Bewora fa,
Bellefonte, Pa., October 8, 1926.
py
BUSINESS IS BUSINESS.
«Business is Business,” the Little Man
said,
“And battle where everything goes.
Where the only gospel isiget ahead,
And never spare friends or foes.
‘Slay or be slain,’ is the slogan cold,
You must struggle and slash and tear,
For Business is Business, a fight for gold,
‘Where all that you do is fair!”
“Business is Business,” the Big Man said,
A battle to make of earth
A place to yield us more wine and bread,
More pleasure and joy and mirth;
There are still some bandits and bucea-
ners
Who are jungle-bred beasts of trade,
But their number dwindles with passing
years
And dead is the code they made!”
“Business is Business,” the Big Man said,
“But it’s something that’s more, for more;
For it makes sweet gardens of deserts dead
And cities it built now roar.
‘Where once the deer and the gray wolf ran
From the pioneer’s swift advance;
Business is Magic that toils for man,
Business is True Romance.”
“And those who make it a ruthless fight
Have only themselves to blame
If they feel no whit of the keen delight
In playing the bigger game.
The game that calls on the heart and head,
The best of man’s strength and nerve;
Business is Buisness,” the Big Man said,
“And that Business is to serve!”
—Exchange.
SUNRISE.
Arthur Kimby said he was going to
have a good time with life.
“Why not?” he said, and laughed
at his brother working at a desk,
writing advertising.
“You work all day and work all
night and worry all year, and get no
more out of it than I do. I lunch with
somebody and dine with somebody,
and spend a week here, a week there,
a week t’other place, and toddle along
free and equal as anybody!”
He laughed at his brother and cuff-
ed him on the shoulder.
“You're getting gray hair trying to
beat the game,” he said. “What's the
use!”
“When are you leaving for Ore-
gon?” his brother wanted to know.
“Qh, to-morrow,” Arthur told him;
“or the next day.” He lit a cigarette
and winked as he blew the smoke.
“That little girl out there’s the
prettiest thing you ever saw, he said.
“Her family’s got money like a fish
has scales! Mind if I take your top-
coat?”
Arthur Kimby was tall, debonair,
the kind of man it flatters a woman to
shake hands with, an air of doing a
place just a little favor by being there
—but genially, as a good fellow
should. He wore his tailor-made
clothes so well, with such distinction,
that his tailor hardly felt free to dun
him for the money. Pin stripe, Eng-
lish tweed, a white flower—everyone
would pick him out of a crowd and
ask, “Who is the distinguished young
man!”
His brother was milder-mannered,
milder in looks, quiet, serious, an ad-
vertising man, and a good one tov.
Arthur had returned a month before
from a South American yachting
party, with only one thing to talk
about—the wealthy little American
girl he had met in Brazil. She had
sent him gay, adoring letters since, in
round young writing. His brother
had looked many times at her picture
Arthur had brought back, and had
wondered if anyone really could be as
beautiful as that, as frank and sweet
and untouched by the world. Her
father had an estate and mines in Sky
Valley, Oregon, and mines in Brazil.
“Here’s a blank check for you,
Arthur,” his brother said. “Take the
coat, and anything else you want.”
The girl who posed for magazine
pages came in, slim shiny satin, crim-
son lips, pink finger nails, black eyes;
peculiar eyes, triangular almost,
framed with heavy, blackened lashes.
“Well, good morning,” she rippled,
an odd spicy perfume filling the room.
She slid a black velvet hat back over
her head—shook out short black hair.
“Am I terribly late? I shouldn’t have
been kept out so long last night!”
She waggled a finger at Arthur,
went over to the window, and looked
out at the moving traffic of Michigan
Boulevard—gray-blue lake beyond.
“Mr. King is waiting for you,
Sonia,” Arthur's brother said. “Extra
work today.”
Arthur flecked his cigarette into a
tray on the table.
“My cue to leave,” he remarked. He
dropped a hand against his brother's
arm. “Thanks a lot for the check,
Peter.”
