been riding, and his half-breed captor
walked twenty feet ahead. In one
hand Trope carried the flour sack,
and with the other he held a lariat
rope that led the horse. A large black
and blue lump above his left eye and
blood smeared down the left side of
his face furnished conclusive evidence
of the character of his captive.
“Smith, you picked out the wrong
place for this kind of rough work,”
the agent warned him at the infirm-
ary. “You might as well make up
your mind to stay here peaceably un-
til we're ready to let you go.”
The official had received the flour
sack from Ben Trope. He emptied
its contents upon a table. There was
only a flannel shirt rolled and tied by
a string and a pair of overalls that
were also rolled and tied. The agent
rummaged with his hand down into
the sack and then looked into it.
“Is this the valuable stuff you've
been so anxious about, Smith?” he
asked sarcastically.
“Well, there’s some letters—and—
and—some pictures, and—I’d hate to
lose em, I was afraid the Indians
might burn ’em up er throw ’em away
er something.”
“Didn’t you have some peyote but-
toms in it?”
“Peyote buttoms? What's that?”
“Now look here, Smith,” persisted
the agent, “you tell me the truth
about this and help me. locate this
stuff among the Indians, and I'll make
it a little easier for you. My princi-
pal object is to protect my people,
not to punish you. I know more about
you than you think I do. The Crow
Indian agent wrote me about a peyote
smuggler that had slipped away from
his reservation after having got a lot
of his Indians drug-crazy, and he
said—""
“But, Mr. Benson,” Ben Trope in-
terrupted him, “this man didn’t come
from the Crow reservatioin.”
“How do you know, Ben?”
“Well, the next day after I brought
him here I back-trailed him from the
bridge. I follered the tracks about
: twelve miles on up Porcupine Creek
rand over the mountain, showin’ he
come from Wyoming. I looked at
the brand on the horse he was ridin,’
and I saw it belonged to a rancher I
know over by Sheridan.”
The agent appeared perplexed. He
looked again into the sack, seeming
to mediate upon what it might have
contained. Ill send a policeman out
to bring in Jennie Two Moons,” he
! announced.
He picked up the shirt roll and was
about to replace it in the receptacle.
“Wouldn’t it be all right, Mr Ben-
son,” Trope intervened, “to look at
his letters and pictures? I’d like to
see ‘em myself.”
“No!” shouted the owner of the
bundles. “Give ‘em to me,” he de-
manded. “They're mine, and I ain’t
no dope peddler.”
“Just keep quiet, Smith,” the agent
said soothingly. “We won’t harm
anything that belongs to you, but
we're going to find out—” He had
eat the string that bound the shirt
roll.
“Stop there! That's my stuff!”
The prostrate man whirled his body
so that he sat up on the edge of the
cot. “You ain’t got any warrant.”
“Your rights don’t amount to much
on an Indian reservation,” the local
monarch responded as he unrolled the
package. “You're a trespasser here;
youre not an Indian.”
Two Indian policemen had inter-
posed themselves between the cot and
the table upon which the inspection
was being made. The agent spread
out the flannel shirt. At the disclos-
ure his whole body expressed amaze-
ment. “Ben! Doctor! Look at it!”
He hurriedly cut the strings that
bound the overalls and unrolled them
also. ‘““‘And here’s more of it!” he ex-
claimed.
Wilted, faint, almost collapsed, the
defeated man sank back upon his cot.
“I’ve been figgerin’ he’s that feller
they want over at Sheridan,” Ben
Trope explained.
“Of course he is, Ben,” the agent
exclaimed, “and you deserve all the
credit! = The reward will probably
buy you several horses as good as
your fine pet you had to kill.” He
turned to the cowering prisoner: “You
killed a man while you were doing
this job,” he said sternly. “You de-
serve-—oh, well, we'll do our part to
see that you get what's coming to
you.” He spoke to the two police-
men: “Take him to the jail, lock him
up and guard him all the time.”
For several minutes the agent, the
doctor and the half-breed were busily
at work invoicing and computing.
“Well, I’m pleased to learn that old
Jennie was wealthy for a few days,
even though she didn’t seem to ap-
preciate it,” the doctor observed dryly.
