—
Bellefonte, Pa., June 18, 1926.
———————————
THE HOUSE OF T00 MUCH
TROUBLE.
In the House of Too Much Trouble
Lived a lonely little boy;
He was eager for a playmate,
He was hungry for a toy,
But ‘twas always to much bother,
Too much dirt and too much noise,
For the House of Too Much Trouble
Wasn't meant for little boys.
And sometimes the little fellow
Left a book upon the floor,
Or forgot and laughed to loudly,
Or he failed to close the door;
In a House of Too Much Trouble
Things must be precise and trim—
In a House of Too Much Trouble
There was little room for him.
He must never scatter playthings,
He must never romp and play;
Ev'ry room must be in order
And keep quiet all the day;
He had never had companions,
He had never owned a pet—
In the House of Too Much Trouble
It is trim and quiet yet.
Ev'ry room is set in order—
Every book is in its place,
And the lonely little fellow
Wears a smile upon his face.
In the House of Too Much Trouble
He is silent and at rest—
In tha House of Too Much Trouble,
With a lily on his breast.
—By Albert Biglow Paine.
WHAT DREAMS ARE WORTH.
The pleasant fire-light flickered on
the ceiling and made dancing shadows
on the walls. A shaded lamp stood
beside Aunt Jill, and by its light Aunt
Jill read aloud from a small, sleek
book every evening. She called it
“educating Mavie’s literary taste.”
« ‘Who is the Potter, pray? And
who the Pot?’ ” read Aunt Jill.
Mavie, at the other side of the small
table, stitched pink crepe de Chine
and paid little attention to that insane
question. It struck her that even
Aunt Jill (of whose intelligence we
have never had a very high opinion),
ought to be able to unravel that knot
unassisted. Mavie paid little atten-
tion to her, and dreamed, and sewed
her underclothes. :
One could dream pleasantly of the
future, with the firelight flickering,
and the wind whistling down the vil-
lage street outside, and the voice of
Aunt Jill droning on and on—the
lovely future, and all the beautiful
things that came as soon as one was
grown up.
With clever fingers she stitched the
filmy lace on her garments. She was
making a trousseau, but not the sort
of trousseau that precedes a wedding.
- The sort of trousseau that comes be-
fore growing up. The following week
Maive was going to put up her hair.
She stood on the threshold of life—
glorious life. Where the stream of
madapollams and cast-iron calico em-
broideries merges at last into the riv-
er of ninons, and crepe de Chines, |
and filmy laces. |
She laid down her needle and stared |
at the fire, the early autumn fire at
which Aunt Jill was warming her
poetical toes. She saw herself at her
first dance (diamante trimmings on
white ninon de soie. Handsome
young men, and others not so young,
pointing her out to each other and
seeking for introductions. She would
be kind to them all, but she would
not encourage any of them. She
would not take scalps just for the fun
of adding them to her collection, as
Colleen did. Or get engaged once a
year just to see what it was like—
after the fashion of Gladys DuBrett.
No. She had in her mind her ideal
man, and she would simply wait till
he came along. If you waited long
enough and were brave enough, the
best always came to you. From con-
versations with the other girls of her
age, Maive had elicited this, Only—
so few of them could be bothered to
wait. But I, said Maive, am differ-
ent from those others .. .. ..
Aunt Jill closed the book with a
snap, yawned behind her plump hand,
and then fingered Maive’s sewing
with disapproval written on her
round, pink face.
“Most unserviceable. When I think
of my own clothing for my coming
out. But it’s typical of the times.
Everything elaborate and gossamer
and unserviceable. * Pretty, but frag-
ile. You want things to wear.”
Aunt Jill held up a pink silk night-
gown and looked at if with scorn.
“Thin as paper, too. When I remem-
ber the things I had, when I was a
girl.”
She gazed at the fire, remembering
them. Maive twisted in her chair im-
patiently. Aunt Jill was preferable
when she read nonsense out of that
sleek book to when she started re-
membering her youth. (We are not
at all sure we believe that Aunt Jill
ever was a girl.)