He crossed the room—whispered
something to the girl, kissed her cheek
lightly. His brother glanced up.
“Will I see you again, Art?” he
asked.
“Well—no,” Arthur smiled. “I
suppose not. Couple of months may-
be.” He offered his hand across the
desk.
“So long, old man.”
His brother rose.
“Good-by,” he said.
The postman at the door interrupt-
ed them. Arthur let the postman in
and let himself out. The girl at the
window looked after him.
“Arthur isn’t really going away
anywhere, is he?” she asked. :
“He’s going to Oregon to be mar-
ried,” his brother told her. “He’s very
much in love with somebody out
there.”
“Oh!” she said, and lifted her eye-
brows. “Is he really?”
Dave Dakin was a government ditch
rider—brown with wind and sun, tall,
dark-haired. Everyone knew him,
riding the ranges on his spotted
cayuse, bareheaded almost always;
riding the canyons, the mountain
trails, looking sharply to the head
gates. And everyone knew it was
prison to Dave Dakin—those canyons,
and mountains, that purple valley!
—
In the daytime he would look
through a clinging mist of sun and
clcud at all there was of distance—
pine-green hills, mountains marked
like crooked checker squares with
snow; bare chasms of rock; roads
winding up and down—up to moun-
tain camps, down to ranches with
buildings clustered like wooden toys
around solid moving herds of cattle;:i
tumbling silverblue mountain streams
across it all, like shining ribbons trim- ,
ming a garment. And Dave Dakin
hated it—the enclosing mountains,
hushed valleys, wide sky. eu
He would crack his quirt against |
his boots resentfully at the emptiness
of it—the quiet when dusk would
come, lights flickering in far windows :
of cabins, wisps of smoke trailing up.
His muscles would tighten with de-'
fiance until his pony would step rest- |
lessly. He would be sometimes on a’
mountain peak when the sun would
be coming up, rose and gold reflect- |
ing a wash of pink and sapphire on
trees, rocks, snow, fields—brighter,
brighter till almost suddenly there
would be day. And the only feeling
of Dave Dakin through that break-
ing dawn would be—impatience!
It was Dave’s father, Colonel Dakin,
who kept him in the mountains.
Colonel Dakin of old Kentucky—white
Vandyke, keen, deep eyes, a stiff leg
from the battle of Gettysburg. The
colonel, their servants, and David '.
lived in a rich old house of Southern
pattern, and the colonel grew fruit
orchards. It did not seem a life for'
a Southern colonel, whose hands had !
been trained only to gracious favor of
gentle friends. But the colonel spent
his days in orchard and hillside, alone,
hands grown rough, shoulders stoop-
ed, eyes dim, and bright with mem-
ory—but with no lament for Kentucky
—or old days—or lost dominion. It
was Dave who chafed for cities,
crowds of people, a million lights, the
flavor of chance!
The colonel would talk to him about
it. When the two were alone there in
the evenings, he would tell over and
over how Cynthia, David’s beautiful
mother, had died—a moth in the can-
dle flame of Paris. In their library
there or on the lawn in the warm,
fragrant silence, night rustling
through the apple trees—the colonel
would talk about it quietly, then bit-
terly, his hands shutting together.
“I left all I had to get you away
from that,” he would say tensely.
“You—who have your mother’s crav-
ing to gamble with luck! Your moth-
er, that lovely flower, spun New York
like a top. played with London, Vienna
—died in a palace in France! You
are your mother in every word, every
impulse,” he would say, his old voice
quavering; “so I keep you here till
you know for yourself that men make
New York and London and Paris—
and God makes Oregon!”
One day the colonel gave his son a
message:
“Martin Dorf has sent for you to
talk irrigation.”
Dave was surprised.
“Dorf!” he said. “Is he here?”
Martin Dorf’s mansion, set back in
the park of his great estate, had been
closed for fourteen years, white-pil-
lared porches, long deserted, showing
through bending trees.
