RO
‘As she said,
= Ee @ i,
+ i
Bellefonte, Pz., September 380, 1927.
TN
THE LITTLE RED ROOSTER AND
THE OLD BLACK HEN.
‘Said the little red rooster, “Gosh all hem-
lock, things are tough.
Seems that worms are getting scarcer, and
I cannot find enough.
What's become of all those fat ones is a
mystery to me.
There were thousands through that rainy
spell, but now where can they be?”
The old black hen who heard him didn’t
grumble or complain;
.8he’d gone through lots of dry spells, and
had lived through floods of rain.
‘So she flew up on the grindstone, and she
: gave her claws a whet,
“I’ve never seen
there wasn’t worms to get.”
the time
She picked a new and undug spot; the
earth was hard and firm.
The little rooster jeered, ‘new ground,
. that’s no place for a worm.”
The old black hen just spread her feet;
she dug down fast and free.
“I must go to the worms,” she said, “the
worms won't come to me.”
The rooster vainly spent the day, through
habit, by the ways,
‘Where fat, round worms had passed in
squads, back in the rainy days.
When nightfall found him supperless, he
growled in accents rough,
“I'm hungry as a fowl can be—conditions
sure are tough.”
He turned then to the old black hen and
said, “It’s worse with you,
For you're not only hungry, but must be
tired, too.
I rested while I watched for worms, so I
feel fairly perk.
But how are you? Without worms, too?
And after all that work ?”
The old black hen hopped to her perch
and dropped her eyes to sleep!
And murmured in a drowsy tone,
“Young man, hear this and weep :
Tm full of worms and happy, for I've din-
ed both long and well.
The worms are there as always—
But I had to Dig Like Hell.”
] y —Author Unknown.
MOORINGS.
When Whartonby was a small boy
Ie fell over the brass fender in his
ather’s study face forward into the
fire. That was why at twenty-seven
the Congo forest trails knew the
white gleam of his helmet and the
patter of the bear brown feet of his
bearers. That was why forty certain
geographical societies, certain geolog-
ical associations in London, announced
to their patrons the lectures of an
English gentleman with several cap-
ital letters after his name. That was
why at fifty it was Whartonby’s wont
to- sit alone in Kensington Gardens
and watch the younger fellows hoist-
ing sail for foreign ports Round Pond.
With their schooners tucked comfort-
ably under their arms they would,
lurch down to the water’s edge, and
cargoes would be stowed with efficien-
cy and dispatch, running gear
would be overhauled, small boats
shipped, and davits swung inboard,
for there was sure to be a bucketful
of kind before the trip was over.
Whartonby had followed this prac-
tice for more years than he cared to
think about. With his hat pulled over
his eyes he became an observer. He
became so adept that he was able to
tell what sort of a mother a boy had
by the way the boy approached the
business in hand, the business of ships
on Round Pond. His heart went out
to those ship-captains who wet their
feet and looked apprehensively at a
slippered lay sitting on a bench be-
neath a lace parasol. He openly en-
vied those who shouted explanations
of their activities to ears that seem-
ed always listening to hear when the
voyage would begin; and the 'sea-
captain who was uniformed in blue
and white galatea, whose companion
called from her bench, “Whenever do
we come to the moyth of the Orino-
co?” or “Isn’t it about time we pick-
ed up the Lizard?” set astir in him
a sensation almost amounting to pain,
was so keenly jealous of his good for-
tune.