“] can’t think what you want with
all this flummery,” said Aunt Jill a
trifle uneasily. “Waste of time and
money, I call it. You ought to use
the time that you waste over this
learning something that will be use-
ful to you in after life.”
A worried look came over her
plump, pink face. There were times
when she felt she had not brought
Maive up to realize the seriousness
of life. But it wasn’t so easy as one
imagined. Young people seemed to
take all sorts of things for granted,
and you hadn’t the heart to disillu-
sion them.
“] don’t see any harm in liking
pretty clothes,” ‘said Maive a trifle
rebelliously.
“You want something serviceable.
Something that will last,” said Aunt
ill.
It was clear from Maive’s face that
it was the last thing she wanted.
“How dull!” she said rebelliously.
Aunt Jill stood up. She was a
short, stumpy little person with neat
feet and plump, white hands. On her
Aunt Jill, a catch in her throat.
round face there was a perpetual look
of surprise, as though even at her age
she had not quite settled down to life
and all its oddities. ;
“Yes,” she said, suddenly melting,
“] suppose they are dull. There,
child. Have your finery and enjoy
yourself while you can. You’re young
but once.”
She stared at the fire. She knew
that she ought to talk seriously to
Maive, but like all round people, she
hated embarking on anything so tir-
some as an explanation. After all,
the girl was only eighteen. Let her
enjoy her dreams. “Surely,” thought
Aunt Jill, “no one can blame me for
feeling that. When we get back from
Harrogate, I shall talk to her. She'll
realize, when she has seen a bit more
of life, that it’s not all so easy as she
imagines now.”
The hotel in Harrogate was large
and fashionable. She was well-known
| there. The girl would meet other peo-
| ple and friends.
“After all, it’s giving her a chance,”
said Aunt Jill. :
Maive, singing a little song under
her breath, went off, shedding a trail
of odds and ends of crepe de Chine
and the most unserviceable lace in
her wake. Aunt Jill looked after her
with a little smile.
Why was it that Maive, with the
trying optimism of youth, took it for
granted that she was quite well off ?
That she was situated exactly as
Colleen Davidson, the Bishop’s niece,
and Gladys DuBrett, the Vicar’s
daughter—both of whom had a com-
plete outfit of prosperous parents?
That the clothes they had would be
hers as a matter of course when she
put up her hair? That the dances
they went to, she, too, would go to?
You may ask me, mused Aunt Jill
And when one is round, and kind, and
soft-hearted, it is a little hard to
break these pretty dreams into mun-
dane atoms.
“I ought to have her taught short-
hand,” said Aunt Jill unhappily.
And there was Maive, singing away
in her bedroom, and dreaming of
marrying only a millionaire, no doubt!
“After all, she’s just a child. Pres-
ently she’ll see for herself,” said Aunt
Jill.
The door opened. Maive stood there
in a soft, white frock, a large, white
feather fan in her hand. Her golden
hair was piled high on top of her lit-
tle head—not in any particular fash-
ion. Like a fairy princess, Sought
Ss
it possible that once, long ago, we,
too, were as fresh and as youthful as
that?
“My coming-out dress,” said Maive,
and swept her a curtsy.
“After all, I remember my own
dress was white,” dreamed Aunt Jill
to the fire. “White—with silk roses,
1 remember, stitched to the hoops.
He took one as a keepsake. My hair.”
But she could not remember about
her hair. It was long ago. Mean-
while, in her own room, Maive folded
up the white dress, and laid it away
in tissue-paper, and mused: ;
“Poor Aunt Jill, whore nobody has
ever loved! What can she know
about things, really!”