That day, then, Dave went to gee
Martin Dorf—rode to the great gate,
left Rik poh, and walked up the white
gravel drive toward the mansion,
where were awnings now, gay furni-
ture on lawn and porch, lanterns
hanging in the trees, a swimming
pool. And he heard the sound of a
girl’s laughter—heard a girl’s voice
by where a clipped hedge marked off ;
the stables. |
“All right, John. We'll go for a
gallop every morning before break- |
fast,” she was saying. i
At first David saw only a man—a |
servant, a young Indian. Then across
the lawn there in the slanting shad-
ows, he saw that girl ‘whose voice he !
had heard—slim, sunny-haired, sunny |
curls, sheer white dress, creamy skin, |
bare arms—her voice warm, sweet as
sunlight on a lazy river. Presently
she turned and came directly across
the grass toward David. He went to
meet her a little.
“Please don’t think I'm trespass-
ing,” he said.
She stopped and looked up, sur-
prised. Her eyes were deep violet
blue, touched a little, it seemed, with
a brightness like tears—a tenderness
as when tears come over a smile.
“Do I know you?” she asked, frank-
ly puzzled.
“I’m David Dakin,” he told her.
“Mr. Dorf wanted something about |
the irrigation.”
“Oh, of course,” she said, offering
her hand with a sudden smile. “He
told me all about you!”
They went to the house, up the
wide porch steps, and presently there
they were together—lazy summer
chairs, the breeze ruffling her dress,
her hair, like petals of flowers. A She
told him she was eager to know Sky
Valley.
“My Indian is going to take me rid-
ing every day,” she said.
They talked about her father’s es-
tate—the cattle ranges—the great
syphon the engineers were building
over the mountains. She dropped her
handkerchief, and he picked it up for
her—a fluttering square of silk—and
he read aloud what was embroidered
on it: “Shalmir.” . So she told him
Shalmir was her name. She said they
had just come from Brazil—little vil-
lages drowsing along—the clatter of
wheels in the streets, air lazy and
fragrant with letus and manyan.
“There are flowers in the air here
too,” she said.
“Yes,” he told her. “My father’s
apple trees. All that drift of white
over there.”
“Drift of white?” she smiled’.” Do
flowers in Oregon change themselves
to snow?”
He pointed out where those orch-
ards were—the colonel’s miles of blos-
soming apple trees.
“There it is,” he said, “over there
on the foothills. A hundred acres of
apple blossoms, or a blizzard of sno
~—whichever you want?” ;
She didn’t answer for a minute;
then, as though reaching, perhaps, for
his understanding, she groped for his
hand—slipped her fingers: into his.
' most close enough to touch!
! you the color of every cloud!
“I can’t see it,” she said quietly. “I
am blind!”
The silence of that moment seemed
to Dave Dakin like a crash—a cry—
a terrific breaking apart of some-
thing! He looked into her face—her
deep blue eyes—and ii seemed to him
there was nothing in all the world he
could say! :
“It can’t be true,” he said at last,
his fingers opening, closing over hers.
“It can’t be true! Something can be
done in New York—or Paris. Some-
one can—"'
She shook her head.
“No; nothing can be done,” she said.
“I have no sight at all. We’ve been
everywhere. It really is true that
nothing can ever be done. But why
should it be ?” She smiled. “I’m hap-
py. The world is not hard to see.
I've been everywhere, and I've seen
every great thing—" Suddenly she put
her two hands against those sightless
eyes, a pitiful little gesture. “I've
seen every great thing—but one. I
can’t—I can’t see the sunrise!” Her
voice suddenly broken-—her hands up-
turned like a child’s pleading fingers.
“If I could only see the sunrise just
once,” she said pitifully. “If I could
only see once how light can come into
darkness! If only once I could bring
such a wonderful thing to my mind!
Sunrise! If only once I could see how
night can end, and day begin!”
