preg
—
r, the railroad tracks stretch
Re and behind, and in the shad-
ows of the hour after midnight lay
the long train of side-tracked sleep-
ers, the show-train, marked against
the darkness only by a light that here
and there still shone in some car win-
dow. ii
The night was very quiet, a few
pais stars dinging faintly overhead, a
ittle breath of wind. Two miles back,
three miles, perhaps, a fringe of
lights against the sky, was the town
where the circus had made its world
for a day. There the flat-cars would
still be loading. Baggage horses
loading blue seats and poles, trunks
and cages. Shouts of the bosses.
Glare of the torches. Wagons and
floats rumbling up on the “runs.”
But in this hush of dew-wet clover,
with the drowsy sound of crickets in
the grass, the tan-bark and spangles
seemed very far away. In this side-
tracked train of sleepin -cars the per-
formers who had played with life and
death under the weaving canvas had
forgotten all about the crowd and the
dare, the thrill and the spot-light.
Along the track, red and green sig-
nals shone like trick eyes. When the
flats in town would be loaded and
- Bellefonte, Pa., June 22, 1928.
THE LITTLE THINGS.
If I can make two words to rime
And give a thought a merry chime,
If you can make the grass to grow
Where grass the stranger would not know,
We need not sigh for great deeds, too,
‘Who have the little things to do.
The man who solders pots and pans
Has work as good as any man’s;
He works as well as anyone
‘Who works at work that must be done.
"Tis better just to sew a seam
Than dream of things, and only dream.
The world is full of buildings tall
That stand upon some sturdy wall
That bumble hands have fashioned; so
From little deeds the great deeds grow.
Although great things the great world
needs,
They all must rest on little deeds.
So let us try to do our part,
And do it with a singing heart.
For surely we have right to sing
Who do the unimportant thing,
Because the things that seem so small
Are most important, after all,
section and follow.
Minnie Cluff, in’ the green bath-robe
left alone by the exit of the Snods,
looked out along the cars to see who
was still up, but the poker-game had
gone; there wasn’t even a croon of
ukuleles. The long string of cars was
quiet as the night.
The first car (numbered
HELP YOURSELF TO HAY.
At a poker game, say twelve, or
one, or two in the morning, woman is
seldom necessary.
“Mr. Cubby Snod, you put down
those cards and come in before I bring
you in!”
It was out on a railroad track
where Mr. Cubby Snod was, and Mrs.
Snod after him; Mrs. Snod in the
shadow, the checkered, long ribbon
shadow of a side-tracked string of
half-lighted, half-dark sleeping-cars,
her blond hair in curl-papers, pink silk
pajamas on, bare feet in worsted slip-
pers, and a flash-light pointing like a
revolver along ‘the cinder bank where
her husband and three other gentle-
men sat around a flickering lantern
with a pack of cards and a pile of
chips. ’
. Mr. Snod looked up, pushed his hat
back. “Now, Mama, why don’t you
go in an’ sign your postal cards?”
he said. “Why don’t you run along. in
an—" :
“Run nowhere!” Dolly Snod broke
in shrilly—thin high voice, little toy
high steam- whistle, little female
chanticleer. “When I go in, Cubby
Snod, you'll go right along with me!
Am I going to have a husband spend
his life with a bunch of poker
hounds? No! Will I eat alone night
after night and him sitting on the
railroad track? No! Is there any
reason my - husband: can’t stay home
like other husbands? No! TI should
worry myself into gray hair for some-
one who—"
A window-shade snapped up in the
dark car behind her.
“Dolly, for cryin’ out loud!” some-
body said. “Can’t you get wise to the
fact folks are tryin’ to sleep! You've
got a voice like a rusty baby car-
riage” ou = “
Dolly Snod looked up at a face and
a topknot of hair, an indistinct daub
against the shadows.
“Say, this country’s free!” she re-
torted. “I've got a right to talk to
my own husband! If anybody don’t
like it, they know what they—"
A tall man with trousers over a
nightshirt, shoe-strings flapping, hair
mussed by having been in bed, swung
down the car steps behind Mrs. Dolly
Snod, picked her under one arm like
a bundle of laundry and strode down
the track. Mrs. Snod kicked and sput-
tered, shrieked a little, hit him on the
knees.
