——
Beworeai fac.
Bellefonte, Pa., November 5, 1926.
TO-DAY.
“Sure this world is full of trouble—
I ain't said it ain’t
Lord! I've had enough, an’ double,
Reason for complaint.
Rain and storm have come to fret me
Skies were often gray;
Thorns an’ brambles have beset me
On the road—but, say,
Ain’t it fine to-day?
“What’s the use of always weepin’,
Makin’ treuble last?
What's the use of always keepin’
Thinkin’ of the past?
Each must have his tribulation,
Water with his wine.
Life, it ain’t no celebration,
Trouble! I've had mine—but today is fine.
“It's to-day that I am livin’,
Not a month ago;
Havin’, losin’, takin’, givin’,
As time wills it so.
Yesterday a cloud of sorrow
Fell across the way;
It may rain again to-morrow,
It may rain—but say, ain't it fine to-day ?'”’
GOD SAVE ME 20 CENTS.
Once in New Orleans an old man
who kept a public house tried his
hand at a float for the Mardi Gras. He
made pink paper into a shell, trimmed
it with rosettes, put two poles to car-
ry it, sent it in the procession, watch-
ed like a preened little cock, brought
it back, and where was it then? Up
endways in his dooryard with the
kindling!
Sailors, with snapping red whips,
red plumes, always went to the Mardi
Gras, singing, swaggering through
the crowd, paper snow, funny masks
under sailor hats, rattle boxes, feath-
er sticks. Wherever they were they
would come if they could to New
Orleans to the Mardi Gras.
And one night among the lanterns,
crowds, torches, music, a dozen sailors
straggling along, a dozen more be-
hind them, stopped to eat outside a
public house, where there were tables
on the sidewalk, cake, and chicken to
eat in their fingers.
Behind the tables iron pickets mark-
ed off a jumbled dooryard. One sail-
or looked through at the broken
chairs, boxes, crooked tails of wire
hanging from a rope where lanterns
must have been, and up endways, a
pink float, a shell trimmed with ros-
ettes.
_ “Here's a tub trumped up fancy in
here,” he called out. “Come on, let’s
help ourselves.”
The others peered in, chambered in
for the shell, came out with it, got it
up on their shoulders, and the sailor
who had seen it first climbed in with
a sack of buns in his arms, put one
on his head for a crown, puffed his
cheeks out, and sat among the ros-
etts grandly—grotesquely, the others
making fun, laughing at him with
mock applause.
But in the midst of it they saw
that instead of playing king, he was
looking beyond them, forgetting them,
looking at the inn door. They follow-
ed his eyes, and in the doorway, the
heavy door open, they saw a girl—a
slim little thing, shert brown curls, |
skimpy dress, black worn shoes, her
face against the darkness of the door- |
way like a cameo, like a flower some-
how. Eighteen she was—or nineteen
or twenty.
They stared at her a minute too;
then as if it might have been kaleido-
scope discs breaking apart, sailors
tumbled in the inn door, came tumb-
ling out again, that sailor with the
crown was pulled down by a dozen
hands, and up on their shoulders, over
the carnival, over themselves, over the
scattered tables, into the shell they
lifted that little girl—bewildered—
confused.
The crowd stopped to see who it
was—what was happening.
“Here, give her this,”
said, and reached up a rose.
How unconscious we are of what
things come to make our lives!
How beyond all our wisdom it is, !
which nothing for a moment is to be-
come the great everything finally.
The girl took it, looked into the
weaving crowd, then suddenly she
laughed, pinned the rose in her hair
and from down in the shell where the
sailor had left his sack of beans, she
began pelting right and left—laugh-
ing at everyone, pelting soft, crusty
buns. The sailors blustered and
cheered—shoved ahead through the
people—carried her on down the
street, eyes glowing, lips laughing,
face eerie in the torchlight.