“See the sunrise!” Dave said short-
ly. “Why, I'll take you where it’s al-
I'll tell
I'll tell
you every strip of light that comes
across the sky!” Si
She leaned closer to him—close to
his voice! He tried to bring sunrise
into his mind—find the words for it—
And then Arthur Kimby came out
of the house with two iced glasses. He
looked questioningly,
Dave Dakin staring into Shalmir’s
face—his mountain clothes, heavy
boots.
“Here’s some lime juice for you,
little girl,” Arthur Kimby said.
She turned to him quickly—reach-
ed out to him. He came and put his
hand in hers.
“Dearest, thank you!” she said, his
hand against her cheek, like a tender,
unsaid word. Dave Dakin stoop up,
feeling awkward, intruding.
“Mr. Dakin,” Shalmir said, “this is
Mr. Arthur Kimby, our guest from
the East—my fiance.”
David told his father there was no
reason why he should go to the Dorf
estate again. He said he had left a
letter telling Mr. Dorf everything nec-
essary. All that night he rode the
ranges. His father got up and looked
for him at dawn, and saw him all
alone out on Three Mile Ledge. When
at last it was breakfast time, and he !
came in, he was so silent the old
colonel asked if something was wrong.
David didn’t say anything for a
while; then he told his father he had
been thinking all night about Shal-
mir Dorf—how beautiful she was, and
how the only thing she had ever want-
ed was to see one sunrise. And he
told his father she was to be married
to Arthur Kimby.
Days went on just the same. Dave
never spoke of Shalmir again. Then,’
one night, coming down the range, he
stopped at Sky Valley Inn. Race men
from the East were looking over
property for a kite-shaped race track.
The inn was full of musie and lights,
dancing and game tables, men reach-
ing for the girls, holding them, kiss-
ing them. A man in the shadows by
where David was paid a check and
went out on the floor to dance with
a little dark-haired girl, peculiar
eyes, triangular almost—odd, spicy
perfume; and he left his wallet on the
table, and didn’t know the difference.
David picked it up and put it in his
own pocket, and on his way home he
stopped at the great Dorf house. He
asked for Shalmir and she came out
to him—pale gray dress, bright little
flowers pinned on her shoulder, amber
hair, tumbling curls caught with a
band of black velvet.
“I must say you haven’t been neigh-
borly,” she laughed; “but come in.
‘Here I am all alone—”
They went inside—the long, stately
drawing-room. Rose-colored lights
slanted across the floor, and across an
open piano. She said she’d been play-
‘ing, and David begged her to play
again. So she did—a gay little French
melody; then she sang—negro lulla-
bies, a syncopated “Who is My Sweet-
ie” something, then “Mandalay.”
She said Arthur had gone to the vil-
lage to get a book she had ordered
from Boston and her father had wan-
dered up to bed.
“It was nice of you to come,” she
said.
She brought him cigarettes, an ash
tray, and curled up in a big arm chair
under the gentle light.
“I have been waiting for you,” she
smiled, “to tell me about yout moun-
tains.” :
She said she wanted to know where
he rode—what he saw—what color
was morning and noon and night, and
the rivers and trees!
“It’s so easy to see the cities and
towns,” she said; “just a lot of brick |
and wood put together, and streets
and people scattered around. But
mountain and sky is such a bi
thought—such a wonderful thing!
I've always dreamed Sky Valley would
be the most beautiful
world!”
So it came to Dave Dakin to tell
Sky Valley he hated, to blind eyes
that wanted it the most beautiful
place in the world!
Dakin to paint Sky Valley for eyes
that would see it only as he saw it! |
For the sake of blind eyes, it came
to Dave Dakin to give God and Sky
Valley, for the first tine, their due!
And Dave Dakin did it! Told heights,
depths, valleys, dawn, day, dusk, and
night; purple chasms, pine tree for-
ests, that he never had thought of be-
fore. Caves, bear cubs, trout streams
—he thought of them for the first
time in his life; put into thoughts, in-
to words, sun and green valley,
spreading trees, space, freedom, eagle
wings, little birds in the shell!