Two hundred feet along he plumped
her up on the platform of a car where
the door was open, a light shining, a
smell of coffee coming out.
“There,” he said. “Now stay there’
Tl] tell Cubby what you've got to say
to him!”
Mrs. Snod stood on
and watched him go back up the
track, saw him arrive at the circle of
lantern-light, reach down, pick up a
wriggling something. Then she
laughed, got herself back on the plat-
form, an dpresently up beside pink
silk Mrs. Snod, was popped a rumpled
Mr. Snod, with a pair of deuces, a
jack and an ace in one hand, and two
blue poker chips in the other.
“Now, Dolly, hush up!” the man
in nightshirt-sleeves said shortly. “If
you've got anything to say anybody
wants to hear, say it—but if you
think you're picked for stump speak-
in’—well, you ain’t—see ?”
Mr. Snod sqirmed his vest and coat
where they were meant to be. “If the
time ever comes,’ he remarked, with
the scorn of a bantam in ruffled feath-
ers, “when Mrs. Snod says anything
anybody wants to hear, I'll eat hay
via a horse! Stand right up and eat
ay!” v
A tall, slender girl in a green bath-
robe came to the doorway, her hair
a bush of pale white, with milk-white
skin, pink eyes.
“Mrs. Snod, I turned the fire out
under your coffee,” she said. “It
boiled over. I swiped a piece of your
liver-wurst too, it looked so tasty.
Been a lovely day, hasn’t it?”
Mr. Snod put the deuces, jack and
ace in his pocket. “Been 3 lovely
night too,” he said, and glanced at
his wife. ’
“Oh, positively!” Mrs. Snod twit
tered, with a sarcastic lifting of shoul-
ders, “and I'm right here to tell the
the whole world if you think I'll park
home any more while—”
Abruptly Mr. Snod shoved her in-
side the car, past the girl in the bath-
robe, and on down an aisle from which
opened a line of stateroom doors. Past
one, two, three they went, then in at
a fourth. The door shut, locked with
a click behind them; and so retired
from the scene Mr. and Mrs. Cubby
Snod—Mr. Snod thirty inches tall,
Mrs. Snod twenty-nine, those mar-ve-
lous teen-y mites, the most am-az-ing
plat-form ex-hi-bi-shawn in his-to-
ry! Those dimp-ling ba-by dolls from
Lill-i-pu-shah, seen for the first time
under any canvas at the price of ten
cents, one dime, on the side-show
stage of the great Bonson Cir-cus! ;
Cutting across a meadow that ab-
81 where
beds, and rugs of woven grass, was
just an oblong blot of shadow. In 82,
the car of staterooms for featured ar-
tists, the first window—belonging to
ing poodle; but in the third Mrs. Sel-
don’s six-foot bungalow, a light
shone, softly shaded with rose. Mrs.
Seldon,
embroidering for her children, three
pale little blond English daughters in
boarding-school.
tip his chair back,
read Dickens out loud.
green curtains, and
open rows of double beds, spread with
dows. The bachelors’ walls were a
gentleman’s racket shop.
rings, pipe Holders,
tobacco jars, pictures of mothers and
sweethearts . . .
In 83 Minnie heard voices chuck-
ling by an open window, where a
blaze of pipe smoke came curling out.
On the ground outside, by lantern-
light, the porter was shining the
equestrian director’s high boots.
Number 85 had the bandmen in one
end, ticket boys in the other. Num-
ber 86 was for married folks, a Pull-
man car where each lady had one
space to keep house in—to arrange
wall covering, curtains, pitcures, pil-
lows, shelf for books, pockets for oth-
er things. Number 87 was the richly
furnished private car of Mr. Bonson,
parlor, bedroom, bath and kitchen; 88
belonged to the single girls; 89 con-
tained the staterooms for stars; 90.
Brazilian tumbling troupes; 91, In-
dian braves, their squaws and papoos-
es; 92 the Wild West, and so on to a
hundred.