It was, of course, inevitable that
he should concentrate his attention
upon these two, for it was they whom
he most envied. The lady’s bearing
bad a quality which interested him
from the first, a sort of eager re-
straint, as if she were always expect-
Ing something delightful to occur in
Just a moment, but feared lest some
one should discover her to be too
frankly joyous in anticipation, and so
was ever veiling the smiles behind
her eyes. Dressed with the most
fastidious good taste, the simplicity
of her attire gave her tall form dis-
tinction. Her hands were strong and
beautiful, moving, it seemed to Whar-
tonby, with a sort of gay agility
above a bit of lace crochet that ap-
parently had no beginning and no
end. She and her young explorer,
with his schooner under his arm,
would appear at almost the same mo-
ment every day when it was not too
wet to sit in the open, and strolling
slowly to Round Pond would discuss
such matters as might vertain to
voyages of discovery. They had a
small woolly dog on a leash, the loop
of which was slipped over the lady’s
arm at the elbow, and this little crea-
ture seemed possessed of the same
quaint restraint which pervaded the
personality of the lady herself, for it
neither strained forward against the
leash nor fell behind, but kept a light
steady pressure upon the collar, mov-
ing with a kind of diminutive decor-
um which amused Whartonby very
much. It became his habit to await
the coming of these three, to watch
them for an hour before darkness
drove him to his club, where, if he
was not joined by some “damned old
derelict like himself,” as he called
them, he found that he was apt to
ponder pleasurably all that he had ob-
served the lady to say and do upon
that particular occasion. The regu-
larity with which they came and went,
winter and summer; their absorption
in each other, as if she had no eyes,
indeed, for any other fellow; those
days when her cheery shout of
“Whenever do we come to the mouth
of the Orinoco?” seemed to ring with
something very like dismay; the fact
that the blue-striped galatea uniforms
were now certainly several sizes too
small for their doughty wearer, all
provided him with ample material for
conjecture. Days when they did not
appear at Round Pond became days
of anxiety. Could anything untoward
have happened to them? When they
finally arrived he began to fancy that
they were late, he was annoyed with
them, the moment he saw them safe
and sound for having given him need-
less and unjustifiable anxiety. Then
the absurdity of the thing would flash
over him and he would smother a
laugh. One would suppose he had a
right to these three—like pantomine
clowns who, when he clapped his
hands, played their small act for his
entertainment and were gone. He
mused for a time upon comparative
possession, After all, as little as he
own them, he owned them more than
he would ever possess any other boy
and his mother. The unconscious
grouping of himself with them gave
him a companionship of spirit which
he valued the more because of its ob-
security. He became fearful that they
would - see him watching them and
would perhaps move their activities
to some other place. The possibility
of this drove him to various small
deceptions. Concealment became of
paramount importance. He dared not
risk a single exchange of glances with
the boy’s mother for fear she would
become aware that his presence was
too regular; and he could not face
that look which he had seen in the
eyes of children when they gazed up-
on his own misshapen visage. -
He decided upon some shooting in
Scotland, and after a month on the
hills he thought of his obsorption in
those three devotees of Round Pond
as really imbecile. Nevertheless,
when afternoon came the second day
of his return he found himself seek-
ing the bench where he had used to
watch them from behind the great
forsythia-bush. They did not appear.
And, fearing that he would drift back
again into his attitude of dependence
upon them, he deliberately avoided
the place for a week. Then, pretend-
ing to himself that he was not look-
ing for them, he wandered down the
path and sat with his back to Round | too.’
Pond. After a while he got up irrit-
ably and was about to walk away
when he saw her, on a different bench
across the pond, holding the little
dog, alone. Instantly something
seemed to strike him near the heart.
She could not possibly be sitting there
alone unless—unless—for this was
Christmas Eve! No mother sat alone
in Kensington Gardens on Christmas
Eve—unless— Suddenly he heard him-
self grinding the grayel beneath his
heel, standing before her with his hat
dragged off and his lips saying: “Oh,
my God! Oh, my God! Has he been
lost at sea? In the mouth of the
Orinoco 7”
She did not even seem surprised.
She covered her face with her hands
and did not answer. He stood there
turning his hat round and round. And
presently she said: “No, he isn’t dead.
He’s not all mine, you see.”
Whartonby stood still and groped
about his mind in confusion.
“What on earth do you mean?” he
said at last. “Aren’t you his moth-
er?”
“Oh, yes!” she answered.
The face that looked up at him
seemed to float against the back-
ground of gathering dusk. He felt
a dumb desire to serve it. And he
heard himself saying insanely:
“I wish you would let me buy you
a fur.”
Years before, he had watched a
wide-shouldered young man accom-
panied by a tall girl in blue serge
entering a furrier’s shop, to return
not long afterward with a luxuriant
pelt of silver fox about the latter's
throat. He never forgot the look on
both their faces. They had always
seemed to him, since, the king and
queen of all creation.
“I—I beg your pardon?”
“lI was saying that I wish you
would let me buy you a fur,” he said
in confusion.
“A fur—?” she said, and a slow
smile came floating up to him. “Is
this one so bad as that?”
“She’ll think me an escaped luna-
tic,” he thought; and then, aloud:
“I'm afraid I’m confused—forgive me.
