THY GREAT
UNTY.
Because 1 have been given much
1, too shall give;
Because of thy great bounty, Lord,
Bach day I live
I shall divide my gifts from Thee
With every brother that I see
Who has the need of help from me.
BECAUSE OF
BO
Because I have been sheltered, fed,
By Thy good care,
1 cannot see another's lack
And I not share
My glowing fire, my loaf of bread,
My roof's safe shelter overhead,
That he, too, may be comforted.
Recause love has been lavished so
Upon me, Lord,
A wealth I know that was not meant
For me to hoard,
I shall give love to those in need,
The cold and hungry clothe and feed,
Thus shall I show my thanks indeed.
Good Housekeeping
——————————————
A STORY OF MATRIMONY.
“It must be the cold that's keep-
ing Miss Louise, this morning. She's
that late.”
Maggie Gilligan, the old woman
who had been a servant in the
Barnard family for nearly forty
years, rubbed the back of a stiff
hand against her red nose, glanced
anxiously at the clock and then at
the table, hesitating as she realized
that coffee, rolls and omelet would
be ruined in five minutes more,
«Sure. I'm glad she's goin’ to
New York tomorrow,” added Mag-
gie, as she threw another lump of
cannel coal into the grate. “The
counthry’s that lonesome in winther
and as cold as the saints dead this
hundred years. It's low-spirited she
is, too, and small blame to her. A
good time is what she's after needin’,
God bless her.”
She broke off suddenly and stepped
to one side, smoothing her crisp
apron and giving a last, anxious
glance at the fastidious table as she
heard a swirl of skirts on the
stair. The door opened and a
smallish but very graceful woman,
with slightly gray hair and tired,
lovely eyes, came into the room.
“Good morning, Maggie. What,
hasn't the postman come yet?”
Louise Barnard glanced at the
table as she passed it, hurrying to
the fire and rubbing the palms of
her hands smartly together. Maggie
watched her with eyes quick to dis-
cern the least disfavor of her table.
“No,” she answered, ‘he ain't
come yit. The drifts are that big
there's no getting through, I'm
thinking."
“Of course, I had forgotten the
storm.”
Miss Barnard set down the coffee
pot and turned toward the window.
From her chair she could see a wide
sweep of dawn where the January
drifts sparkled blindingly under a
cloudless morning sky. Not a breath
of wind stirred the heavily laden
boughs of the pine trees, and the
hush of the frozen, shrouded world
penetrated even to the cozy room
where the geraniums spread their
green palms to the sunshine pour-
ing through the speckless panes.
With a little shiver of satisfaction,
Miss Barnard turned toward the
hearth.
“There's the mail now,” she ex-
claimed, as heavily booted feet climb-
ed up the pjazza steps.
“A telegram, Miss Louise!” ex-
claimed the old woman, coming
back with nervous haste and for-
getting to close the outer door,
through which the winter air hurtled
like a spear.
“I hope it's nothing bad, miss,"
she ventured, her eyes
compassionate as her mistress tore
the yellow envelope, read the two
lines within and laid the paper be-
side her plate.
Louise smiled faintly. “An urgent
invitation,” she answered. She smil-
ed again as she stirred her coffee
and reread the telegram: “Can you
come? Baby and little Lou sick.
No cook. Affectionately, Connie,”
“Two cents for that last word be-
fore her name,’ said Louise, slowly:
“Connie all over. Poor girl.” She
stared absently at the window, her
breakfast forgotten in the contem-
plation of that picture which had
been thrust before her.
“As soon as you have finished
your house work,” she said, quietly,
to the old woman who was moving
around the table, “pack your bag
and get ready to go with me. 1
am going to spend a week with
Stanton.”
“You'll not go to New York, af-
ter all, then?” began Maggie, her
wrinkled face expressing disapproval
as well as disappointment.
“Not just now,” returned Louise.