The boxes were packed, and Maive
had solved at last the awful problem
‘as to how one really managed to make
long golden hair stay anywhere but
| falling down one’s back. And then,
| quite suddenly, the whole fabric of her
dreams came tumbling down all round
her. On the eve of their start for Har-
rogate, Aunt Jill died. Died of some
strange complaint that had been a
secret between her and her Maker,
and not even confided to the family
doctor. It seemed to Maive that al-
most before she realized anything had
happened, the funeral was over, and
the house was very still, with Aunt
Jil’s plump little shoes standing
empty beneath the dressing-table,
and Aunt Jill’s black cashmeze shawl
lying neatly folded over the back of
an armchair that Aunt Jill would
never sit on anymore.
And there was Mr. Charlesworth,
old and crusty, and sown all over with
moles, waiting to see Maive in the
library: Maive, very small and fright-
ened and slim in her black dress. She
was only eighteen then.
“And your plans, young lady?”
said Mr. Charlesworth.
He was old—old, and sad, and tired-
out. One of his moles had a long,
black hair proceeding from the center
of it. In by-gone days, when he had
been happy, Maive wondered whether
he had wagged that hair. Her fas-
cinated eyes were unable to tear
themselves away from it.
“I thought I would just stay on
here,” said Maive. “Sarah can look
after me. I might go later to Har-
rogate for a bit. We were going
there, you know.”
Tears filled her eyes at the memory
of all those lovely plans that had come
to nothing. At the doorway of her
mind there waited the thought that
it was down-right inconsiderate of
Aunt Jill not to have waited till they
got back from Harrogate to die. But
Maive was too loyal to let it in.
Besides, it would not be so bad to
live there in the pretty little cottage
in Hazler’s Copse, and watch the
roses come out year after year, and
see the lavender bed turn to gray-
blue under the windows, and listen in
the summer to the nightingales. They
are said to sing louder there than
any where else in England.
“Umhum,” said Mr. Charlesworth,
old and sad and moldy. “And is that,
may I ask, all the idea you have as to
how you stand?”
Mr. Charlesworth had had so many
dealings with life that it left him no
pity for youth, no sentimental soft-
ness such as had melted the heart of
Aunt Jill. Youth, in Mr. Charles-
worth’s mind, was closely allied to
incipient idiocy. He worshiped one
God only, and his God was called
Common Sense, and wore a bowler
hat, and smoked a good, honest pipe,
and called a spade a spade.
“Then you'll have to listen to some
plain speaking,” said Mr. Charles-
worth, settling down and putting one
foot in the wastepaper basket. “Your
Aunt Jill had an annuity. It dies with
her. You will have from your father’s
estate, a yearly income of something
in the neighborhood of ninety pounds:
Your aunt should have made this
plain to you, but she was always a
al beyond all common sense, she was.”
Mr. Charlesworth blew his nose
angrily upon a green and purple silk
handkerchief. It was as though he
were still annoyed with Aunt Jill,
though dead, for not worshiping the
same God as himself.
“You ean, no doubt, appreciate the
fact that it is out of the question for
you to continue living as yod have
done heretofore,” said Mr. Charles-
worth. “You can not keep up this
house on ninety pounds a year. I
may say there is astonishingly little ' rested all the time. He thought she i
that you can keep up on ninety pounds
a year. You will.have to get a job.”
Maive said nothing.
her eyes fixed on that mole, too hor-
ror-stricken to speak.
“I might help you,” said Mr.
Charlesworth.
It was raining. Big drops splash-
ed on the window-pane, blurring it
until you could no longer see the gar-
den or the gray-blue of the lavender
bushes there. And to Maive it seem-
ed that there was a picture of herself
at her first dance, with the young
men pointing her out to each other,
and others, not so young, seeking in-
troductions. White she wore, with
diamante trimmings. (It was packed
already in the trunk upstairs.) And
the rain-drops came down, splash, and
washed the picture out till there was
nothing there but a sheet of glass
splashed all over with big: drops like
tears.