I saw one bought once. It made an
impression. I always wanted to buy
one—a silver fox preferably. Could
you tell me what has happened to
your boy? You confessed, I think, to
being his mother.”
“Of course,” she admitted.
Was the woman without human un-
derstanding ?
“You seem to forget that, while
you know what has become of him, I
do not!” he said severely.
“But you are wrong,” she answered
almost humbly; “if I knew what had
become of him I would have told you
at once.”
“What on earth do you mean?” he
said angrily. “You say you're his
mother?”
“I am, of course, his mother. But,
you see, that rather means that he
has, of course, a father.”
Having stumbled upon his omission
of this thought on his part, Wharton-
by was staggered. With a kind of
reluctant mistrust he grudgingly ad-
mitted the existence of this compli-
cation. Then he said impatiently:
“Well, what of it?” °
Her lips trembled. .
“Only, that his father is not—is not
fond—of me,” she said.
“What!” he cried stupidly.
“I had gone to our lodging for his
coat—I was only gone about ten min-
utes in all. He was making the voy-
age to the Orinoco. When I came
back he was gone.” :
“You mean he was kidnapped? By
his father?”
“Yes.”
“But why should you think that?”
“Because it has happened before.”
“Good Lord! What have you done
about it?”
“Nothing. He'll bring him back.
He always does. Only, it’s almost too
much, nothing knowing when. You
see, I can’t tell where they've gone.
His father is a skipper, too—skipper
of a collier. Perhaps they have fone
to—oh, they ' might be anywhere.
There’s nothing to be done but wait.
He'll bring him back—he gets tired of
him. He only does this to torture—
me.’ ;
Whartonby experienced a feeling of
breathlessness as he was plunged into
Fealms, of which he hitherto had
essed nothing.
Sen take good care of him, I have
no doubt,” he said vaguely.
She gave him a look of utter sup-
plication.
“You don’t think he’ll—he’ll get to
like the life, do you? It’s in him, you
see, to like the sea, to want the ships.
You don’t think the time will come
when he won’t want to come back?”
Whartonby recoiled from the
thought, which suddenly appeared
perfectly possible. Aloud he said:
“Of course not; I couldn't forget
you myself.”
And he knew that this was true.
The whole thing seemed utterly un-
real to him. The idea of her just ac-
cepting the situation as she had ac-
cepted it before was too fantastic.
Things didn’t happen that way any
more. There were telephones, tele-
graphs, cables, the police. People
could protect themselves from this
sort of thing. He would take steps:
But the moment he suggested such a
thing to her she said: “Oh, no! no!
Please do nothing at all. It would
anger his father and make trouble,
He would reach me in some other
way, through Johnny; perhaps even
a worse one.”
“Surely no one could be such a |
devil,” Whartonby said; “surely you
have done nothing to deserve such
treatment.”
“I've done nothing wrong, if vou
mean that,” she answered. “But I've
always maddened him. You know
there are some men whom women
instinctively fear. It was so with me
from the beginning. There was al-
ways somethng in his nature which
beat me to my knees. And although
I hid it from him as best I could, he
always knew it, and it made him de.
spise me.” ;
“That must have been because he
knew what a bully he was, what a
bluff he was. He probably knew that
there was little enough in him to
fear,” he answered.
“I don’t know,” she said uncertain-
ly: “there was a power about him,
0.
Whartonby groaned. He had seen
this situation from afar more ‘than
once—it disconcerted him.
“Do you know the collier’s name ?”
he asked; “we could at least keep
track of it, perhaps, in the papers.”
She shook her head.
“How do you manage?” he asked
her gently.
“I have a position,”
“I teach music.”
“Would you care to give vour hus-
band’s name 7”
She eave it in a low voice. “Please
do nothing,” she said.
But when he left her he immediate-
ly took steps to discover with what
company and in command of what
ship her husband was, and to what
port that ship had sailed which bo
“the skipper” and his father onthe’
high seas. i.
S. 8. Saturnia. That was th ship,
at least.
Whartonby traced the whereabouts
of an obscure collier by diligent search
of the shipping news and occasional
application to the officials of a certain
transatlantic line who wondered what
in the world could interest old “Con-
go” Whartonby in the location of one
of their tramp steamers. Three
months after he had found her alone
by Rond Pond he was sitting over his
coffee looking through the shipping
news when he came upon an item
which sent him striding from the
room and out into the darkened
streets.