The agent was writing with pencil
and paper. “I believe this states it
clearly,” he said. Then he read aloud:
“Sheriff, Sheridan, Wyoming: Ex-
press robber here. Money recovered
forty-two thousand dollars.””—The
Youth’s Companion.
Shipment of Elk Proves Expensive.
An elk herd now being loaded at
Moiese, Mont., on the Flathead Indian
reservation, for shipment to Middle-
boro, Mass., is going to prove expen-
sive for the National Elk Grazing and
Breeding Association which contract-
ed to take the animals from Montana
to the New England hills.
Expenses incident to the rounding
up and loading of the first shipment
of 200 head, which is to start east-
ward soon, have mounted until it is
estimated it will cost $80,000 to de-
liver the elk in Massachusetts.
The association plans to ship 600
in all from the bison range near
Moiese, and those in charge of the
work expressed the hope that the ex-
pense of handling the remaining 400
animals would not run so high.
The animals will travel East in an
electrically lighted train of ten ex-
press cars.
Work has been delayed by the al-
most impassable condition of the
roads near Moiese and by the difficul-
ties encountered in “riding herd” on
the band of elk, and in dehorning bulls
before they are placed in stalls aboard
the express cars.—Exchange.
me
Live Snails Kept in Cold Storage
Vaults.
At the beginning of the autumn
season 20,000,000 snails are usually
reposing in cold storage in France
ready to be taken out and served up
to the epicures of the nation. The
snails are eaten only in the colder
months of the year. It goes into se-
clusion under the shelter of stones and
wood piles and spreads a shield across
the opening of its shell and spends
the winter in comfortable seclusion
and safety.
But they are forestalled by the
snail hunters who gather them in the
spring and summer months and put
them in cold storage until the restau-
rant demand starts in. They sleep
away the summer months under the
impression that they are hibernating.
If it were not for this the Frenchman
would be compelled to forego his diet
of snails.
There are two kinds of snails which
are in demand for consumption, a
form of the common garden snail and
the Roman or Burgundy, which is far
the favorite on account of its delicious
flavor and its size.—Chicago Journal.
——Subscribe for the “Watchman.”
i ————————————————————— ———— rraitr_rc
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
Stronger by weakness wiser men become.
As they draw near to their eternal home.
—Edmund Waller.
Apparently everything is grist to
our millinery! All sorts, shapes and
conditions of hats have come out for
the Southern season and never was it
more true than today that the suc-
cess of our costume is determined by
the success of our individual chapeau.
Yet, in spite of the greater variety
of millinery selection which we are of-
‘fered, most of us seem none the less
enslaved by the little felt model, and
the usual swarm of these has migrat-
ed southward. Yes, the correct card
table and the correct woman of fash-
ion are alike covered with felt, and it
is only when sports or street costume
are exchanged for the more elaborate
togs of the afternoon that other types
of millinery succeed in displacing this
familiar apparition. Even then we
are likely to retain some variety of it.
We are so habituated to the theory
that a felt hat should leave us un-
sheltered that it may be hard to rec-
~oncile ourselves to the advent of a
new type—this one hat, not the stingy
little brim of the past, but a good old-
fashioned shelter. It is the Chapelier
model. As I believe I have already
, remarked, this hat was the smartest
, millinery mode of Biarritz, and now
“it’s been taken up by the other Ritzes.
: High of crown, with a four-inch brim,
that may be turned back here or there,
this is the newest thing for sports and
general resort wear. I may add, too,
that it is a much less acid test of
beauty than is the “penny” brim.
| However, if you are determined to
i be loyal to the old forms of felt, no-
i body is going to thwart you. For ex-
ample, there is the gigolo model,
which has been pre-eminently smart
. for some months and which is still re-
| tained by some luminaries of fashion.
| Remember, if you please, that the
; crease of a man’s trousers is no more
, vital an affair than the crease of the
gigolo. If you go into one of these
| stately shrines of millinery the sales-
{ woman is awfully particular to get
j that crease adjusted in exactly the
; manner that will be most becoming
to one’s own particular face. Indeed,
this same meticulous care applies to
nearly all the small felts, whether
gigolo or otherwise. When it comes
to this domain of dress one must be
literally up on the latest wrinkle.