They would never have taken her
on at the Stapletons’ if she hadn’t
been able to sew. It was clear at a
glance that Maive, as a governess,
was unlikely to be one of the strik-
ing successes of that profession. But
Mrs. Stapleton adored handsewn un-
derclothes, and she was one of those
large-nosed women who love giving
orders and planning, but hate to be!
bothered with the execution. i
So Maive settled down in the.
schoolroom at the top of the tall’
house. where smuts kept drifting in
with love from other people’s chim-
neys. The schoolroom was on the
fourth floor. It had bars to the win-
dow. Behind the bars sat Maive and
Mike, aged six, like a couple of caged
birds. ;
They would both rather have been
in the tree tops, but they had to pay
attention to the matter in hand, which
was “William I, 1066 to 1087. Wil-
liam JI, 1087 to 1100.”
Mike had a large head, and a gen-
ius for argument that made Maive
feel faint. A dozen times a day he
caught her, as she sat up there behind
the bars, trying to convince him of
facts she did not feel at all certain
about herself.
“Teaching,” boomed Mr. Charles-
worth as he deposited her and her
boxes on the doorstep of that London
house, “is the noblest of all profes-
sions.”
It might be that, mused Maive, if
you had anything to teach. But she
was clever with her needle, and Mrs.
Stapleton was passionately fond of
hand-sewn garments. In the room on
the fourth floor sat Maive, puttipg
tucks into pink crepe de Chine iPr
somebody else. It was all like ‘a
dream. Soon, she felt, she would
wake up and see the firelight dancing
on the ceiling, and the shaded lamp,
and hear the voice of Aunt Jill boom-
ing forth at that old reading of hers:
“ ‘Who is the Potter, pray? And
who the Pot?’ ”
But she never did.
“Some day,” she whispered to her-
self, “he will come and fetch me
away from all this. I still have some-
thing to hope for. If I wait brave-
ly and long enough.”
But Gladys and Colleen met all
their various young men at dances
and garden parties and tennis part-
ies. Maive felt little afraid that he
might never think of looking for her
at the top of that tall London house,
behind the bars.
“Gladys may ask me to stay for the
Wester holidays,” she comforted her-
self.
But somehow Gladys never did.
Poor people are so trying. They may
not have the right clothes.
“Perhaps Colleen will have me to
stay for Christmas,” thought Maive.
But Colleen was a young lady of
fashion and had long ago forgotten
all about her.
“Nothing in story books is so un-
likely as the things that really hap-
pen,” said Maive to herself, and the
night, and her pillow. So, with the
glorious optimism of youth, = she
dreamed about him. One must dream
of something. Black hair he had, and
very blue eyes. He was tall and
straight and lean, and he wore won-
derful clothes. She used to amuse
herself looking for him in the crowds
in the park, where she took Mike for
his interminable walks. Sometimes,
in the distance, she saw somebody
here or there that looked rather like
him, only never quite so nice.
Mike found her answers to his
never-ending questions a trifle absent-
minded when they were in the park.
And then it happened.
“Miss Falls, you will take Mike
down to Tilbury? His Uncle Jack
is doing a voyage as doctor on one of
the P. and O. boats and has asked
you both down to lunch. He has
promised to show Mike the ship. That
child is mad about machinery. You
can take the eleven train down and
get the three train back,” said Mrs.
Stapleton, and she went on to detail
everything Mike would wear for the
occasion, even down to his undervest.
For she was a woman who loved to
command, but hated being bothered
with execution. °
Mike and Maive set forth together
to the Tilbury docks. The S.S. China
lay alongside, flying the Blue Peter,
in all the pleasant stage of flurry and
glamour of a ship about to sail.
“And there is Uncle Jack,” said
Mike solemnly. “Miss Falls, if you
are a ship's doctor, do you have to do
anything to the ship if it won’t work ?