Is Life too little or too much that
we pass these simple wonders by,
reaching always for something more!
Can Life be too small, that we need
more glory than day, night, hope, '
amusedly at,
place in the
It came to Dave
love, music, sleep, strength, a friend
or two? Can what we are reaching
for be so much greater than that? Or
perhaps is the answer that Life is too
large a treasure, trying to fit the
small minds of small men. It is cur-
ious to think how the measure of what
we have would change were we to lose
it!
Arthur Kimby came back in an hour
or so. Shalmir ran to meet him,
reached up for his kiss,
| He told her he had been gone so
long, talking politics with old Jen-
‘son, the village storekeeper.
“And your book hasn’t come yet,”
he said. “Ill go after it again to-
morrow.”
| He pulled her over to the wide
stairs, and down on his lap.
| “You're my Persian kitten,” he said,
and rumpled her hair against her
shoulder.
“You talked politics with Jenson in
the village all evening?” David
‘wanted to know.
| “Yes,” Arthur laughed. “Spent the
whole evening right there. Didn’t see
a soul but old Jenson.”
David took out of Ris pocket the
wallet he had picked up at Sky Val-
ley Inn, and put it down where Arthur
had to see it. Arthur's name was on
it. It had been Arthur that David had
seen kissing that girl.
Arthur glanced at what David put
down—Ilooked away, guilty, evasive.
“Sing something, will you, dear?”
he asked Shalmir.
While she was singing, someone
came across the porch—heavy, un-
familiar steps. Shalmir left the piano
and went to the door.
“G’d evenin,” a man greeted her, a
rasping, uncultured voice.
“Why, Mr. Jenson!” she said—sur-.
prised.
“Just fetched this here book along
out,” Jenson drawled. “It’s been to
my place a week now, and n» hide nor
hair a’ nobody comin’ after it.”
David walked past Arthur Kimby
and put Shalmir aside.
“My account book, is it?” he ask-
ed, and pressed his hand warningly
against Jenson’s lips. “Father tell
you I was over here, I suppose? Much
obliged. I'm going on home now. I'll
go along with you.”
He took a large, thick book from
Jenson’s hand—thick pages—raised
blind letters, and passed it silently
| over Shalmir’s head to Arthur Kim-
by. :
| “Good night, little lady,” he said to
, Shalmir, and took the puzzled Jenson
away.
Dave told his father he thought Mr.
‘Dorf might be interested in the road :
they were cutting down from Three
| Mile Ledge.
“I'd ike to talk it over with him
some evening soon,” Dave said.
The colonel lit a long black cigar
and tapped aristocratic fingers on the
arm of his mahogany chair.
“Perhaps Dorf’s business doesn’t
worry you as much as his daughter,”
the colonel said at last.
| “Perhaps not,” was all David &n-
swered.
| A week later, one evening, Colonel
Dakin, David and Mr. Dorf smoked
and talked, around Dorf’s library
table, about roads, mines—Mr. Dorf,
bald, plump, brusque, proved to be in-
terested in everything that was good
‘business. Shalmir’s voice eame
'thém ‘row and then from thé living-
room where she and Arthur were
playing chess.
“Yes, the road’s a good thing,” Dorf ’
said; “and the race track’s good. Sky
Valley needs a boom all over Ameri-
ca. But here’s the best thing of all!”
he found one paper aniong several in
his pocket and gave it to Dave. “You
hunt up Fifer, who’s out here from '
Chicago, and show him this project
for fruit transportation. If it don’t
hit him right between the eyes he’s
the prize turnip!”
Arthur joined them—talked cotton
with the colonel—and Shalmir came
with a little table, linen doilies, a tray
of red wine and cakes. David watch-
ed how she moved, always conscious of
Arthur—always conscious where he
sat, what he was saying. She would
drop her hand on his shoulder as she
passed him, stand beside him a min-
ute. He would glance up and say
“Hello, Tiddledewinks,” as though her
affections really quite amused him.