“Mrs. Stanton and the children are
not very well and I must go to
them. We'll take the early after-
noon train, so be as quick as you
can, for you'll have to see your
brother about staying in the house,
and I must go to the bank.”
She spoke without raising her
voice from its usual languid sweet-
ness, but Maggie's eyes fell sub-
missively; the words her lips shap-
ed were sound ess, “Sure, it's God's
world but the devil has the bossin’
of it,” she murmured, as she left
the room.
Miss Barnard, standing before her
open trunk and looking at the
clothes which she had begun to take
out and lay on the bed,
reflective face as the old woman
entered and offered to help her.
“I think I'll just take a hand-
bag,” she said. She paused a mo- |
ment, her finger at her lip, her
eyes raised to the small bright ones
of the servant, who stood several
inches taller than her mistress. “I
have decided to bring Miss Connie
and the children back with me in-
stead of staying there,” she added.
« “Back here? Not in this weath-
er, ma'am,” stammered Maggie,
respectful resentment in her tones.
“Where'd you be afther putting
ignorantly
turned a |
them all? Sure there ain't but
two of them little stoves in the
house, and all them children—why
they'd have the place torn up in no
time.” She stopped abruptly, biting
her lips.
Even the privilege of a quarter
of a century of service would scarc>-
ly bridge this remonstrance.
Miss dropped her eye-
lids again. “We could manage,”
she said, gently.
“Manage,” repeated Maggie fierce-
ly, to herself. “Manage.” Why
couldn’: some other folks ‘manage’
once in a while?” She sent fierce,
jealous glances after Miss Barnard
all the morning. Once when she
saw her pick up a book which had
been ripped from its fine binding
by some of the children the summer
before, she caught her breath quick-
ly and left the room muttering.
Louise looked after her, her
mouth drawn a little. “She suffers
more thanI do,” she thought. “What
are books or china or flowers or
anything compared with Connie and
her children? Poor, poor Connie!”
As always, she drew the deep,
accustomed sigh at the mention of
her sister's name, so heavily darken-
ed had the once bright and beauti-
ful creature's life become. Unlike
the cruelties of death, this living
tragedy could not be forgotten.
At the station, before they took
the train, she telegraphed to her
sister that she would be with her
that night, but even with this prep-
aration the two women found the
house, on a dingy back street of
the little island city, quite dark,
and, after repeated ringing, the
door was finally opened by a little
boy with his throat tied up in a
flannel shawl.
He stared a moment, then gave a
happy cry: “Aunt Lutie! Aunt
Lutie!"
“Gene, dear!” Miss Barnard stop-
ped abruptly and put her arms
around the child, for a moment un-
able to say more. :
In the dimly lit hall she had seen
his pale, thin face, his outgrown
frock, his ragged shoes.
“Where's mama?” She asked, re-
leasing him and rising.
“In the kitchen, getting supper,”
answered the child, smoothing her
sables with his cold little hands and
making soft, inarticulate sounds of
pleasure at the feeling of the fur.
A sudden sense of shame stung
Louise, She pulled off her collar
and hung it with her muff over the
Baluster as they went down the
hall.
“Lutie! How goed of you
come!” A gas jet high overhead
sent its flickering light down upon
the untidy kitchen; the pretty but
neglected children; the woman who,
dressed in an old skirt and flannel
sacque covered by a checked apron,
turned from the stove, a spoon in
one hand, a baby over her shoulder,
and yielded herself longingly to her
sister's arms.
Louise felt her throat tighten.
Was this thin, worn, draggled crea-
ture the once so beautiful Con-
stance? “Poor child—Here, Maggie,
you finish supper. Let me take the
baby, dear, and we'll go upstairs.”
“We can't,” laughed Connie, hasti-
ly Wing her eyes. “There's no fire
in the furnace and I have to keep
the children here until they go to
to
‘bed. The baby has such a dread-
ful cold.”