“S. 8. Saturnia sinks off Queens-
town, after collision in fog.”
Going to Round Pond he stood look-
ing down into the dark water, upon
which a film of ice was forming. In-
to this merciless and immutable ele-
ment had disappeared all that made
the warmth and meaning of life for
that poor lonely creature who had
come here with the small, wooly, de-
corous dog every day of her bereave-
ment. She, at least, had not recoiled
from the sight of his disfigurement.
Was that because there was in her
some unseen scar, some accident to
her spirit as definite as the actuality
which had befallen him in the fire?
If she had felt any repugnance at the
sight of his ravaged features, how per-
fect had been her consideration. He
had not thought of himself as maimed
or even marked since first they began
to talk to one another.
And all his gratitude came rushing
to his face, so that he felt he must
find her and let her see it at once.
But now what must be done? He
congratulated himself for having
foreseen this possibility and withheld
the fact that he was following the
ship’s whereabouts. Now at least, if
she did not happen to see the item in
the news herself, he would have time
to think how best to soften the blow.
“He has had him longer than ever
before, now,” she said next day when
he came to their rendezvous in the
late afternoon, “ but he always brings
him back. He'll be at my lodgings
one of these days.”
And Whartonby detected a note of
something amounting almost to af-
fection in her voice in speaking of the
brute who was subjecting her to this
damnable ordeal.
“Do you mean to say you don’t hate
the man?” he demanded in acute ir-
ritation.
“Sometimes I do. Not when I re-
member he’ll surely bring Johnny
back, though.”
“What a child of basic instincts you
are!” he muttered.
She smiled. He did not know that
type of woman whose heritage is ac-
ceptance. That smile of hers! He
felt that it was too mon-combatant.
Such a nature is too easily robbed. He
was tempted to chide her. But the
thought of all she was to endure be-
fore long smote him. Yet each day
that passed he postponed even so
much as preparing her for the end.
A week and then two weeks went by.
What if she reproached him for with-
holding the news when he broke it at
she replied.
‘last. After all, she had a right to
that very afternoon. “And that after-
noon she did not come.
days he haunted the place. Finally,
making up his mind to face her righ
eous indignation, he called at
remember. In response to his ring
summers opened the door. He had
stand, for he discovered her to be a
foreigner.
but when,
ing by asking the question in several
kinds of patois,
brightly and said,
Finnish people,” he gave up in des-
air.
“Lady,” he said slowly, “very tall—
‘dog’ ”
her mother tongue,
Then suddenly she
whipser of awe, “Yes, yes—she die—
she dead,” and looking cautiously be-
hind her closed the door in his face.
laughing loudly.
at the door, and then with a sensation
:such as he had never known he went
back to Round Pond. What could have
happened? Had she found out the
itruth? Of course. Madness on his
part to have supposed that it would
not eventually have reached her.
| Whartonby was convinced she had
destroyed herself. And almost im-
| mediately he went to Scotland in
| search of equability of mind, for the
| whole affair had stirred him more than
.he cared to admit. The obscurity of
ithe tale only seemed to make its
‘pathos deeper. It followed him to
: Scotland. And there he began to be
honest with himself at last. This
pain within his soul meant but one
thing. The woman whom he loved was
dead. In his case the normal order of
i things had been reversed, that was all.
| To most'men love came first and death
. brought bitter sense of loss; to him
{death had come first and knowledge
of love after. But the bereavement
was the same.
He thought of the absurd way he
had blurted out his longing to wrap
her in warm furs! How quaintly
amused she had been at his uncouth-
ness. But she had been gracious, she
had put him always at his ease. He
thought of how they might have been
together, in a thousand ways: at the
play, and at dinner, bending toward
one another over the small golden
table with its fruit and napery; mo-
toring perhaps on a summer even-
ing, down to Devon, where they could
smell the sea; lying on the downs in
the burning sun, warmed less by its
rays than by this companionship,
which diffused its warmth and glow
about them everywhere. For days he
imagined himself busy with the dear
business of her service. And then,
finding suddenly that he was totally
devoid of philosophy, utterly without
refuge from his sense of loss, he went
back to London in despair. Not
enough to remember that his love had
not the least chance of being return-
&d even “'if ‘she Had lived: She had
‘been the one lyric note in his singu-
larly inarticulate existence. In some
fashion, coming to that place with the
become the day’s completion. As a
some bucy of the outer seas and drift-
ed noiselessly up the wind, till, in the
the mooring made, and he rode the
tide secure, at rest, for one more
night. It had been, perhaps. only a
little thing to hold to. But that only
made the similitude the clearer. With-
out this tie he felt old, without di-
rection, adrift.