Each dent and ridge is, in fact, preg-
nant with meaning and often the dif-
ference between the informal small
felt and the more formal variety is
proclaimed merely through a dif-
ferent system in creasing.
Of course, these millinery sculptors
have been busy molding some brand-
new forms. One of the outstanding
examples of newer modes is the piq-
uant shape created by Reboux and
distinguished by a butterfly bow of
self-fabric set in the front to accent
the cleft of the brim. This is really
ia charming change from the more
becoming to many a face which is
more “interesting” than classical in
its contours.
Straws! Yes, of course these are
always present to show which way
the Florida wind blows. As I have al-
ready said, the crocheted straws are
especially smart and are often substi-
tuted for the felt sports hats. For
afternoon wear the straw is almost
invariably large and its generous
dimensions continue to follow the
back and broad in front. Character-
istic of the more elaborate mode is
the model of white basket-weave
straw, which merits attention because
of its novelty of trimming.
Said trimming consists of a wreath
of stuffed flowers, each one covered
in the gay material of the Breton
peasant petticoat and each one set
off with a touch of black patent leath-
er. We have been raiding these poor
Breton peasant women’s wardrobes for
some years now and many a resort
wear coatee of the last seasons has
owed its origin to this source. One
assumes, in fact, that all Breton wom-
en must by this time be wearing
breeches, for certainly they can’t have
any petticoats left for themselves.
It is impossible to make a social
error by matching your bag with your
hat, or at least your hat trimming.
Here is one of the little sartorial tricks
which we won’t overcome and in this
case the smart little bag which the
wearer of this hat swings ojyer the
arm shows the Breton peasant mater-
ial on a frame of tortoise shell.
One cannot enter into an exhaustive
discussion of all the various types of
millinery which are now being prac-
ticed by smart people, but these four
examples are of outstanding interest
and are sufficient to indicate to the en-
tire trend of the season,
Now a few words concerning other
accessories. When it comes to stock-
ings, the silk worm has finally turned.
Once more we are wearing lisle, No,
this doesn’t mean we have discarded
our silk hose. We retain them usual-
ly for afternoon and evening wear.
travel there is overwhelming evidence
that the lisle stocking of exquisite
workmanship has come back. Of
course, the French woman has fore-
cast this change of sentiment for some
months, and a few American leaders
of style were prompt to follow her ex-
ample, It is only now, however, that
the return to the lisle stocking is ab-
solutely assured. So, if you want to
complete the beige woolen costume,
which you select for travel or street
wear, you match it by your lisle stock-
ings worn with brown kid shoes.
Florida would undoubtedly look just
as odd without white coats as it would
without palms, You may have all
sorts of wraps to supplement this one,
but you are now almost obliged to get
the sports affair of tweed, homespun,
or some other fashionable fabric.
Quite a few of these white sports
coats are developed with the shoulder
flare which Lanvin inaugurated
months ago. How ever, the young
and slim can’t go wrong by selecting
a perfectly orthodox straight-line af-
fair, which betrays its up-to-date
spirit only in the minor touches,
orthodox small felts and will be found |
familiar prescription—short in the!l
But in the realm of sports, street, and
FARM NOTES.
. —Regularity in feeding and milking
is essential to profitable dairying.
—The sow like the dairy cow,
should not be thin at farrowing time.
—The hog will open its mouth and.
breathe through that channel, and
also through the nostrils, when very
warm.
—Many an epidemic of diphtheria,
scarlet fever, and typhoid fever has.
been traced to a case of illness on the
dairy farm.
—An acre of corn fodder making 20:
bushels of grain will put on twice as.
much grain in the form of silage as.
it will fed from the shock.
—The curl in a pig’s tail is an indi-
cation of good health. When the curl.
begins to straighten out, look for dis--
ease and give a change of feed.
—The various dairy utensils used
by the dairyman are probably one of
the most important sources of the
bacterial contamination of milk,
.—Adequate ventilation removes foul
air, removes excessive moisture and
furnishes a supply of pure, fresh air.
All three are vital to the welfare of
the herd.