Louise bent and kissed the tiny
face on her arm, then blushed hot-
ly. The three other children were
‘looking at her wonderingly, and her
sister's eyes, too, held a silent ad-
miration and envy. Louise felt a
quick thankfulness that she had
left her furs in the hall. And yet,
why should she be ashamed of her
beautiful clothes? Were they not
merely an alternative? Did her
sister feel any compunction at the
presence of her children when she!
saw Louise's solitary spinsterhood.
She asked herself these things
again as they sat at supper in the
chilly dining room and she observ-
ed that Stanton looked from her to
his wife with dry, silent comparison.
Louise also looked at Connie.
The poor girl had put on a faded
but fresh cotton dress, had arrang-
ed her hair prettily and pinned a
muslin fichu over her shoulders.
Worn and faded as she was, haras-
sed with anxieties, aged by toil too
heavy for her slender and delicate
physique, there was yet a grace, a
Jistinction, a fineness about her
face, the poise of her head, the line
of her shoulders, that gave one a
pang as of some mutilated treasure
She had always been more beauti-
ful than her elder sister; she was
so still, in spite of the contrasting
effect of the ten years of comfort-
able ease, the ten yearsof hardship,
which separated the two.
Louise watched her as she pour-
ed the coffee, served the children,
told the funny side of the winter's
troubles in an effort to hide the
poor meal’s deficiencies, the ragged-
ness of the table's outfit.
“At all events, I have learned how
to cook lots of things, haven't I
Gene?” she laughed.
“Have you?” said her husband.
“This seems like the first decent
meal we've had in months,”
A red stain appeared under Con-
nie's eyes as if she had been cry-
ing. “I do the best I can,” she said.
5 Have to be as economical as pos-
e,”
rather poor economy to oblige me.
to teach on diet of tough beef and
sloppy oatmeal,” answered Stanton.
“By the way,” he added, “tell Mag-
‘gle to leave the coffee-pot on |
stove.
in."
| “Do you have choir rehearsal at
| night?” asked Louise, innocently. |
| “No, not exactly,” answered FEu-
gene, glancing at his wife.
|” “He has his studio where he]
practices and gives lessons down |
town at the hotel. The children
‘make such a noise, you know.”
| Connie's voice kept a matter-of-
|fact cheerfulness through this ex-
| planation.
|" ‘Louise looked at the three little
| ones, who sat in timid silence, |
watching apprehensively whenever
their father spoke.
the |
Tl get a cup when I come
{
1
‘year Stanton resigned.
his
things,
of, yet
‘by her importunity.
| mar
had
“Let Maggie hold the baby, while
I clear off the table,” she begged.
“Just tell me where the things be-
long. I can do it all. Where do
the napkins and silver go? Oh, yes,
here. But, Connie—? Where is all
your silver?”
“Oh, I don't use it ordinarily. It
—ijt's too much trouble to keep il
ciean.” Connie's voice was curiously
smothered.
“But the forks and spoons?”
“Oh—1I just loaned them."
Louise was silent. It had come to
this, at last. Pawning.
She tried to talk gaily of home
affairs, of neighborly gossip, but
each incident seemed a fresh pencil
with which to underline the contrast
between Connie's poverty and the
well-being of the others, and Louise
felt a hard lump in her breast.
There was an oil stove in the
front bed room, where Connie slept
with the baby and one of the chil-
dren, and the two women sat down
one on each side of it, talking in
low tones, while the mother nursed
her baby.
Connie spoke of the struggles and
disappointments of her life with an
appearance of frankness which
would have deceived most persons,
but Louise knew the reserve of her
sister's proud nature and saw
through the veil of those brave pre-
tenses about the need of “congenial
companions” and “a musical at-
mosphere,” with which she endeav-
ored to explain her husband's fail-
ures.
Louise murmured words of loving
encouragement as she kissed her
and went to bed. She moved very
softly for fear of waking little Lou,
who slept with her, but her patent-
leather boots made a heavy noise
on the uncarpeted floor and the
rustle of her silk petticoats seemed
insolently loud.