It was a long train, the show-train
—a little city. Tailor and barber with
their wives (Pansy and Lily, the Au-
stralian Contortion Sisters), were in
86. Doctor and lawyer were bache-
lors in 83. It was a little city with
everything a little city would ever
need.
It was outside 90 where the poker
game had been. It was 84, the side-
show car, where the Snods had gone
to bed; 84 with out-size accomoda-
tions for outsize people—the Snods
with their tiny wicker; Major Chris-
topher Paddlefora, the giant, in a
Space twice as long as any other man
had; Miss Loobie, 450-pound nightin-
gale, with two rooms in one, her sol-
id oak bed and her kewpies, feather
flowers, paper plumes,
other stands,” Myrtle the Turtle
Girl, adjoining Loobie; then Elmo and
Florina, the sword swallowers—in pri-
vate life Mr. and Mrs. Colette; Spike
the Skeleton, Bounso the Rubber Man,
Circassian Albino.
On the steps of 84 Minnie sat look-
ing out at the dark. Across the mea-
dow on the road into town a stream
of automobile lights crept along. Min-
nie watched them, counted them. A
star fell. She made a wish. Then in-
side the car she heard someone com-
the bottom step
e light went on, and Loobie’s face
with its five dimples appeared in the
high window.
“Late leavin’ tonight, ain’t we?”
Loobie said. “You still waitin’ for
Cal 7”?
Every night Cal Coney, big bronze
Texas cowboy, brought Minnie rolls
and cold tea for late supper. “Four-
gun Cal, the sharp-shootin’ fool”—
lazy smile, gentle, awkward hands,
gray, boyish eyes.
“Shootin’ straight is nothin’ but a
bad habit,” he used to drawl, his
hands sliding around the edge of his
sombrero, “Almighty often I wish I
couldn’t shoot so easy. Sometimes I
cain’t hardly keep from shootin’
where it ain’t my lookout to be speak-
in’ up aye tall.”
Minnie waited for him every night
on the steps of 84. Sometimes it
would be in hushed summer darkness
and stcrs, sometimes in the roaring
train-shed of a city, sometimes where
railroad tracks went through strag-
gling streets of a town, but waiting
on the steps of 84 was always just the
same—just waiting on the steps of
home, for where your kettle sings,
where your window plants reach ten.
drils to the light, where you have
what you want, keepsakes, clock tick-
ing, a neighbor stopping in, that is
home, no matter where.
Cal would get Minnie’s rolls and
tea every night at the privilege car—
the lunch-counter car where food
could be had after the cook-house was
Joaded and off jie lot; end $he privic
ege car was always on the section o
working men’s bunks at the “runs.”
gone, an engine would pick up this
trophies of
ing down the hall to the wash-room. !
ight like blotting- | Sometimes the railroad sidi
sorbed the inky night li £ Sometimes
be switch :
night the bunk-cars and flats were
two, perhaps three miles away,
“Where we at tomorrow, Mninie?”
Loobie wanted to know, her face
streaked with cold cream. Loobie’s
complexion was like peach blosoms in
June. :
“Cincinnati,” Minnie told her. “And
we Sunday in Cleveland.” ; A
“Cleveland!” the Nightingale war-
bled. “You don’t say! And me with
three sweethearts that’s Cleveland
boys! I'll do so heavy on the _post-
cards I'll spoil my fingers takin’ in
change! Can't I fix you some coffee
while you're waitin’ for Cal 7”
“No, thanks,” Minnie said. “He'll
be coming.” : :
“Take a chair anyway,” Loobie re-
marked, and a fat white arm reached
out an oblong of canvas and strips of
wood.
Minnie unfolded it in the slanting
light from inside. “Thanks,” she
said. “I'll sit down and mate socks.”
Out of her pocket she brought z
tangle of men’s socks, black, gray
and brown. Minnie made pin-monev
washing and mending socks for the
show boys at fifteen cents a pair.
Two days till Monday, she was
thinking. Nice shopping in Cleveland.
Try to get out and shop a little in
Cleveland. Silk dress, light coat, may-
be. Get out early before parade, be-
fore time for free attraction. Be in
Cleveland Sunday morning—go to
church—no show Sunday, clean the
| stateroon Sunday, get out early Mon-
the Jap tumblers had their hard little :
i
|
|
top-mounter of the Bicycle | Montana!