If you are a ship’s doctor, Miss Falls,
where do you get the medicine to give
to people who are seasick? - If the
medicine is finished before they come
into a port, Miss Falls, how do you
get any more? If the—"
“How do you do,” said Uncle Jack
in all the ‘glory of a uniform with
gold buttons.
ee
most unpractical woman. Sentiment- '
son with tawny hair that neither
prayers, nor brilliantine, nor brush-
ing would ever make it lie flat. He
had krown eyes, soft and kind, that
i reminded you of some sort of pleasant |
‘dog, and he gave you that hearty kind
| of handshake that gives you some no-
tion of what mince must go through
in the mincing machine.
|" “This is very nice and splendid and
all that,” said Uncle Jack, and he
smiled at Mike.
But it was Maive on whom his eyes
was the prettiest thing he had ever
seen, in her shabby dress and last
She sat with year’s hat. Like a fairy, he thought, |
being kept at domestic jobs but not
| really suited to them. He cursed hin-
"self for not having been to see his
| sister sooner. But how was he to
know ?
He took them all over the ship.
Down little ladders into cubbyholes
that smelt of oil, and adventure, and
foreign parts. Up on spacious decks
that you could picture yourself strid-
ing grandly while the wonders of the
world slipped by, some to starboard
and some to port.
! “I wish I was coming with you,”
' said Mike, gravely, one hand clutched
in Maive’s and the other in Uncle
Jack’s large fist.
“I jolly well wish you were com-
{ing with me, tco,” said Uncle Jack.
| But he wasn’t looking at Mike. To
| find her like this, so little and sweet,
! and frail, just as one was off on a
' three months’ cruise. It was hard
luck for Uncle Jack.
| He took them down to lunch, where
| they had curry and queer little at-
tendant messes on saucers. Bombay
| duck, said Uncle Jack. And dried,
| powdered prawns. And mango chut-
He was an agreeable, tanned per-
FOR AND ABOUT WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT.
t
’
1
i
i
Common sense is nature’s gift, but rea-
son is an art.—Beattle.
! —OQutstanding is the problem of the
hat—shall it be broad-brimmed and
| picturesque, or shall it continue nar-
‘row brimmed and ecloche-like. Both
try the modistes have inaugurated a
| tremendous and concerted piopaganda
"to bring the large hat back into fav-
or, and, while Paris has not joined
the move, the French milliners are
| at least offering more sweeping brim-
{med chapeaux than they have in re-
| cent seasons. The solution rests en-
tirely in the heads of the hautes
mondes, both here and abroad. In
| Palm Beach and along the Riviera the
| tendency toward larger brims has
i found influential sponsors; in Paris
| the turban, beret and gigolo still pre-
i vail to almost the entire eclipse of
any picture chapeaux. Of course, the
| burning rays of the sun have much
i to do with the wearing of picture hats
! at the resorts, and it would be unwise
| to- conclude therefrom that the cloche
! type is in the wane. Our anaylsis of
the situation is this—the vogue of the
placement. For summer picture hats
will be numerically more important
than in spring, but still secondary to
the petit chapeau.
—The tailleur, and its place in fash-
ion’s firmament are another urgent
problem for the hautes mondes to con-
sider. The tailored suit has had a
curious history since the spring of
1924, when pre-season prophets bruit-
ed it as the essence of that spring’s
mode, only to have it flare for a mov
ment and then fade ingloriously from
types have been offered; in this coun-
small hat is too rooted for its dis- |
ney from the Far East.
: the scene. In 1925 the tailleur was
Coffee was served, and the siren
y : ren | handicapped because it had to com-
blew shrilly like a lost ghost calling | pete against the flared silhouette of
its male, 2 Jisuie foe Jad ofp Hows the dress, despite which it enjoyed a
over the docks, and throug e fog | moderate success. It has been offer-
white gulls flapped, circling round the | ed in various forms; it does not clash
ship. The cry went up, “All for the | visibly with the full straight outline
shore. | of frocks, and the stage is set for a
more substantial tailleur season than
we have had in many years.
Uncle Jack showed more emotion |
than is usual at parting with his
chocolate-sticky nephew. Im his heart
he was cursing all his various Fates,
while he produced various platitudes
aloud to keep the conversational ball
rolling politely.