Shivering in the chill of the sheets,
she lay awake for a long time
thinking over once more what she
had planned to do and trying to
study it in every aspect. As she
lay there, wide awake, she heard
Eugene come softly in and creep
upstairs. As he went toward his’
own room, Louise heard Connie say:
“Did you latch the front door,
‘Gene? 1 was afraid to go tosleep
until you came. What made you
stay so late? Did you stop to play
cards?”
“Only a game or two,” whispered
the man in reply, and Louise heard
her sister sigh.
In the first flush of their married
life, every one had laughed at Con-
pie’'s mistakes and trials. Then
they had come to laugh with her.
Now they looked at her while she
laughed alone.
rough it all, Louise had stood
by them lovingly. She admitted
that Connie had been hasty, but
sometimes infatuation ended in love.
She invited the young couple to
live at home with her while Eu-
gene was building up a position in
ew York. And when, at the end
of the year, he announced that he
thought it was foolish for a young
unknown man to start out ina,
big city, that he thought he had
‘better go to some place and
work up a reputation, Louise agreed.
With Connie, and the baby which
had come, she went to the town
in New Jersey where Eugene had
taken a place as organist, hired
and furnished a little house, saw
the two started, and then left them
to try life alone together.
For a year, with Louise, and Al-
bert, the married brother, to help,
they kept it up. At the end of that
It was not
a place which would advance him,
he said, and he must be rising in
profession, no matter how hum-
bly he started.
This was honest, and Louise Belpe
ed them to pack, move and settle
themselves at home with her while
Eugene was making a fresh start.
Before he found just what he
wanted, another baby arrived, and
Connie was so far from well that it
was decided best to have her stay
with Louise for six months, at
least, and be ready to go to house-
kee with he: husband, who by
time would be settled in his
work. But three months passed be-
fore he found what he liked; then
the salary was so small that Louise
and Albert were constrained to
send a monthly check, and Connie,
broken down by the hard work and
anxiety, had to give up and go to
the hospital for six weeks.
So the years had slipped craftily
by, while they were expecting each
to bring the golden future.
Louise, hoping steadily for better
forgot to regret the thous-
and sacrifices which fed the clear
flame of her love. Not a word of
reproach, not a single refusal, met
Connie's appeals, and although the
r woman had more and more
younge
often felt the searing scorch of the
fire which warmed her, she shrark
from the cold outside it's radius.
For herself she would have en-
dured, she would have suffered, any-
thing. But her children had made
a primitive creature of her; fight-
‘ing for their needs, she forgot what
she took.
She hardened herself when she
sent for her sister, poignantly aware
refusing to recognize, the
sacrifices to which she forced her
She felt al-
most a in that
sense of injury
sufficiency which belonged to Louise,
“Yes, of course, but it seems like fo that
she it on-
ly through the sacrifice of her own
life; that she owned the old home
only so long as she remained un-
married, and that she could not
ry because the man she loved
died while waiting for her to
finish taking care of other people,
Louise stared up at the vague
circle on the ceiling cast by the
arc-light in the street. As it leaped
and flickered and ebbed low, yet
never went on, so would Eugene's
career waver through the years
while he dragged his wife with |
him into as yet unsounded depths
of sordidness.
Connie's thin face, with itslarge,
defiantly sad eyes, sensitive scarlet
lips and sweet chin, the inquiring |
child-faces about her knees, came
back again to Louise, and she
shook off the weak defense which
she had begun to build about her-
self. Whatever came, Connie should
share all that was hers.
There was an added pressure in
the clasp of her arm when little
Lou woke in the freezing dawn and
turned to her. Henceforth, this child
should be her pictures, her music,
her books and travel.
She smiled happily as she sat on
the edge of the bed in her wrapper
and dressed the little thing, who re-
tarded the process by shivering
hugs and kisses and snuggling of
jce-cold hands in Louise's neck.
“What happiness it is to have
some one get breakfast!” sighed
Connie, contentedly. “How often
I have longed for a cup of Maggie's
coffee!”