And that sailor who had seen lier
first never took his eyes away from
her. He got himself near her and
there as they carried her on and on,
singing and shouting. More sailors
joined in; other people did too. They
gave her pralines, corn sticks and
tamales—toock her on and on; but at
last, after midnight, crowds lagging,
pits shows over, they put her down
with much gusto on the steps of a
street fountain, and with that little
spray behind her, water trickling over
the stone, they filled her pockets with
money and her ears with many ques-
somebody
tions.
Who was she? Where did she
live? Had she sweethearts? How
many? Did she know the way home?
What was her name? What should
they call call her? ‘
Her name was Mary, she laughed.
Yes, she knew the way home. They
bought her a doll dressed in tissue,
and at last the sailor who’d watched
her so closely went home with her
through the flickering streets and
found out she belonged to no one—
had been left at the public house—
had become just a little servant there.
He was tall, blond, shambling—hat
on the back of his head. She was so
little beside him, scarcely up to his
shoulder.
She showed him the way to get
back where they’d found her, shutters
closed now, the place deserted, the
street quiet but for a bedragged cou-
ple on a corner, making senseless
music with horns, a musette.
| ble into his arms!
And by the inn door he said good-
by to her, that doll in her arms, brok-
en streamers around her, moonlight
tangled in her hair. He watched her
pull the door open, shadows coming
to meet her, saw the door close—goud-
by. Something, nothing—good-by. So
much pipe smoke—good-by. So much
phosphorous . . . .
But along the wharf streets to the
boarding-house he lived in, and on
through the colorless hours of morn-
ing, to his mind would come first that
her name was Mary, then her hair
with the rose in it, then her hands
pelting buns, then ber worn shoes,
then her eyes in the torchlight, then
that her name was Mary, then her
hands pelting buns, then her eyes in
the torchlight, then her worn shoes,
then her hands pelting buns, then her
hair with the rose in it—her hair with
a rose in it.
And it was like the old man put-
ting his float to be kindling when in-
stead it had come to more glory than
ever. The sailor went back.
Mary came out with her little worn
shoes, her shy hands, and they went
loitering along down old, odd, crook-
ed streets. How simple we are! How
simple happniess is! We went there
again—went again. They sat in shab-
by little parks watching children play.
“Steve, why did you come back?”
she asked him once.
He put one arm across the back of
the bench, drew her head down to his
shoulder.
“Because that night with that
rose,” he said, “you were so beautiful
I had to come back. I couldn’t forget
you.”
One day he reminded her of it again
—said awkwardly she had looked like
a bride that night with that rose. He
said he wished she would be a bride,
and the next day they were married—
some questions—a clerk of the court,
Mary, little skimpy dress, little serv-
ant left at a public house, and that
tall, shambling sailor who’d stumbled
in to the Mardi Gras.
“Well,” he laughed, “I’ve got one
girl, all right, now.”
After they were married he took
her back to the inn till he could get a
leave.
“Then I'll come after my little wife
for good,” he said.
She reached up for his kiss; then
suddenly her arms clung around his
neck—hot tears, little salty drops
against his lips.
“Look, now,” he laughed—*“some
day you can cry, but not so soon!
What’s the matter—are you sorry al-
ready ?”
“I love you—I love you so,” she
tried to tell him, broken little words.
“It’s because I love you so.”
He was surprised. He never had
thought she would love him like this.
Such a quiet little wisp. Such shy
hands.
“Don’t cry now. Ill bring you a
new dress”—he petted her awkward-
ly; “then Tll show all the boys the
little wife I've got.”
They found a place to keep house
on 4 second floor, a bakery below, and
every day was happier even than the
day before it. Mary sang and scrub-
bed and mended his clothes, and she’d |
sit at the window counting hours till
he’d come. And when he did come- -
how glad she was! How she’l tum-
He would laugh
at her—his little wife. He never had
thought she would love him like this!
Cassie Lang was put into South
Heaton for sixty days for picking a
man’s pocket. She said nothing, ask-
ed fer nothing when they put her in.
While they locked the cell she went
over to the far wall and stcod watch-
ing them. She was like a painted
picture there, the bars of the windows
streaking shadows across her oval
face, and her slim body. A picture,
not of anything beautiful, but of a
stray thing like wreckage washed up
on a shore or a seared thing like a
weed on the desert.