For weeks he avoided Round Pond
with its poignance of association. But
cn Christmas Eve the hour and sea-
son found him strangely lonely, and
he deliberately sought the place with
the intention of recapturing the very
things that gave him pain to recall.
Coming down the familiar path he
mused on the indifference of Nature.
Everything was the same—just the
same except for her presence. There
were the usual explorers with their
ships; the same little busy figures
bending over the rim of the Pond; one
of them was squatting on its heels,
and one—one
him! He strode suddenly forward to
meet it, filled with ga tremendous
amazement.
“Oh, sir! How d’you do?” The
small straight figure stood before him
shyly. “We haven't seen you for a
long while, sir. I'm glad you’re back.
Whartonby made one long step to
the nearest bench and crumpled down
onto it as if some one had kicked his
out uncertainly and drew the boy
down beside him.
“Where, in God’s name, did you
come from? Out of the sea?” He
groaned.
The boy settled himself comfort-
ably beside him, and shook his head.
“From Liverpool,” he said simply.
“But how? When?”
“When Mrs. Twigham wanted her
money.’
“Mrs. Twigham ?”
“Yes. My pater left me with her
in Liverpool. She keeps house for
him. I hate her. She’s fat.”
“But why didn’t you write us—
write to your mother? All of this
tragedy might have been avoided had
you written one word. I could have
come to fetch you home to her.”
“Mrs. Twigham had orders about
my writing to Mum. The pater was
going to bring me back as usual as
soon as the ship got in. Everything
was as it had been before excepting
the pater’s getting drowned.”
“He didn’t take you to sea with
him this time?”
“No, sir; you can see that, because,
of course, I was in Liverpool all the
time and that’s why I'm here now.”
“Of course,” said Whartonby dully.
“Well, go on.”
“Well, then, Mrs. Twigham didn’t
know what to do, because, of course,
she wanted her money.”
“Yes, I suppose she did.”
“So then she wrote to Mum and
said that if she wanted me she had
better send enough to pay for me and
for my fare as well.”
know it. He would tell her at once, !
dark, an unseen mark was reached, reason.
knees from under him. He reached |
a blond gixl of not more than fifteen |
i
some difficulty in making her under-
Whartonby stood a moment staring
“And then—-?”
“Well, you see Mum couldn’t come
for me herself on account of being
For three | blind, so she sent the money for Mrs,
Twigham to bring me.” :
“Blind!” Revelation after revela-
the | tion broke upon Whartonby’s mind.
lodgings whose address she had once | :
mentioned, and which, by the great- Mrs Twigham ?
est good fortune, he had happened to : dead 7”
“You say your mother replied to
She wasn’t—wasn’t
“No, sir; Zuzu was dead.”
“Zuzu!”
“Yes, sir—our little wooly dog.
Zuzu knew the way everywhere: to
the shops and the studio and here to
He spoke many tongues, Round Pond. She could take Mum
hoping to make better go- ' anywhere she wanted to go, almost.
So of course when Zuzu died, mother
she finally smiled : couldn’t get about for ages and ages
“Of Finland—I of until she learned the
stops. She
ows most of them now, though.”
Whartonby got up unsteadily.
“And do you think she will come to
high” (he waved his hands indicating ' Round Pond to-night? Does she know
height) “—little dog—you understand , the steps to Round Pond perfectly ?”
And very solemnly be bark- | . 1
ed until she cried out something in | all. She will be sure to come.
“Oh, yes. She knows them best of
“How do you know that she will
said in a heavy : come—that she will come—here ?”
“Because she comes here every
Djght, looking for you.”—By Amory
are.
An Annual Migration.
transatlantic steamship lines
that during the present year no less
than 500,000 Americans will visit
Europe. That is 80,000 more than
made the trip last year and two or
three times as many as used to cross
the ocean in the years before the war.