In the afternoon two days after
that, David drove his roadster to the
Oregon Valley Club House to see Mr.
Fifer. Fifer had gone away, but
would be back, they said. So David
waited.
A girl was there—crimson lips, pink
finger nails, an odd perfume. David
remembered she was the girl he had
seen at Sky Valley Inn. She sat in a
long porch chair and looked at David
with almost insolent eyes.
“You're the Kentuckian,” she said.
“I’ve heard about you. Why be such
a stranger?”
She told him the gay party of the
season was to be the following night.
i “The music is coming four hundred
miles,” she said, looking at him stead-
jily. “I shall give all my dances to
the tall men!”
“Well, sir,” Mr. Fifer said to David
at nine o’clock that night, his fist com-
ing down on the table, “if I can have
! Martin Dorf’s check for one hundred
thousand dollars to-morrow morning,
‘I'll put this traction deal through.
i Tell him that!”
David said he would have Mr.
Dorf’s decision within half an hour.
As he said good night to Fifer and
crossed the veranda, he saw the dark-
‘haired girl at a table in the dining-
room, laughing with Arthur Kimby.
David knew Dorf was eager to hear
about the traction deal. That little
roadster of his was used to speeding
mountain roads. The Dorf great
house was open, lighted lanterns
among the trees. Shalmir came out
to meet him,
“Hello, Dave,” she called. “I heard
your car two miles away!”
Her father came out too, glasses
over his finger, newspaper open in his
hand.
“Come in, Dakin,” he said.
in, sir!”
“I'm knitting Father a handsome
sweater, and ‘Father takes a great
deal of wool,” Shalmir laughed, to ex-
plain ‘the quantity of dark red piled
in her lap. “Arthur went to bed early
“Come
because he’s going up to Silver Gully
in the morning.”
|
David told Dorf what Fifer had
said.
“That’ll make Oregon worth more’n
Brazil to us, Honey,” Dorf boomed to
Shalmir, plumping her backward with
his fist down on a divan full of pil-
lows. “Best break we ever got! We'll
make Arthur superintendent, to
square you for this expensive knit-
ting—"’
Shalmir struggled to her feet,
laughing.
“That’s wonderful,” she said. “He
must come down and hear it. I'll call
him!”
“Oh, don’t call him,” David said
quickly. “Wait till to-morrow and
surprise him. You don’t want to get
him down now.
“Why, he’ll enjoy coming down,”
Shalmir said. “Why wait till to-mor-
row to tell him?” But as she went
toward the stairs, David strode ahead
and stopped her squarely.
“Now, listen,” he said. You're my
hostess this time!”
She stood there a minute—David
keeping her forcibly from going farth-
er; then quietly, with no word at all,
she turned back to where her father
was writing the check for Mr. Fifer.
(Continued till next week.)
The Future Home Will be Insulated.
Just as electric and telephone wires
are insulated to prevent loss of ener-
gy, so the modern dwelling house
should be well, insulated for protec-
tion against the elements. At the
Pennsylvania State College engineer-
ing experiment station a device has
been perfected for the measuring of
heat losses through any type of build-
ing wall or roof, and investigators are
strong in their belief that good insula-
tion of walls will be an important fac-
tor in all future home building.
Good insulation in a home means a
saving. of fuel, need for a smaller
furnace, a warmer house in winter
and a cooler house in summer, and a
higher rental or sale value for the
property, states E. F. Grundhofer, as-
sistant professor of experimental en-
gineering, who has made many ex-
periments in the conductivity of heat.
In the average small home the saving
in fuel should pay for the extra cost
of insulation within a few years.
Pamphlets on home insulation and
on the “Economic Use of Coal,” pre-
pared by the engineering extension
, department at the college are availa-
| ble, both at the department office and
"at the college exhibit in the Palace of
Education at the Sesqui-Centennial
where a demonstration of insulating
materials is daily attracting attention
from hundreds of householders.