Her hair was thin and drab, her
dress faded brown, brown lace sag-
ging on it, a blue, dingy scarf, worn
brocade slippers, the metal turned
dull, gold bangles in her ears; but in
a pitiful way she was pretty, Cassie
Lang, eyes so wide they made her
seem ill almost—white skin, plaintive
lips.
One day a sailor came to see her,
a shambling, tall, blond sailor, hands
in the odd little pockets of his pea-
jacket, white hat on the back of his
head, hair parted sideways coming
down across his forehead. He leaned
against the wall outside her cell and
crossed one foot over the other. Steve
Doren.
Cassie stood close against the bars
and talked to him so the others
wouldn’t hear.
She pulled his hands through into
hers.
“When do you ship out again,
Steve ?” she asked, watching his eyes
—that seemed to be thinking maybe
one thing about her, maybe another.
“Hongkong next month,” he told
her, leaning against the wall, one
hand through the bars where she held
it. “Women going this trip—two
Creoles—three or four whites.”
She caught his hand against her
cheek. “I want to go,” she said—
quick, short little words. “Take me!”
He looked at her, eyes half closed,
seemed to be watching how she’d take
his answer. “I’ve got a wife now,” he
said.
“Yes,” she answered shortly, “but
you haven't said good-by to me.”
“I will when I go to Hongkong,” he
said, meaning maybe one thing, may-
be another.
Cassie Lang lived in Yarm Street.
Everybody in Yarm Street knew her.
Some women spoke %o her—some
didn’t. Men passed her, looked after
her, spoke to her or avoided her. In
Bigger’s Cellar, sailors would sit
around over beer and stale food half
asleep like old men till she would fling
into the midst of them, gold earrings,
scarlet lips—start the gambling, start
the electric music—keep things going
till morning, till candles would burn
out and the dish-washer would come,
and the place would get cold. She
would help them smuggle, and steal
and lie—and Bigger would pay her for
as many hours as she stayed—the
sailors would pay her too, but she
hated everybody, she said, except
Steve Doren. Steve would follow-—
and send for—and ask for, = = -
The day she got out of prison was
the first day of spring-—tender and
warm. She shivered in the sun, pull-
ed her scarf around her and shivered
all the way to where she lived—old
Mrs. Tapman’s.
Mrs. Tapman was asleep on Cassie’e
bed, ragged shoes, dressing-jacket,
old skirt—fat, breathing out loud.
Cassie sat down in the broken rock-
er. An hour later when Mrs. Tapman
woke, Cassie was sitting there, star-
ing at the floor.
“S’help me, Cassie,” Mrs. Tapman
croaked—*“that you?”
Cassie looked up, startled, then
dropped her head to her knees and
broke into strained sobbing. Mrs.
Tapman hurried in alarm across
the room and tried to shake her, tried
to talk to her, dragged the chair to
the bed at last and got Cassie on it,
covered her, clothes and all, with a
bed quilt, hurried to the kitchen for
coffee, and brought a cup of it—black
and strong. Cassie pulled herself up
against the back of the bed.
“Prison—prison—who thinks I’ve
got out of it!” she choked. “Yarm
street is prison! Bigger’s is prison!
Steve’s going to Hongkong tomorrow
and he’s got to take me! He’s got to
take me!” She put her hands over her
face—one long, smothered breath. “If
you love somebody—that’s prison
too,” she said, her voice bitter with
hate—or love.
The next day Steve came and they
sat on the steps outside Tapman’s—
noisy street, people, wagons. He told
her he was going at four o’clock.
“But you're going to take me this
time, Steve,” she said, almost begging.
He told her he’d see her when he
came back maybe.
“Steve, let’s gamble for it,” she
pleaded. “Here’s some money. Let’s
match, Steve, to see if you’ll take me
or not.” She opened her fingers and
held out some money—pennies—a
nickel—two dimes.