Who make up this great army of
traveling Americans, an army that
grows steadily larger, and may before
long number a million persons every
year? ‘Some of course, go on busi-
ness errands, but most wander in
search of pleasure or of educative
experience.
A great many thousand are teach-
ers or students who see in a visit to
the cities of Europe an addition to
their knowledge of life, a broadening
of their culture or an extension of
their human sympathies. Other
thousands are Americans of the first
or second generation, returning to
refresh their memories or make the
acquaintance of their ancestral homes.
Still others are mature Americans
now in their prosperity able to spend
money on luxuries, and eager for the
says
unusual experience of a tour among
strange and foreign peoples and a
sight of places and of famous build-
ings of which they have read and
heard. If there are some who £0
abroad because it is “the fashion,”
or because they like the little prestige
hope of meeting her each evening, had ,
ship to its mooring his spirit rounded ;
was running toward .
that a traveling person commands in
a quiet and provincial community,
that is no more than our knowledge
of human nature would lead us to
expect.
This great annual migration of
seekers after culture and pleasure
means a great deal to the European
nations also. Our. peonle spend
something like $500,000,000 on their
travels, almost half as much as we
pay Europe for all the goods we im-
port from that continent. That is a
very considerable = addition to the
yearly income of Europe; it is enough
to support outright two or three mil-
lion people on the usual scale of liv-
ing abroad.
Whether they like America or not,
a question that is often debated, the
Europeans are glad to have us visit
them, for the stream of gold we dis-
tribute among them, if for no other
To most Americans the ex-
perience of a foreign tour, however
brief is useful. Though there are some
who waste their time and money un-
worthily, a few travelers have a real
purpose in their voyaging and pursue
that purpose with a commendable in-
dustry and seriousness.
One thing all Americans abroad
ought to remember. They are in
Europe as unofficial representatives
of their country. The ideas that
Europeans have about America and
Americans are largely derived from
what they see of our citizens who
come among them. The American
who behaves in foreign cities and vil-
lages with propriety, modesty, cour-
tesy and a regard for the feelings and
the social customs of those whom he
meets will do his country a real serv-
ice in helping to mollify the preju-
dices that may exist against it and
in creating an active good-will toward
our people that may often in the fu-
ture be of real value to us.—Ex.
|
|
{
1
|
|
Swindled Out of Millions.
In view of the many opportunities
‘open to the thrifty for the sound in-
‘vestment of their
money---such as
savings banks, reputable building and
loan associations, the savings depart-
ments of trust companies, well man-
aged bond houses, ete.—it is a little
stariling to he told by the Better
RBusiuiess burcau that gullible Phila-
dulphizns are believed to have lost
over $20,000,000 in 1926 through the
knavery of unscrupulous promoters.
Undoubtedly the amount would have
been considerably greater but for the
energy of the State bureau of securi-
ties, which has consistently opposed
the efforts of these tricksters to dis-
pose of their worthless paper in Penn-
sylvania. Persons who have a little
money to invest, but who are not
versed in financial dealings, should
make it a point to consult the officials
of well-established banks or trust
companies, who can be relied upon to
give them honest and disinterested
advice, says the Philadelphia Record.
There is no lack of excellent stocks
and bonds that make a satisfactory
return on the investment, and suspi-
cion should always be aroused by glib
promises of abnormal profits. There
is much less of this peculiar form of
crookedness than there used to be,
but there is still far too much of it.
The Prince of Trees.
There is no tree in the world that
surpasses the white pine in beauty,
stateliness, individuality and useful-
ness. It is the prince of North Amer-
ican trees, says the American tree
association. Reliable ' records show
that the first American house was
built of white pine.
: Pennsylvania has been
An official of one of the grit {heavy this summer, say apiculturists
_ FARM NOTES.
—If the sod orchard needs mowing,
the mower will make it much more
pleasant for the apple pickers than
dragging ladders and crates through
tall’ grass and weeds.
—Lambs that will be finished for
the late October and « arly November
market should be drenched for stom-
ach worms and then put in a good
fresh pasture. ‘Second crop clover is
preferable.
—The man who has never selected
fruit and exhibited it at the county
fair or farm products show does not
know how good or how poor the fruit
he raises really is. The cash prem-
iums do not nearly pay for the work,
but the educational value is inestim-
able.