Cyclones, spent every spare minute | was,
|
day. Blue silk dress, blue coat . . .
She heard someone coming down
the track. Steps crunching the cin-
ders. A stubby man, in shabby clothes,
came out of the shadows, saw her and
stopped. He had a long box—a flow-
the bareback-riding Cane sisters with er box.
their portable organ and hand-painted | ]
wall-paper—was dark, and the secone la’ : nd
dark too—Jean Kittrige and her danc- | said, staring up at Minnie, old cap
“Fer Pete’s sake, where can a fel-
find anybody around here?” he
on the back of his head, mussed col-
lar and tie. “I been tryin’ three hours
to deliver this here box to Miss Anna
Went where the tents
followed the wagons, found all
the lions and tigers, but fer Pete's
sake where’s the people. He took off
Mr. Seldon would his cap and wiped his forehead. “The
puff his pipe and guy that brought these here
posies
| give me a dollar to deliver ’em per-
Car 83 was the bachelor car. Berths | sonal,” he said, “but I'm
like a Pullman, divided at night with | body wants ’em they can come here
in daytime two | and
Necktie | eyes as he shuffled away,
shaving mirrors, | over railroad ties.
of a smile!
done! If any-
t em!”
With a slap of cardboard on the
cretonne like the strips at the win- | floor, he left the box at Minnie’s feet,
staring at her with squinted curious
stumbling
Minnie loked down at the name
everybody knew, little girl everybody
loved, brown gipsy curls, brown love-
ly eyes; little girl who rode that In-
dian cayuse, holding crowds breath-
less while her body, like fluttering
scarlet silk, would vault from side to
side—would fling up in a straight,
beautiful shoulder stand, dark curls
tumbling against the yellow leather
of her Wild West saddle. Boyish sa
lute in the spot-light! Quick ripple
Little girl everybody
loved—Anna Montana.
A swindler with pudgy, persuasive
hands and a plump peacock swagger
had appeared in the gay winter crowd
Biarritz, the season before, and in
Biarritz there had also been a tall,
| handsome young man, with a dark lit-
’ | tle mustache and eyes like chips of
polished onyx, watching everybody,
everything as a collector of specimens
might pin- butterflies to the wall; a
odd, constant smile through shrewd,
half-closed eyelids. That smile was
the swindlers own language. He had
tapped pudgy fingers on the other's
coat sleeve.
“We must get together,” he said
said. “I like you.”
Swindlers !
The pudgy swindler, and the other
one, looked on together, waiting for a
right moment, but sometimes a man
will find a thing he isn’t looking for,
There was a pale, lovely Countess
at Biarritz, and suddenly "that dark,
handsome man, whose eyes pinned
butterflies to the wall, found himself
pinned — to the inexorable wall of
love! Suddenly he found himself
following ‘hands, lips, a voice he
couldn’t forget ! Often before he had
loved for adventure; but now he sud-
denly loved— for love !
She wanted jewels and things like
that—— wanted to have them wheth-
er she wanted them or not. So he
stole $20,000. he was caught. A
man is a fool who will try to find his
way in the dark by the streak of a
comet that rides the sky for one in-
stant—to nowhere !
The pudgy swindler came forward
to help him—came forward and put
up a bond that six months from date
the money would be paid. “Now you
only need to remember,” he had said,
tapping the dark-eyed, handsome
thief on the coat sleeve, “that I'm
good—but not easy!”
So, in search of $20,000, the man
with polished eyes had left Biarritz
for the United States. The lovely
Countess had wept a little—h ad
promised to wait for him . . .
It was springtime in America. In
the odd way of life’s little blocks fit-
ting together, that man who had left
a countess and a prison bond in Biar-
ritz happened in at a certain New
York club, happened to meet a cer-
tain big, wealthy Anger Bonson, hap-
pened to hear Mr. Bonson tell a cer-
tain little inside secret of his cele-
brated Bonson Show—happened also
to hear him say he was tired of trav-
eling, was looking for someone with
appearance and shrewdness to take
his place on the road; and when April
turned May someone did take his
place—the man with onyx eyes and
manner finished as satin—Mr. Rawl
Sovaine.