“Heads I go, tails I stay, odds we
match again,” she said, her eyes
searching his face.
He didn’t answer.
“You gamble for everything, Steve,”
she said. “You gamble for money,
you gamble for ports. You always
said gamblers’ luck is the right tip.”
She caught his shoulders and dropped
her head against his arm. She put
one of the dimes in his hand and clos-
ed his fingers over it. “Head I go,
tails I stay, odds we match again,” she
begged.
“Luck never went wrong for me
yet,” Steve Doren said with an odd
little smile, meaning maybe one thing,
maybe another. “All right, we'll
match. Heads you go—tails you
stay.”
On the warped old step they put
down their hands covering those dimes
that would be the answer—drew the
hands away. It was heads!
Over the bakery Mary watched at
the window for Steve. He had said
he’d be back when he knew what time
his lugger pulled anchor. She locked
down into the street—cobblestones,
people going back and forth. She
opened the window and looked out for
a tall sailor, white hat on the back of
his head, hands in the odd little pock-
lets of his pea-jacket.
The world is only one thing, after
all. You wait for somebody. I for
somebody else. Hours, days, happi-
ness made of just one thing—if they
come for whom we wait.
The afternoon went on. First Mary
watched the clock. Then she didn’t
dare watch it. Then she didn’t dare
look in the street any more. She shut
her eyes and put her face against the
window casing. Nothing could happen
to Steve! Nothing would! She put
her hands over her eyes. Nothing
would!
Push-carts jangled by, peddlers
called, wheels rumbled. There came
a smell of warm steaming bread from
the bakery—smell of kitchen. Maybe
it was tomorrow he was going, not
today. Maybe today he was only wait-
ing down-stairs for kuchen because
it was Saturday. That was it! It
was tomorrow, not today! So she hur-
ried and set the table for supper.
A man’s step came on the stairs.
Steve? No, not Steve. She ran to
the door and saw Tom Snuck coming
up. Dirty canvas clothes—he loaded
freight at the wharves. He lived
across the street.
“My wife seen you waitin’ for Steve
all afternoon,” he said, stopping on
the stairs when Mary opened the door,
“so I thought I'd ought to tell you
Steve’s gone. And as long’s some-
body’ll tell you if I don’t—he took
Cassie Lang with him, in case you
didn’t know he was goin’ to. My
wife’ll be over to set with you after
while.”
Ha
thumped down-stairs. Mary
I shut the door. She stood in that room
and looked at the walls of it, table,
chairs, a sailor’s hat on the floor, a
sailor’s pipe on the table where Steve
had put it, the alarm-clock cracking.
You can live and die at the same time.
Cassie Lang—gold bangles in her
ears; Cassie Lang and all the sailors
on Yarm Street—and now Steve!
But Steve couldn’t go! He hadn't
said good-by! He had to come back
for his hat! He had to come to say
good-by!
Tom Snuck didn’t know! Steve
gone with Cassie Lang? Mary could
laugh at that. She’d go to the wharf
and find Steve and laugh at Tom
Snuck. She’d go to the wharf and
laugh; suddenly she was just a brok-
en flower—that clock cracking like
torture against her brain. Steve
gone—never coming—empty rooms—
empty days—not even good-by! She
must go to the wharf and find out
that Tom Snuck didn’t know—didn’t
know—didn’t know—but he did know.
Well—she would say good-by out
across the ocean to the smoke of
Steve’s ship, and stay there in the
ocean near him. If he would be look-
ing at the ocean where she would be
—that would be near him. Maybe
people who died in the ocean were
sea-gulls following ships. She would
follow his ship. Maybe souls that
came out of the ocean were sea wind.
She would go with him then-—every-
where . . ..
Mrs. Snuck would be coming. She
must hurry! Steve had left no money
—she had no money to get to the
wharf—but she could find the way.
She ran ‘down-stairs to the street;
there were people waiting in the bak-
ery for kuchen for Saturday. She
hurried past every one in the crowd-
ed market, past people with baskets—
roasts, vegetables. How senseless
people were, how stupid—going on
with roasts and vegetables—and Steve
gone—never coming back!