—In order to do its work properly,
the cream separator must be level and
must be securely fastened to its foun-
dation, the bearings must be well lu-
bricated with the right kind of oil,.
and no accumulation of dirt can be.
permitted to collect in the working:
parts.
—Chicks are like little boys. If not
kept busy they get into mischief.
Lack of work often means a boy’s
bloody nose, while to a chick it means
bloody toes. Toe-picking and ean-
nibalism result from close confine-
ment and idleness. “Keep the Chicks
Busy” should be the creed of all poul-
trymen.
—Dwarf trees and shrubs that
shortly will come into bloom include
Azaleas, Barberry, Red Bud, Sweet
Shrub, Dogwood, Golden Bell, Mag-
nolia, Honeysuckle, Flowering Al-
mond, and Viburnums which include:
the Snowballs. Notice these as they
bloom and select your favorites for
planting on the home grounds.
. If your hotbed space is limited,
it may be necessary to shift the early
cabbage, cauliflower, lettuce, and kohl
rabi plants to coldframes before the
warmer season crops may be seeded.
At any rate it should be safe to get
these cool weather plants into the
coldframe just as soon after the first.
of March as they are sufficiently large.
—AIll hens used for egg hatching
purposes should be dusted with a good
louse powder when they are placed
on the eggs. The only preparation
known to kill lice with one applica-
tion is sodium fluoride. Put a piece
of sod in the bottom of the nest to
prevent excessive evaporation. Set
two hens at a time so that the chicks
may be given to one hen later. Feed
cracked or whole grains to the bid-
dies, being careful to avoid feeds that
stimulate egg production or cause di-
gestive disorders, say poultry exten-
sion specialists of the Pennsylvania
State Colege.
PERENNIAL SOW THISTLE.
This is a very noxious weed that
has been introduced from Europe. It
has not been reported from many
places in Pennsylvania. It seems,
however, to be spreading rather rapid-
A colony of this pest has been found
recently along the Jonestown Road in
Penbrook, almost if not, within the
city limits of Harrisburg. A few
other colonies have been found near
the city. Not only farmers but every
one should watch for this plant and be
sure to destroy its roots and all when
found.
The plant is very common in parts
of Canada, where they have the fol-
lowing to say about it: “Perennial
Sow Thistle, from its exceptionally
vigorous running rootstocks and the
large amount of seed it matures, is
one of the most aggressive weed en-
emies. It causes enormous loss, both
on account of the difficulty of eradi-
cating it and by reducing crop yields.
Wherever established, it chokes out
the crops almost completely. It is
much worse in this respect than any
of the other thistles. In Manitoba Pe-
rennial Sow Thistle is considered the
worst of all weed pests; in some cases
it has rendered whole fields unfit for
grain production.”
Should we allow a foreigner with
such a reputation to become a natur-
alized citizen of our great agricultural
state? Our worst weed such as Gar-
lie, Canada Thistle, Quack Grass, Dod-
der and Horse Nettle are foreigners
that have gained entrance to the State
of Pennsylvania in the same insidious
manner. They are now very undesir-
able and expensive to Pennsylvanians.
Let us see to it that Perennial Sow
Thistle shall not overrun our State as
these other pests have done.
Perennial Sow Thistle is distin-
guished by its large yellow flowers
which resemble in size, color and ap-
pearance those of the common dande-
lion. The flower stalk and the scaly
bracts (small leaf-like structures)
surrounding the flower heads are cov-
ered with glandular, hairs with a yel-
lowish knob on the end. The stem of
the piant is hollow and grows from 1
to 5 feet tall. The leaves resemble in
shape those of the dandelion or some
of our wild lettuce plants. The teeth
of the edge terminate in a rather soft
yellow spine. The whole plant, if not
too old and dry, is filled with a bit-
ter, milky juice.
The seeds are brown and about ¥
inch long and contain a tuft of fine
white hairs called pappus.
Fortunately for us most of the
seeds examined from plants grown in
Pennsylvania are not fertile and will
not grow. Some, however, are fertile
and since they are so easily blown
about by the wind are the means by
which the plant may rapidly spread
from the vacant lots and waste places
in towns and cities to the surround-
ing farms.
For methods of control and eradi-
cation write the Bureau of Plant In-
dustry, Harrisburg, Pa.