And then Rawl Sovaine had begun
to watch Anna Montana, little West-
ern girl who had come to that Bon-
son show with lasso and bronco! Day
after day he would watch her go into
the ring. Day after day he would be at
the back door when she would come
out from her act. He would catch her
by her shoulder to wipe her flushed,
dirt-streaked face with his linen hand.
kerchief, she looking up at him laugh-
ing, trying to get back her breath
from the whirlwind of her tricks. Be-
tween afternoon and night show he
had come every day to find her—to
ngs would walk
bled curls,
against his shoulder,
And now across this flower box at
Minnie’s feet Anna Montana’s name
was written in the wide purple scrawl,
the heavy pen and purple ink of that
man the rest of them scarcely knew.
Down the track Minnie saw Bo Serko
coming—Serko the lion tamer, lanky,
stoop-shouldered, coming back from
feedings his cubs.
“Evenin,’ Minnie.” He stopped, coat
over his arm, handkerchief in his col-
lar. “Say, that cat Cleopatra ripped
my silk shirt again today! Ever see
such a lovin’ leopard for jungle
stock? Didn’t mean nothin’, just play-
ful, but I ain’t got shirts enough to
afford no temperamental leopards!
I'll have to work Cleo in a suit like
Launcelot or some o' them boys!
Would you patch a shirt for a pal,
Min?” He rolled up his right sleeve.
“The rip on the shirt’s the same size
as this,” he said. ‘
Minnie glanced at a thick scratch
from his wrist to his elbow. “Silk
Shiris half a dollar,” she reminded
im,
“You bet,” he said. “I’ll bring goods
right around.”
Five minutes later when Bo re-
turned to the half-light, half-shadow
of the steps of 84, there, in brown
Indian moccasins, pink apron, tum-
Anna Montana was lifting
into her arms a velvet weight of deep
red roses. Bo stopped, drew in a
breath of their sweetness.
“Takes me back to Indiana—me and
Jessie,” he said. He saw a card fal-
len on the ground, picked it up, held
it in the light. “ ‘To the girl 1
adore,’ ” he read aloud. “Well, if I'd
sent ’em myself I'd wrote the same |
thing.”
“You'd be some lover, Bo,” some-
body said from the doorway, and
Florina came out in yellow Chinese
coat and trousers, with auburn braids,
a sheet of paper in her hand. “Ana
speakin’ of sentimental,” she went on,
“pipe this letter! A girl gone cuckoo
over my husband! It’s certainly a
laugh for anybody knows how bald he
is! Listen to this: ‘Beloved, how I
long for you! How I dream of cares-
sing your beautiful hair!” I says to
Elmo why not rent her his wig and
get the money back it cost us! If I
know my oats hell work bald ‘ after
this! ell—love’s a fish-net catching
little fish, ain’t it? Keeps ‘em flop-
ping and struggling. They can’t stay
in it—can’t stay out of it! Speaking
of love, Anna, maybe it’s none of my
business, but Mr. Sovaine told a per-
son or two he asked you to marry him
and you said yes.” "Anna looked up,
startled, almost frightened, it seemed.
“I hope it ain't true,” Florina went
on bluntly. “That air of money he’s
got would buy some girls but I hope
not: you!” |
Anna crushed the tissue that had |
been around the roses, threw it down {
beside the car, then with a quick, con-
scious little gesture put her left hand
up against the rose stems, where
Florina could see on her fourth finger
a single stone, a blue-white drop of
light.
<It’s true,” she said. “He asked me
tonight. I-I didn’t think about money.
I—I don’t care about money. When”
—she hesitated a minute, then went
on in sharp, defiant little words—
with her or sit with her through |
ther, the sections would ! the long, late afternoon, his fingers
in side by side, but to- | lacing into hers or tousling her curls
“when you love somebody night and
day, you don’t think of anything but |
how much—how much you want,
them,”
Bo and Minnie and Florina tried to |
wish her joy, tried to say they were |
glad. Then Florina said good night. |
Anna gathered up the roses.