How odd it is—the little mole-eyed
world we live in! A woman picking
out beef—such an important thing,
this piece or that piece! And a little
girl hurrying past to die!
Nearer the wharves came that smell
of salt water, gas-lights, long sheds,
hoarse. whistles, chugging freight
boats. Someone came into the street
with an armful of flowers—warm,
cool smell of flowers—and Mary saw a
window where flowers were for sale,
all kinds of flowers, trailing vines,
purple lilies—and roses—“Roses twen- |
ty cents” it said—roses—Steve and
the Mardi Gras.
“Steve, why did you come back?”
“Because that night, with that rose,
you were so beautiful I had to come
back. I couldn’t forget you.”
She touched a rose that bent against
the window.
“If I had twenty cents”—she caught
her hands against her lips—poor little
mind groping back to happiness—‘“for
roses just this once again—if I only
had twenty cents—” Almost sobbing,
she went on in the dark past wharf
sheds, weak yellow lights, odd shad-
ows—saying over and over like a ma-
chine that stumbles on one place,
“twenty cents—twenty cents—twenty
cents .,, .”
A watchman was down there, an
old man with an old lantern, in a dim
shed, his lamp burning crookedly; the
chimney smoked.
He saw her peering in his window.
Had the John Burns gone to Hong-
kong? Yes. Did he know Cassie
Lang? He wagged his head. When
he seen her—yes. Steve Doren? Big
Steve? Yes. Had Cassie gone—with
Steve Doren? Well, he did see her
with him— carryin’ a lump o’ clothes :
—yes.
He was drinking coffee out of a
bucket. He didn’t watch her or fol-
low her. She went on farther—water
rocking in against the wharf posts—
dim lights like ghosts of lights. Sud-
denly she was afraid. She couldn’t
wait any longer! She couldn’ think
any longer! She sat down against a
post—caught a rope that was around
it—felt the water touching her feet
looked to be sure the old man wasn’t
coming; and then—almost by her
hand, by that rope there—was—twen-
ty cents! Two dimes pressed by feet
down into the soggy wood. She star-
ed at them, picked them up, held them
—two dimes! All she had wished for,
had prayed for! Go back to buy
roses when she was going to die!
What a foolish thing! Go back to
buy roses—but it was for Steve! And
she’d prayed for twenty cents, and
here was twenty cents. Would she
dare not go back? Would she dare
not go back?
So Mary Doren went back to those
roses in the window, bought them for
twenty cents, and went out into the
street again along by he buildings
again, across the shadows. Then she
heard the door back in that flower
stall thrown open, saw a shaft of
light out over the sidewalk, and the
man—with no hat, no coat—coming
out, looking up and down the street.
Almost at once he saw her, crowded
against a high brick wall.
“Here!” he called. “Wait!”
He started after her! Why was he
coming after her? She didn’t know,
but no one must stop her!
She kept along the wall close to the
darkness, the man coming after her
along the wall too! Frightened, she
caught at the bricks, then suddenly al-
most fell into an open space—an area-
way.
The man, running, was close behind
her. He turned a flash-light ahead of
him—saw the opening, the areaway,
knew it was where she had stopped
-—where the sound of her feet had
stopped. And he turned the flash
squarely in that open space—that air
shaft of a building checkered with a
hundred dark windows, solid brick.
No way out!
But there was nothing there—no-
body!
Little mole-eyed worlds—woman
picking out roasts; watchman drink-
ing coffee in a bucket; Mrs. Snuck
keeping baked beans warm—“Yes, as
soon as there’s a light I’ll take them
right over;” luggers shipping to
Hongkong; sailors in Bigger’s Cellar
sprawling over tables; old Mrs. Tap-
man asleep in Cassie Lang’s bed,
dressing-jacket, old skirt; but sud-
denly someone pounding, beating on
her door, keyhole rattling, latch sput- |
tering—until in the streaked light of |
a flaring gas flame Mrs. Tapman woke
startled, caught at the bedcovers,
stared at the door.