Hollywood Wonders Who Will Take
the Place of Valentino.
Hollywood is speculating on what
John W. Considine Jr., president of
the company producing Rudolph Val-
entino’s pictures, will do with the
motion picture story for the life of
Benvenuto Cellini written for Valen-
tino’s next production. Cellini was a
| swash-buckling goldsmith and sculp-
j tor, a sixteenth century Florentine,
i who prided himself as much upon his
i delicious amours as he did upon his
(artistic triumphs. . Considine, it was
‘estimated, spent $100,000 in’ preparing
for the screen story of Cellini’s life.
It was a role that would have suit-
ed Valentino to perfection. Cellini
was an Italian, and Valentjno could
have interpreted with Latin ardour
and sympathy Benvenuto’s paradoxi-
cal character.
The film company was also curious
as to.what Considine will do with
Estelle Taylor, in private life, Mrs.
Jack Dempsey, who was to have play-
‘ed Valentino's leading woman in the
Cellini picture. Miss Taylor is on the
. Considine payroll at a salary running
into four figures and with Valentino
{dead it may be several months before
! United Artists can find a picture for
er.
' Three Persons to Share in Valentino’s
Million.
Rudolph Valentino’s will, which
divides an estate estimated at more
than $1,000,000 among his broth-
er, sister and Mrs. Teresa Werner,
aunt of the film star’s divorced wife.
Natacha Rambova, hasbeen filed for
probate. Natacha Rambova, known in
private life as Winifred Hudnut, is
left $1 by the terms of the will,
Pola Negri, reported to have been
| engaged to the film idol, is not men-
{tioned in the will, which was drawn
"up in September, 1925. She, however,
by the consent of Alberto Gugliemi,
is to receive the full-length portrait
of Rudolph by Beltram-Masses, the
Spanish artist. - pd
S. George Ullman, Valentino’s busi-
ness manager and named executor of
the estate, appraises the late star’s
real properties at $500,000. They in-
clude two homes, eight automobiles,
collections of armour and antiques,
a yacht, five thoroughbred horses and
twelve pedigreed dogs.
Valentino’s wardrobe is said te con-
tain forty suits, fifty pairs of shoes,
300 neckties and 1000 pairs of socks.
—Exchange.
U. S. Weather Bureau to Fight For-
est Fires. .
Washington.—A special fire weath-
er warning serivee, to be conducted by
the weather burear of the United
States Department of Agriculture in
co-operation with the forest service of
that department and various state and
private agencies and associations, has
been organized.
An appropriation of about $20,000
has been made available beginning
ed by the weather bureau.
In addition, travel expense within
the various forests will be borne by
the co-operating associations. About
three-fourths of the fund will be used
in the Western states, where the prob-
lem of forest-fire protection is most
serious. :
———The Watchman prints ali the
news fit to read.
July 1, 1926, and will be administer-
FARM NOTES.
—Successful storage of vegetables
depends upon temperature, moisture
and ventilation. These three factors
states County Agent R. C. Blaney are
closely related because moisture and
temperature may be controlled large-
ly by the amount of ventilation.
Among the vegetables requiring temp~
eratures just above freezing, an at-
mosphere moist enough to prevent
wilting and some ventilation are;
beets, carrots, turnips, salsify, par-
snips, cabbage, celery, Chinese cab
bage, endive, horsh radish, kohl rabi,
winter radishes, root parsley and
rutabagas,
Cool temperature, dry atmosphere
and plenty of ventilation are required
by onions. Warm temperature, rang-
ing from 55 to 60 degrees Fahrenheit,
dry atmosphere and ventilation are
needed for sweet potatoes, squash and
pumpkins.