“I must go too,” she said. “Minnie, |
I'm through with my old neckerchief. |
Will it make a block for your piece
quilt?” Out of her pocket she un-
folded a square of silk, embroidered
in a maze of gipsy color, the silk she
had worn knotted around her neck
in the ring, flying back like a signal
in the wind. She dropped it in the
empty rose box. “Good night, Minnie,”
she said. “Good night, Bo.”
They watched her go down the
track with the flowers in her arms,
Ligiss from windows picking ‘her out
of the dark here and there. And back
in the shadows someone else watched
her too. Minnie hadn’t heard Cal Can-
ey come, but back in the shadows he
watched the last whiteness of Anna
Montana's arms in the dark—watched
the darkness left behind her, until at
last Minnie saw him there.
“Oh, Cal,” she said, “where’ve you
been! Did you bring jelly rolls? I'm
so hungry for jelly rolls!”
“Reckon I did, Sister,” he drawled,
and put a paper sack by her chair, a
bucket, some sugar. He stood there
a minute, awkwardly as if waiting for
something, then abruptly he said good
night and went away.
Minnie got out the teacups, nibbled
the crusty edge of a roll; Bo brought
out the evening paper, and there they
were like that when Bo, looking up
for the tea Minnie poured him, saw
Anna Montana coming back..
“Now look here,” he said, “don’t
bronco-busters never go to bed ?”
She came up the steps, put her fin-
gers in his. “I made a mistake about
the neckerchief,” she told him. Left
my new one instead of the one that’s
worn out! Gave Minnie eighty dol-
lars instead of nothing,” she laughed.
Behind Bo’s chair she reached into
the box for that square of silk, but
all she found was the card and a few
scattered rose leaves! “Why, where,
is it!” she said quickly. “I can’t lose
it! I haven’t any other!”
Bo and Minnie, as surprised as she
was, hunted around the chairs, the
steps, the track.
“Well,” Bo said, “Cal was here. We
¢’n ask Cal!”
Together they went past 85, 86, S87.
At 92 Anna waited in the dark while
Bo went in; then she saw him come
out on the steps, chuckling, motioning
for her. He led her into the car. Ev-
eryone was in bed, with curtains
closed around the berths, lights out.
He guided her down the aisle, stopped
and opened someone’s curtains.
(Concluded next week.)
Even the most casual knowledge of
anatomy will show that nature gave
most men more lungs than brains.—
Montreal Herald.
FOR AND ABOUT ‘WOMEN.
DAILY THOUGHT
- What's gone and what's past help
Should be past grief.—Shakespeare,
Stockings are to remain for the
most part, biege, but indefinitely
darker, according to the experts. Jane
Regny has many beautiful new tones
of biege for hosiery in shades that are
tinged with violet, yellow or brown,
and that look well with almost any
costume color, including gray. :
Gloves draw the same color line as
hosiery, and the slip-on gloves of
suede or antelope which are almost
universally worn are of a deeper
biege, also. A few women wear white
gloves with the black coats and
frocks which are so smart this season.
Alexandrine and Jouvin trim the tops
of some of their gloves and create
small handbags decorated in the same
way to match them. Calf-skin or
glace kid gloves with trim buttoned
straps at the wrists are worn by some
women with sports clothes.
The average woman devotes con-
siderable time and thought to the se-
lection of sports gloves because to
wear gloves the least bit formal with
one’s topcoat or other sports costumes
is every bit as heinous an effense as
trumping one’s partner’s ace.
Little leeway is allowed in choos-
ing gloves to wear with one’s best bib
and tucker. Biege suede pull-on
gloves still hold the fort. Their great
popularity is probably explained by
their suitability for almost any day-
time ocasion.
Pull-on dress gloves are really of
two types. One is the slip-on with
pinked edge. The other is the plain
Biarritz glove (with teacup) which is
just long enough to wrinkle a bit
around the wrist.
While suede really comes first in
fashion prominence, washable doeskin
slip-ons are also well though of.
That the common attic has many
possibilities for charming arrange-
ment and use as a supplementary
sewing or reading room, guest room,
play room or den, is the statement of
Estelle H. Reis, magazine writer.
“Its irregular ceiling, low walls and
odd corners make it delightfully easy
to furnish attractively and quaintly.