“What's wanted?” she called out.
She reached for her shoes. No
answer but that pounding again. She
got up, shuffied across the room and
opened the door. A man was there, in
shabby clothes.
“You've got to come some place,” Le
said; “somebody’s shot!”
Mrs. Tapman caught at the door.
“Barney! Is it Barney?”
She had a son. A boy who was
twenty-two.
“I don’t know nothing,” the man
said, “only that I was sent for you.”
She went with him down the street,
catching her dress at the neck, her
hands shaking, her face yellow; fol-
lowed him into the grime of an alley,
out on a street, across to a high brick
wall, through a gaping crowd gath-
ered around the door of a building and
inside the building, where he took her
through a hallway, past heavy closed
doors, to a room in which a dozen
men, silent, sullen, were standing with
a police guard—and on the floor,
stark-white, Barney Tapman—and
somebody else—a girl—tumbled curls
—broken roses caught by their thorns
on her dress—the floor stained with
thick dark red!
Mrs. Tapman knelt heavily, sobs
chocking her, and put her hands on
Barney’s face. Doctors came—white
coats—stretchers—took the two away.
Barney was hurt, but he wasn’t dead,
the girl wasn’t dead, and they said
another who'd been taken away first
wasn't dead.
The safe had uncut jewels in it, and
jade brought over on the Orient Line.
A policeman told Mrs. Tapman the
| trouble had been because Barney had
{ shot an officer, and the girl, who had
tried to get away.
| Such a white room—such a white
bed—such white things—white people
| coming, going—a window full of the
leaves of a tree. But all of it some-
how over the bakery, with a smell of
steaming bread, socks to mend, Steve
' playing solitaire on the table laugh-
'ing and snapping the cards down by
the corners—*“All the aces tryin’ to
kid me!” Tom Snuck coming upstairs.
{ Then again it was ship deck at
night and a thousand stars—a thou-
sand, million, trillion stars—white
i walls,- white sky, and-a million stars.
Steve sitting there with Cassie Lang,
snapping stars down by the corners.
But the ship was too far for good-by
now! She could never see the smoke
lof it now! Sea-gulls or wind could
never find him now! Even the ocean
. would not be near to him now! Noth-
ing was near but Cassie Lang—Cassie
Lang, ...
Shall we send for anybody? the
doctor had asked. No. You haven’t
any people? No.
Somebody wants to come to see you.
Mrs. Tapman wants to come to see
you. Mrs. Tapman. Who is that?
Why should anybody come or not
come 7—Steve is gone just the same.
But when Mrs. Tapman had asked
about the little girl who had been shot
they had told her.
So. Mrs. Tapman came and sat by
her bed. She didn’t have any folks?
Well, that was too bad. Was she in
pain? No? Did she want anything?
No? Such little hands. The covers
should be smoothed out! Barney
couldn’t stand a wrinkle in the covers.
Barney’s got in bad company. He'd
be good, though, if they’d give him an-
other chance now. Maybe when Mary
got in a wheel-chair she’d come to see
Barney. He was so restless and lone-
some.
One day, then, Mrs. Tapman took
Mary in a wheel-chair to the ward
where Barney was. He shrugged his
shoulders.
“What’s the use of me gettin’ well
when there’s cops for me outside any-
way? She’s the lucky one.” He jerk-
ed his thumb to the next bed.
A girl was there—pale, still as a
wax image, hands transparent, it
seemed—so white—eyes closed, lips
barely moving with her breath.
“It was her who was on the look-
out,” Barney said. “It was her the
‘cops got first. She’s lucky—passin’
in her checks. They won't send her
no place!” He brushed his hand
across his eyes. “She’s a square kid,”
he said. “Took the shot so we could
get away. Maybe you heard of her
before—Cassie Lang.”
Mrs. Tapman scuffed freightened
Lore the silent rubber floor of th:
all,
“Hurry,” she gasped, “the little girl
from up-stairs has fainted!”