In the average home the furnace
cellar will be suitable usually for the
last named class of vegetables. On-
ions may be stored in upstairs rooms
without heat or in the attic near the
chimney. Those that require cool,
moist conditions may be placed in a
cold storage cellar, preferably with
dirt floor, window for ventilation and
if in a house, separated from the furn-
ace cellar by a concrete or wooden
partition, or they may be stored in
barrel pits or trenches in the field or
in unused hotbed pits.
—DMoney spent in culling chickens
is money saved.
—Chewing insects are generally
controlled by poisoning their food.
—Grain fed to cows that are on pas-
ture now helps fill the milk pail next
winter.
—It is not too late to thin fruit on
trees that set heavily. The color, size
and general quality will be improved
by thinning.
—Acid soils need an application of
lime before seeding to alfalfa. Your
farm bureau or state agricultural col-
lege will test your soil.
—The old notion that seed runs out
if grown many years in succession on
a single farm and that new seed must
be brought in by purchase or by trad-
ing with the neighbors has been well
dispelled from the minds of farmers.
This idea was one of the worst ob-
stacles to the cause of good seed and
it took years of education and demon-
stration to convince crop growers that
it was all wrong.
Now, instead of trading seed and:
getting some of the breeding of which
is unknown and which may introduce:
weeds onto his own farm, the grower
keeps his seed clean, grows pure-bred
varieties, cleans and grades his seed
thoroughly with the fanning mill to
get rid of the small weak kernels and:
any foreign seed, and as a result has
a high grade of purebred seed adapt-
ed to his particular conditions by be-
ing grown and selected on his own:
farm.
The effort to provide farmers with
good seed, carried on by the Wiscon-
sin Agricultural Experiment associa-
tion, has not only gone far toward ac-
complishing this purpose, but has
made the State an outstanding source
of supply for seed grain.
—In some cases fall plowing in the:
orchard: can be recommended. It
tends to favor washing, of course, and
from that standpoint the advisability
of fall plowing should be considered
carefully. It is also claimed by some
that trees in fall-plowed orchards are
more likely to suffer winter-killing.
There is some question as to the real
truth about this point, but if the soif
is worked down a little with the disk
and harrow probably it will not freeze:
any deeper than it would if not plow-
ed.
—A common mistake among pro-
ducers is that of heavily feeding or
slopping their hogs just before taking
them to market. This not only makes
it mighty uncomfortable for the hog
to have to exert himself after a heavy
fill when he is accustomed to lying
down in the shade for a snooze after
his meal. It is likely to make him
sick, and also reduces his already too-
small lung capacity. The full stomach
naturally pushes forward.
—Until the calf is about one month
of age it should be fed sparingly about
four to six pounds a day. The milk
can be fed morning and evening.
Some persons prefer feeding - young
calves three or four times a day, but
this is not necessary unless the calf
is a weakling. By the time the calf
is a month old the milk can be in-
creased gradually, so that by the time
it is six weeks old it can be receiving
ten to fifteen pounds a day.
—Turkeys are naturally dainty eat-
ers. Not only as to quantity, but also
as to quality. The turkey’s food must
be eleam, or it sickens and dies. Clean
food and live meat is the lure free
range holds for turkeys. It is not
proved that they won't live and thrive
in confinement, but the flocks of tur-
keys that have thrived, though fenced
in eomparatively small quarters, have
been given free range conditions as to
fresh air, cleanliness and food.
—Extension entomologists of the
Pennsylvania State College urge or-
chardists who want to kill peach tree
borer to put para-dichlorabenzefie
around their trees before it is too
Tate. Cool, wet weather reduces soil
temperature which prevents conver-
sion of the chemical into a gas, and as
a result, complete contgol of the pests.
| —Plowing the vegetable garden in
the fall has many advantages. It per-
mits the ground to drain off earlier
and dry out more quickly in the
spring, so that the garden may be har-
rowed early and the early crops seed-
ed. The gardener who fall-plows has
a better chance of securing extra-ear-
Iy crops than the gardener who plows
in the spring, especially on the heav-
ier types of soil.