Its quiet location at the top of the
house, its airiness and its natural in-
formailty are other advantages. In
this day of small houses and large
costs, it is regrettable to think that it
isn’t serving some good purpose.” she
adds.
“An attic in need of finishing has
a useful friend in wallboard. This
material will transform cracked,
soiled or otherwise marred walls and
ceilings into a surface entirely pre-
sentable. It is an inexpensive, sanitary
material that is easily applied and
that takes almost any surface finish.
| It has the further advantage of being |
waterproofed and fire resisting. The
waste space in the attic may thereby
be readily converted into usable quar-
ters—dry, cheerful, comfortable plac-
es. If the space is large enough it!
may be advisable to divide it into two
rooms by means of wallboard parti-
tions. Wallboard will keep the attic
warm in winter and cool in summer.
The gleaming whiteness of “built-in
china bathroom accessories is one of
the most effective cleanliness of the
modern bathroom, which plays a large
part in the making of the present-day
| home.
The pleasing qualities of these fix-
tures, however, are not confined to the
bath, since many of them may be ap-
propriately used in the modern kitch-
en. Towel bars and hooks, soap hold-
ers and glass racks find a ready place
in the new attractive kitchens now be-
ing widely installed in present-day
dwellings.
The built-in accessory may be in-
stalled in homes already built, al-
though the work is more economically
done at the time of construction.
Carpets, so long in the discard, are
coming back. Those who have lovely
hard wood floors will probably not
adopt the carpet to cover them up en- th
tirely, but: the carpet will have its |
advantages for those who do not have Th
pretty floors. It makes the small
apartment room seem larger, as a
room seems to take the proportions
of the rug, and it does actually give
more floor space for occupancy, since
the rug too often determines where a
piece of furiture may be placed.
Plain, soft carpets, all of one col-
or, without any design, are very rich
looking. They may be dark red, mul-
berry, a rich blue, or a neutral shade
of gray or tan. With a padding un-
derneath they give an air of refine-
ment and quiet elegance to a room,
which the more ornamental and chop-
by rugs cannot attain. The floor cov-
ering should be darker than the walls,
and if it is a plain pattern, it forms
an ideal background—or underground
—for the furnishings of the room.
In this day of the vacuum cleaner,
there is no necessity for the tacked
down carpet becoming as dusty and
germ laden as the ingrain or rag car-
pet, with straw or papers underneath,
in grandmother’s day.
The custom of bringing in the sil-
ver to be used with each course has
somewhat taken the place of the cus-
tom of laying at each place all the
knives, forks, and spoons to be used
during the meal. is is economy of
silver and is less confusing. If a
the silver is laid at the begining of
the meal, use that on the outside first,
and that next to the plaie last. The
meal begins when the guests are all
served and the hostess picks up her
fork or spoon.
Courses are removed from the right
and served from the left. This per-
mits the guests to use their right
hands in dishing anything from a
common dish.
Finger bowls are brought in on
dessert plates, with a doily under each
finger bowl. The guest removes the
bowl and the doily and uses the plate
for dessert. At the end of the meal,
the napkin is left, unfolded, beside
the plate. When used, the napkin is
only half unfolded and laid across the
knees.
The salad may be cut with a knife
if it is difficult to manage. ~ Other-
wise the fork only is used. If a guest
arrives late, he asks for the course
then being served.
FARM NOTES.
© Swarming is an interesting phe-
nomenon of bee life to the syerate
citizen but it constitutes a real pro
lem in the beekeeper’s business from
now until the clover flow ends,
There are several ways in which
the apiarist may lessen the tendency
of his colonies to swarm. First he
can have a young gues] in every col-
9 he fa Prog} e Ebundant space
or egg laying by placing empty
combs or sheets of foundation in the
brood chamber. The bees also need
plenty of room for storing surplus:
honey, and a super should be placed
on the hive as soon as the bees begin:
work in the two outside combs or
rows of sections. Bees also need plen-
ty of ventilation during the hot part
of the summer,
If there are a large number of
drones in the hive the colony has a
greater tendency to swarm. The
combs containing drone cells should
be replaced with frames containing
dull sheets of foundation.