Cobweb lines between dreams and
real! Life no more a crystal maze
i than dreams are. We think we know
where dreams leave off and life be-
‘gins, but—semetimes which is the
masquerade ?
| So Steve had not taken Cassie Lang
| after all! Not on the deck under the
stars after all! Not laughing down
at her, teasing her after all! Little
mole-eyed worlds! Cassie Lang al-
most beyond the gate, and Mary’s
heart tumbling, throbbing with joy.
Now the dreams would be real and the
real only dreams! Oh, the cobweb
line between!
So Mrs. Tapman found out whe she
was then. Steve Doren’s little wife.
And Cassie Lang asked to see her.
Mary was afraid to go. It seemed
wicked to go—she so happy, and Cas-
sie Lang almost beyond the gate. It
seemed wicked to go to Cassie Lang
now and be tumbling with joy.
Cassie looked a long time at Mary's
face. Mary held Cassie’s hand in both
hers.
{ “I wanted to ask you,” Cassie said,
her voice almost a whisper, “to tell
I Steve I'm sorry I wasn’t on the level.
I knew he didn’t want to take me, but
it seemed like I had to go. He hated
me when he found what I did, but ask
him to forgive me. Tell him I never
' played a game crooked before, but it
- seemed like I—had to go this time—"
| One day Mary Doren, over the bak-
‘ery, working around the house—that
{ smell of warm, steaming bread from
. below!—heard Steve Doren coming
| up-stairs. She shut her eyes not to
see him too soon— put her hand over
her lips not to cry out loud. He held
her, clung to her, kissed her, rocked
‘her in his arms. He’d been ashamed
to come back for good-by that day,
' but every minute had been only worn
shoes—her eyes in the torchlight—
her hair with a rose in it.
She hurried and set the table for
supper. They went down together for
kuchen; there were people waiting, a
man and woman talking about noth-
ing—yes, the day had been too warm
today. Then the man saw Mary—
looked at her—looked at her—then he
! crossed to where she was.
“Was it you came into my place one
night and bought roses for twenty
cents 7” he asked.
That night coming back again!
“Yes,” she said. “Why did you
come into the street and follow me?”
He looked at her oddly, fumbled in
his pocket, and brought out two dimes.
“I went after you,” he said, “to find
out what you were doing with money
like this.” :
Mary stared. Steve reached for the
coins—held them in the light—exam-
ined softly. 5
“How did you get these, sweet-
heart?” he asked a little sharply.
Her eyes filled with tears. “I pray-
ed,” she said, “and God gave me twen-
ty cents.”
Steve handed them back te the man
with the basket.
“Cassie Lang threw those dimes
away on the wharf when I went to
Hongkong,” he said.
I prayed—and God gave me twen-
ty cants!
Mysterious way of wonders!
Cassie Lang, the rag of Yarm
Street, and a pair of dimes—with
heads on both sides!—By Dixie Wil-
son.
—Subscribe for the “Watchman.”
FARM NOTES.
—The laying hen never loafs.
—A silo is the lighthouse on the
farm.
—Farmer success follows the three
1s limestorie, legumes and live
stock.
—There’s nothing to that old idea
Pos silage causes a cow’s teeth to fall
out.
. — Volunteer wheat makes a conven~
ient food and home for the early Hes-
sian fly—destroy all volunteer grain..
—-Corn harvested for seed in an im-
mature condition is lower yielding
than seed harvested after it has ma-
tured, according to results of experi-
ments conducted by crop specialists
in the experiment station of the col-
lege of agriculture, University of Illi-
nois.
Seed picked in the milk stage is es-
pecially undesirable for seed, the
tests showed. When planted early,
seed harvested at husking time pro-
duced 49.8 bushels an acre, that picked
when mature produced 49.1 bushels,
that harvested in the dent stage 46.5
bushels, and that harvested in the
milk stage 45.9 bushels. When plant-
ed the middle of May, seed from ma-
ture corn showed less superiority than.
it did when planted early. However,
when planted the last of May, seed
from mature corn again demonstrated
its higher yielding power. Inocula-
tion of the seed at planting time with
one of the organisms causing the
scutellum rot disease caused a slight
but insignificant reduction in yield
when the immature seed was planted
later. Immature seed corn did not
show this susceptibility to scutellum
rot, however, when it was planted at
an early and intermediate date.