“Ill be back in three months,” he
said, suddenly deserting the conven-
tional role. “I shall come to see you.
Will you come out to a theater with
me?”
She thought him very kind, but he
didn’t interest her. His hair was the
wrong color, and she never cared
about brown eyes. But she said she’d
love to come.
And then they were on the quay,
and the ropes were cast off, and the
gangway was up, while the ship
moved very, very slowly out over the
water. So slowly at first that it was
like watching the hand of a clock.
You knew it moved, but you couldn’t
see it. Very, very slowly, like a dream
ship fading, thought Maive. Rows
of people stood on the decks, watch-
ing them and fluttering handkerchiefs,
and white gulls circled round the
masts, calling, “Good-by, good-by.”
And there, among them, he stocd.
Her dream hero come to life, and he
was looking at her. Very sleek and
black his hair was, very blue eyes.
In the rapidly increasing distance
they knew each other. These things
happen once in a century or so. Some-
times to princes and rich men only.
To queens, or society debutantes. Or
just to litle nursery governess pen-
ned behind bars in the upper windows
of London houses.
It happened to Maive.
Her heart beat in her throat. He
was writing something on a slip of
paper. Would it reach her? Could
it possibly reach her? He was
weighting it with something. Rais-
ing his hand above his head, he flung
the screw of paper ashore. It fell at
her feet.
She picked it up and stood there
looking after him. Now the ship was
nearly lost in the little white mist
that had come down over the docks.
She kissed her hand to him.
Uncle Jack from the upper deck re-
sponded with all the enthusiasm of
the type of man who has tawny hair
that neither brushing, nor prayer, nor
brilliantine will ever make lie
straight.
All alone among the empty barrels
and porters’ barrels, Maive undid the
paper. It had been wrapped round a
small, silver match-box, and on it was
written in pencil,
“Wait for me.”
3 The match-box bore the initials, G.
e C.
“ ‘Wait for me,’ ” said Maive soft-
ly to herself. “Oh, yes, I will wait
for you. I have always been waiting
for you.
Mike tugged at her hand resentful-
. “Why don’t you listen, Miss
Falls? Why don’t you answer me?
How did they Bombay the duck? Why
do they powder the prawns?”
There was such a glow about her,
those days, that Mrs. Stapleton, who
had meditated raising her salary at
Christmas, didn’t. If she was as hap-
py and contented on what she was
getting, there obviously was no need
for a change of any kind, said Mrs.
Stapleton.
Uncle Jack came back in three
months.
“It’s wonderful how foreign travel
has improved him,” said Mrs. Staple-
ton. “At one time he was very off-
hand with us all. I felt he could not
be bothered with us. Now he seems
to take the keenest interest in his
little nephew.”
It was true that Uncle Jack was a
regular visitor in the schoolroom
where the smuts blew in with love
from other people’s chimneys. He
would sit on the table, dangling his
long legs, and tell Mike wonderful
tales of adventure, and shipwreck,
and cannibal isles, and dancing der-
vishes, producing them from the fer-
tile imagination that goes with the
particular sort of hair he had. But
* wasn’t at Mike he looked as he talk-
ed.
(Concluded till next week.)
———— A ——————
—Subseribe for the “Watchman.”
—The hat of the moment is un-
doubtedly the draped crown model.
All the best milliners are favoring it.
Reboux, Le Monnier, Maria Guy and
many others are turning out attrac-
tive examples of this particular mode.
Drapery is usually at the back or side
back, and from the rather restrained
drapery of last season it has grown
more ample; in many instances it is
mightily like a tam in parts.
Felt, taffetas, faille, grosgrain, etc.,
are the favorite mediums for models
described. They are seen in soft tones
to match summer rigs, or sometimes
modernistic shapes of silk in two or
three shades.
Some of the modistes are showing
one or two particularly stern models.
A man’s derby or bowler carried out
in pale toned felt is made by one well-
known milliner, while chic cleanly
blocked sailors are favored by anoth-
er.