When the swarm comes out and
clusters it can be put in a new hive
containing one empty comb and the
rest of the frames of full sheets of”
foundation. The hive is then laced
back on the old location after t e old
hive has been removed. Supers should’
be placed on the new hive and
all the queen cells but one should be
removed from the old hive. This
method will insure a maximum of
surplus honey and will generally .pre-
vent secondary swarming. Extra or
new supers must be added to the hive
as fast as the old ones are filled be-
cause a swarm generally works more
rapidly than an old colory.
A tabulated summary just issued
by the bureau of animal industry,
United States Department of Agri-
culture, shows the progress to March:
1, 1928, of tuberculosis-eradication:
work in co-operation with the various
States. A total of 20,098,272 cattle
in more than 2,000,000 herds are now
under supervision for the eradication
of this disease. Nearly three-fourths
the number of cattle are contained in
herds which have successfully passed
one or more tuberculin tests.
Herds accredited as free from tu-
berculosis, as the result of a series of
tests, at the end of ‘February num-
bered 155,466, containing more than
2,000,000 cattle. Counties which con-
tain more than one-half of 1 per cent
of tuberculosis cattle as a result of
systematic testing number 464. In
all these counties the few cattle which
reacted to the latest test were re-
moved from the herds and slaugh-
tered. During February, 1928, 741,~
766 cattle were tested and nearly 18,-
000 reacted and were condemned as
tuberculous, ’
Simple sanitary measures around
{ chicken lots and houses would clear
up many “mysterious diseases” of
poultry which are reported. These’
simple measures are more effective:
than medicine administered in the
drinking water or bacterins given in
a syringe. Many flock owners have
discounted the value of sanitation and
have resorted to medicinal measures
without obtaining relief.
It is a well-known fact that fresh
ground, free from filth, is desirable in
raising healthy chicks, but apparent-
!ly many people forget this point. In.
'a large number of cases reported, an
investigation will show that tha: same
ground has been used for chickens for
several years.
The ideal method to raise chicks is
to have several lots, and practice a:
rotation system, the same as in grow-.
ing crops. Besides the sanitation
' gained in such a rotation, it will tend
‘to retard the spread of avian tuber--
culosis, which spreads to swine in 60
to 90 days through direct or indirect
association, while certain infections
In poultry are dangerous to calves.
i Try to shift your flock several times
‘during the year—it will pay you for
the trouble. :
. For small jobs of concrete work om
e farm a mixture commonly knowm
as a one-two-three is most desirable.
is means one bag of cement, two
cubic feet of clean sand and three
cubic feet of coarse gravel or broken
stone. If you use a mixture entirely
of sand and cement you will not ob-:
tain the ful] strength that you get if
the gravel is added. In using gravel
or sand from some nearby creek bed
be careful that there is no mud mixed
in with them. A very small amount.
of mud will destroy the strength of
the concrete.
Horses and mules that are doing
hard work must have plenty of grain.
Profitable pork production demands:
the use of good sanitary pasture.
Close observations of sews and pigs:
have many times indicated that ani-
mals on self-feeders look better and’
are more thrifty than those that are:
hand fed.
When poor corn and tankage are
put before hogs in self-feeders they
often eat not enough corn but too
much tankage ang self-feeding is un-
profitable. ite, :
The ordinary stockyards are almost
continually infected with all sorts of.
contagious diseases. Animals should
never be taken from the stockyarus.
back to the farm.
Experience has shown that pigs:
which have grazed on clover, alfalfa:
or other summer and fall forage crops
will incur the least risk of suffering-
from too much green corn.
An open shed for stock is as neces-
sary and important as any building
on the farm.
A horse which weighs 1,400 pounds
should be given from 14 to 16 pounds
of grain per day and about the same:
amount of hay.
Lambs at weaning time can be:
turned into the corn fields and they
will eat the corn leaves and husks, do:
well, and be in good condition for the:
market before they have learned to
eat corn from the cob.
Any grower wishing to grow stak-
ed tomatoes should begin with not
more than 1,000 plants the first year:
and gradually increase his plantings
from year to year as seems advisable,
ep
——The Watchman gives all the
news while it is news.