—Mange, one of the most injurious
skin diseases affecting horses, may be:
cured by dipping the animals in a
lime-sulphur dip or in a nicotine so-
lution. Efficacious dips for horse lice:
are the arsenical, coal-tar creosote
and nicotine dips, according to Farm-
ers’ Bulletin 14-98, “Lice, Mange and
Ticks of Horses and Methods of Con-
trol and Eradication,” just issued by
the United States Department of Ag-
riculture.
The most frequent means of infes-
tation with lice is direct contact with
lousy animals. The parasites are car-
ried from one animal to another on
currycombs, brushes, harness, saddles
and other equipment. Lice on horses:
increase very rapidly during cold
weather when the hair on the animals.
is long, but when the horses shed
their hair in the spring the parasites
seem to disappear.
None of the dips for treating horses
can be depended upon to kill all the-
lice at one dipping, according to the
author of the bulletin. The “nits” or
eggs which survive the first dipping
produce a new generation of lice.
This new generation should be de-
stroyed by a second dipping as soon
as hatching is completed and before
the young lice become mature and be-
gin depositing eggs. Two dippings
with an interval of from fourteen to
sixteen days can usually be relied
upon to eradicate both sucking and
biting lice.
It is advisable to dip the animals in
the fall before the coming of cold
weather. Biting lice can be eradicat-
ed with sodium fluoride applied in the
I form of a powder or mixed with water
in the proportion of about one ounce
to one gallon.
The bulletin contains considerable in-
formation relative to lice, mange and
| ticks and means of control. A copy
i of the publication may be obtained
i free, while the supply lasts, upon re-
i quest to the Department of Agricul-
jars, Washington, D. C.
—The abundance of chinch bugs,
lone of the most destructive native
| pests attacking American grain and
| grass crops, is determined by climatic
| conditions, systems of farming and
the presence of natural enemies, says.
the United States Department of Ag-
riculture. The weather is the chief
factor in the increase of the bugs to a
; point where they become seriously de-
i structive to crops, according to Farm-
ers’ Bulletin 1498-F, “The Chinch Bug
and How to Fight It,” just issued.
The chinch bug fortunately does not
feed on any of the legumes. Other
crops immune from its attack are sun-
flowers, rape, stock beets, buckwheat,
pumpkins, squashes and all of the so=
called truck or garden crops except
sweet corn.
The most practical methods of con-
trol consist of (1) burning the bugs
in their winter quarters, (2) avoiding
their attacks by growing crops on
which they do not feed, and (3) kill-
ing them by the use of barriers,
sprays and dusts at the time of the
small-grain harvest. Numerous other
methods of control have been tried at
various time, and although some
bugs can be killed by most of them,
the three just mentioned are the only
means that have proved really prac-
ticable and effective. Two of the most
important natural enemies of the bug
are the so-called white fungous dis-
ease and a tiny wasplike egg parasite.
Because of uncertainty as to the dura-
tion of the chinch-bug outbreak, how-
ever, it is never safe to depend upon
natural agencies to prevent losses.
Where chinch bugs become persist-
ently abundant it is recommended
that the acreage of small grains, espe-
cially wheat, be reduced as much as
practicable and the land sown to re-
sistant or immune crops, particularly
legumes. Legumes, such as red and
sweet clovers, alfalfa, vetch, soy beans
and cowpeas, need not be grown by
themselves, but may well be planted
in small grains and corn where praec-
ticable.
A copy of the bulletin, containing
detailed information concerning the
chinch bug and its control, may be ob-
tained free, while the supply lasts,
from the United States Department of
Agriculture, Washington, D. C.
—Removing the harness at noon
and washing the work horse’s should-
ers with cold water adds materially
to his efficiency.