—The cape theme, the:longer jump-
er, the broad silhouette and the short
jacketed suit are all emphasized
again, while the belted waistline is
a new theme.
distinguishing feature of the Miller
Soeurs opening, which also features
the short jacket. The latter is usual-
ly an ensemble component, being worn
in conjunction with a two-piece dress.
Dress ensembles are also completed
in a novel manner by the unlined.coat,
and a new note is the introduction of
cape ensembles. The silhouette du
soir is full and is developed in the
sheerest of materials, chiffon particu-
larly being stressed.
The Georgette collection particu-
larly indorses the jumper—a little
longer than last season, and belted—
and the cape theme which appears
in both coats and dresses. The sil-
houette is of the kinetic type, appar-
ently straight in repose and rippling
in motion. It is attained by means
of divers pleatings. There is a tend-
ency toward a higher and more mark-
ed waistline for robes du soir, while
the skirt length remains short at all
times. Sheer fabrics, notably chiffon,
favored.
The tailored suit, cut along straight
lines and consisting of a hip-length
jacket and a short pleated skirt, is an
outstanding feature of Cyber’s mod-
els. The jacket is belted, but the belt
does not affect the outline in any way,
by the reason of its extreme loose-
ness. Capelet suits are also in evi-
dence, and the cape itself is a recur-
rent theme throughout the entire col-
lection. Street dresses generally in-
corporate the rippling, pleated sil-
houette, while the mold and flare is
retained in evening models.
"The modified princess silhouette
makes its apearance in Lebouvier’s
collection, which very impartially in-
cludes the hemline flare and the full
straight outline as well. This house
is equally cosmopolitan in its sleeve
treatments; some sleeves are decora-
tive, full, and tiered; others are short
and plain, and there are a few frocks
with no sleeves at all. Lingerie treat-
ments at the collar and sleeves and
occasionally lingerie gilets are signi-
ficant features.
The tuxedo, a frank imitation of the
masculine suit of the same name, col-
lared with velvet and developed in
plain wool, is the outstanding feature
of the new Paul Caret collection. It
was received very favorably and is
considered certain to enjoy a smart
vogue this spring.
—A cupful of ripe olives added to
the beef stew just before it is taken
off improves it wonderfully.
To make baked or boiled custard
perfectly smooth, scald your milk and
set aside to cool. Then make the
custard and cook as usual.
A tasty addition to ham sandwiches
is a pickle or two minced with the
cold meat.
For this purpose broiled ham is
olen preferred to that which is boil-
ed.
For a change add to the scrambled
eggs half a dozen mushrooms cut into
bits an cooked in a teaspoonful of
butter with half a green pepper mine-
ed fine.
—The full pleated silhouette is il
EE. 0G® ll B,D ——————————————————
FARM NOTES.
! —Screened and shaded stables will
keep out the flies. Cow comfort and
sanitation will be promoted by tak-
ing these precautions.
—Milk kept cool does not sour read-
ily. Bacteria which causes souring
make little growth at temperatures
below 60 degrees Fahrenheit.
i —As a pasture crop sweet clover
will carry more stock than any other
legume. Start the grazing when the
plants are 6 to 8 inches high. The
stock will not like the taste at first
but confined to it they become fond
of it and will do well. Keep sweet
clover pastured down fairly closely
or clip back to a height of eight inches
to produce best grazing.
—By this time all of the first crops
should be planted in the garden. The
cool season has caused many garden-
ers to hold back the planting of the
tender crops, such as tomatoes, pep-
pers, eggplants, and lima beans.
There should be no further delay in
getting these crops into the field as
they all require a long season to
reach maturity. Dwarf limas may
perhaps be planted up to the tenth of
June.
|
—Farm gardeners of Pennsylvania
are proving that the home garden
may be handled with but a negligible
amount of hand work. They have
| found to their own satisfaction that
‘horse tools best prepare the soil for
‘ vegetables. Where the spade and
| rake were used entirely in former
| years the plow, disc, and harrow do
i most of the work now. If the rows
{are long and properly spaced the cul-
! tivator may replace the hoe also to a
, great extent.