Her sister looked at her, smiling
strangely.
«Come home with me and have
it every day,” she said,
‘Oh,” answered Connie, with a
deep breath, “if I could. When I
think how soon you must go and
leave me-— She could not finish.
Louise saw her lip tremble.
Louise herself could not
she was trembling nervously.
Connie did not appear to notice
it. She was busy putting some-
thing aside on a plate. “Maggie,”
she said to the old woman who was
waiting on the table, the baby on
her arm, ‘put this where it will
keep hot, and make some fresh
speak;
coffee in about an hour. Mr. Stan-
ton won't be down to breakfast
with us.”
“Is he always late?” inquired
Louise, busying herself with little
Lou's bread and milk.
“Oh, no; but you see he can work
so much better at night that he
stays downtown at his studio very
late, and so I let him sleep in
the morning.”
“And you always rake fresh
coffee for him?" asked Louise gent-
ly.
Yon, no, laughed her sister.
“That is a luxury he prepares for
himself, usually. He will miss
Maggie when you go.”
“You must know—" began Louise,
when the door opened and Stanton
came in. He looked from one
sister to the other.
“What is that?” he inquired.
“You are going home, Louise? You
mustn't think of it. Connie has
been looking forward to having you
here ever since Christmas. You
can't go yet, no, indeed."
As he spoke, he was opening the
morning papers one after another,
glancing through them and throw-
ing them down. “Whereis my break-
fast, Maggie?" he demanded. “I
must go down town early this morn-
i ”
“You don't really mean that you
are going soon?" Connie said, ina
low tone. “Why must you, Lou?
No one needs you at home as Ido
here.”
Louise smiled a little. “No,” she
said, “but I cannot leave the house
alone. And Maggie's brother has to
go back to his family. If you're
willing, though, I'll take little Lou
with me and keep her through the
winter.” 2
“That's a good idea,” exclaimed
Stanton, looking up from his pa-
per. “You know she'll be much
better off there than in this house,”
he went on, turning to his wife,
who had not spoken. “It will be
easier for you, too.”
Louise moistened her lips.
“Wouldn't you like to have me take
Connie home, too?" she asked, in a
curious, light, high voice.
Eugene looked at her questioning-
ly. "Why. she really would be
better off there,” he began, as if
uncertain of her intention, “I'm
going to give up this job in the
spring, anyhow. There's nothing in
it. I can see that. And if Connie and
the children were with you, it
would be a tremendous relief— a help
for a while.”
“I meant for always,” said Louise,
looking at him, still, with that far-
off smile. She had taken little
Lou the hand and was
to her now ina sort of panic, as a
man clutches at a frail vine when
his ladder falls beneath him.
“Oh! Always?” repeated Eugene,
curiously, doubt and a sort of re-
lief in his voice. “You mean for
Connie to live in the old place al-
ways?” He repeated the word with
emphasis.
“Yes,' said Louise, “I mean for
her to settle down there and make
it her home. Would you like it.
Connie?” She turned to her sister
with a sudden deep appeal in look
and voice.
Connie's face grew white, her
eyes darkened, yet luminously. “If
I only could!" she breathed. The
prospect was like heaven to her
wearied heatt. She looked at Louise,
Ss SO!
y.
“You would be willi to let me
take her and the children perma-
nently ?”
“Why, yes.” Eugene laughed awk-
wardly, but with evident relief, “If
you want her to go."
“And you would be willing to go,
dear? Ever I have would be
yours. I would do all I could to
make you and the children happy.”
Louise spoke earnestly, almost warn-
ingly.
“Oh, the mere being at home
would be enough,” laughed Connie,
a catch in her voice. “And then
when Eugene comes—"
“No,” said Louise, in sharp, deep
tones that made them both turn.