—If you are having troubie with
control of the potato aphis try using
five pounds of dissolved soap in the
mixture of 100 gallons of water and
one pint of nicotine sulphate. Ordin-
arily, however, one pint of nicotine
sulphate added to 100 gallons of bor-
deaux mixture will be effective if the
vines are well drenched.
—The honey flow in most parts of
unusually
of the Pennsylvania State College in
urging beekeepers to be sure that
there is plenty of super room in which
the surplus honey can be stored. It
is expected that the heavy flow will
continue if frost is postponed.
—Sweet corn stalks from which the
ears have been picked should not be
allowed to stand in the territory in-
fested with the European corn borer.
They should be cut and ensiled or
shredded if possible. In small gar-
dens they may be cut or pulled, put
in a shock in the middle of the patch,
and then burned as soon as dry
enough.
—Roup is one of the common fall
and winter poultry diseases. It is
caused by damp and drafty houses,
also by a lack of vitamin A in the
ration. Feed vitamir-carrying feeds,
like cabbage, grasses, clovers, legume
hays, and cod liver oil. Five to ten
per cent. alfalfa leaf meal in the lay-
ing mash or one-half to one per cent.
of cod liver oil helps to keep the birds
healthy and free from roup.
—Perennial borders should be look-
ed after. now and put in good condi-
tion, say landscape architects of the
Pennsylvania State College. Most
plants may be moved with safety af-
ter the blooming period is over, and
practically any well-developed plants
may be made vigorous and will pro-
vide additional plants for the border
if the roots are divided. This work
should be done now.
—How are your seed corn pros-
pects? Just as soon as possible be-
gin picking seed corn from the stand-
ing stalks. Do not let it lie in a pile
or stand in bags or crates. Husk the
ears and hang ' the corn in a dry,
warm, well-ventilated place where the
air can circulate around every part
of the ear. “Good seed corn always is
worth good money but next spring it
will be in greater demand than ever.
—When kept under proper condi-
tions no farm animal pays better than
sheep, and there is new interest in
the animals now as shown by the fact
that nearly every breeder in North
Carolina has sold out his supply of
rams.
“The fact that sheep produce both
a crop of lambs and a crop of wool
adds greatly to their value and sig-
nificance on the farm.” says R. S.
Curtis of the animal husbandry de-
partment of the North Carolina State
college. “The wool from a good sheep
will pay for its keep, especially where
the necessary feed is produced on the
farm. In most cases from 20 to 40
sheep is a sufficient number for the
average farm. There is usually
enough pasture going to waste to sup-
ply such a small flock of sheep during
the pasture season, and it is easy to
make provision for the winter feed.”
Mr. Curtis states that sheep are not
so different from other farm animals.
The two most serious problems before
the sheep grower are the roaming dog
and the active stomach worm. The
latter may be overcome by a change
in pastures and the use of the blue-
stone treatment, while the dog may
at night. Placing the sheep in the
corrals is one of the necessary farm
chores in good sheep practice.
“Other than these two things, the
growing of sheep is a pleasant, sat-
isfying and profitable job which most
any member of the family may have
in charge,” says Mr. Curtis.” “The
flock may be built by using a pure-
bred ram on a flock of common grade
ewes, and any farmer can follow this
plan with little initial or subsequent
cost. A net profit of $320 per year
can be secured from a flock of 30
sheep, according to actual demonstra-
tions.”
A new method of docking lambs,
which appears to give excellent re-
sults, has been noted recently in sev-
eral agricultural journals. This meth-
od consists of cutting off the tails with
an emasculator, an instrument prob-
ably familiar to most stockmen by
sight. It might be described as a mod-
ified shear with a crimped edge, which
severs the arteries in such a way as
to prevent excessive bleeding. The
claim is made for the emasculator, as
a docking instrument, that it is han-
dier than the hot iron, does not cause
so great a shock to the lamb, and
does not cause as much loss of blood
as the knife.
A comparison of the three methods
recently made in the Colorado Agri-
cultural college flock showed favor-
able results from the use of the emas-
culator.. Lambs docked with either
the knife or the emasculator were
well healed, when examined two
weeks later, while those docked with
the hot iron were not entirely healed
and a few of these showed infection.
No weights were taken of the lambs
so that no record is available on the
rate of growth. The lambs docked
with the knife usually bled more than
the others, and the stumps had to be
held for a minute or two to check
bleeding.