—1It has been said that milk is not
a natural food for chicks and, there-
! fore, it is not necessary to supply it
to the feathered tribe. If milk is not
a natural food for chicks, then the
good poultryman can improve on na-
ture, when fed to growing birds.
—Pigs are pigs, but some are bet-
ter than others. Some pigs are giv-
en better care and feed than those on
neighboring farms. Blood, feed, and
care will bring many litters safely
through the six months to the ton
goal while others not so well favored
will struggle in vain.
—Pennsylvania consumers use ap-
proximately 160 million dozen eggs
or about 200 eggs each a year, accord-
ing to the Bureau of Markets, State
Department of Agriculture. The poul-
try flocks within the State are produc-
ing half of the eggs required to meet
| this demand.
While not producing sufficient eggs
to meet the demand, the poultry in-
dustry is one of the most important
farm enterprises in the State. The
17,465,000 chickens were valued at
$22,000,000 and produced 79,000,000
dozen eggs valued at $29,190,000 in
1925.
The leading counties in egg pro-
duction are, Lancaster, York, Berks,
Chester, Montgomery, Bucks, Adams,
and Bradford. Each of these coun-
| ties produced over 2,000,000 dozen
| eggs in 1925, Lancaster and York ex-
! ceeding 5,000,000. Twenty-two other
counties had an egg yield between
tone and two million dozen.
—The Bureau of Animal Industry,
issues the following list of ‘“don’ts”
as a step in reducing the serious loss
suffered from hog cholera in the State
each year:
Don’t buy hogs and pigs without
careful inquiry in the community. If
you find that the person desiring to
sell hogs has recently lost one, two
or more animals, don’t purchase, but
report to Pennsylvania Bureau of An-
imal Industry, Harrisburg, Pennsyl-
vania.
Don’t buy exceedingly cheap hogs
and pigs unless you know positively
that the owner has not recently lost
animals, but has some other good rea-
son for sacrificing the animals.
Don’t buy from several different
people and put them all together on
your own premises or allow them to
come in contact with your own hogs
and pigs. Keep each lot to itself un-
til two or three weeks have passed
and then put them in their perman-
ent quarters only after being sure
that none are showing any signs of
sickness.
Don’t go near a premise where there
are sick hogs, and don’t allow any
one from a premise where there are
sick hogs to visit your hog pens or
hog lots.
Don’t purchase hogs or pigs, for
purposes other than immediate
slaughter, at a public sale or stock-
yards. If you own hogs, don’t go near
hog pens at sales or stockyards. After
visiting such places your shoes, at
least, should be washed with a disin-
fectant before entering your own hog
pens or hog lots.
Don’t take chances with a sick hog.
Isolate any animal that shows signs
of being sick. If two or more ani-
mals develop the same symptoms call
a veterinarian. If your hogs are af-
fected with hog cholera the sooner
this fact is known the better chance
you will have to save your animals.
Don’t waste money on patent medi-
cines or so-called cholera cures; con-
sult your veterinarian.
10 POINTS ON CARE OF EGGS.
1. Remove male birds immediately
after the breeding season is complet-
ed to assure infertile eggs.
2. Collect eggs at least twice daily
to prevent deterioration in the poul-
try house.
3. Cool eggs to at least 68 degrees
Fahr. to remove animal heat.
4. Always keep eggs in a cool, dry
place to avoid shrinkage.
5. Keep eggs covered with a cloth
to prevent evaporation and the collec-
tion of dust.
6. As eggs readily absorb odors,
keep them away from kerosene, on-
ions, or other strong smelling sub-
stances.
7. Do not wash eggs, since this
aids deterioration.
8. Use dirty, small, checked, very
long and grass stained eggs at home.
9. Ship nothing but graded eggs in
clean, sweet fillers.
10. Market your eggs at least
twice a week in the summer to assure
better quality.