“No, there would be no time when
he would come. I meant that you
should stay with me and leave him
for—for always,”
Her voice rang strangely at the
last word; she looked to and fro
between them. “Why,” she laughed,
sharply, “did you think it was for
him IT meant it? No. I meant to
take you out of this niger, this
poverty, this—this neglect that you
have endured for ten years through
| —through your husband's selfish-
ness, and give you all you were
used to before he took you away
from me.
“Yes, T say all this to you, Eu-
gene. I have never said it to your
wife alone. You know whether it
is true. If she were happy, the
rest wouldn't matter, but she isun-
happy. She is tired, lonely, dis-
couraged, sick. Sick at heart Dbe-
cause you neglect—neglect—" Her
voice came in sharp her eyes
burned the husband and wife with
their fused fires of love and loath-
ing. She had risen, and now went
toward Connie, her hands held out.
In her slight, faultlessly dressed fig-
ure, her silky gray hair, her soft,
beautifully kept hands, there spoke
a reproach, a plea, stronger than
her words.
“Come with me, Connie dear.
will take care of you, I will
1
love
She had taken the wife's hands as
they hung nervelessly beside her,
and standing close to her looked up
into her silent face.
Connie did not stir. She was
gazing at her husband.
He had dropped the newspaper
and with his hands on the back or
a chair had listened silently to
Louise's terrible words.
His boyish face, with its round,
beautiful forehead, big blue eyes and
weak mouth, had grown stiff and
old as he stared back at her, and a
dull-red flush stained his eye-lids.
When she had finished speaking, he
to looked at his wife, but with ex-
pressionless eyes.
“You of course understand what
your sister says,” he began. “She
wants you to go to live with her
and to leave me out of the question.
Simply ignore the fact that you
have a husband. She will take care
of you—" He paused.
“Yes. D, you want me to go?”
Connie spoke in a level, dead voice,
Her husband shrugged one shoul-
der, spreading out his hands in a
dull caricature of indifference. “I?”
he said, with a laugh. “What can
[ say? As your sister tells you,
ever since you have been married
you have been poor, overworked
and neglected. You have nothing to
look forward to, for I shall never
be a rich man. I have nothing to
promise, nothing to offer. She has—
everything.” He let his hands fall
and went to the window.
“Do you want me to go? Eu-
gene?” Only in that last word was
there an echo of the cry she stifled.
He turned sharply. “Do I want you
to go? Want you to!" he cried out.
“Why Connie—"
“Don't, 'Gene, don't! Let me stay
with you!" She sobbed piteously as
they ran and clung to each other,
“It is only for your happiness,
sweetheart,” he said, unsteadily, as
he smoothed the head pressed close
to him. “I have done nothing to
make you happy, nothing to deserve
your love—"
“Oh, 'Gene, let me stay!
stay! “I love you!
matters.”
“I love you too, dear. You know
that. I'll try to make you happier.”
They had quite forgotten the other
woman—they had forgotten every-
thing, past sorrows and future
trials—as they held each other close.
As Louise closed the door softly
and stepped into the hall, Maggie
was coming from the kitchen, mut-
tering to herself and her
head. At sight of Louise she stop-
ped abruptly.
“Whatever it is, miss? she began
wonderingly, and then she opened
her arms as Louise, overwhelmed in
strange, unfamiliar grief, drooped
forward blindly against the old
nurse's shoulder, sob again and
again. “I didn’t understand. I
didn't understand!"-—By Josephine
Arthur, in the Cosmopolitan.
Let me
Nothing else
ALASKAN AIR LINES
SHOW LARGE GAIN
Sky scrapers, technicolor and free
wheeling eights hold no significance
for Alaskan natives, but the latest.
devices in air navigation form the
chief hobby of many whose only
means of navigation used to be skin
boats and dog teams.
Terror and fear accompanied the
first sight natives had of a ‘“won-
der bird" Tribesmen fled with their
families from their villages, chant-
ing and praying. But when they
saw the big bird resting on its skis
they joined hands and danced around
it shouting ‘‘moose-p 148
Ben Eielson, who was killed while
flying to the relief of the icebound
motorship Nanuk, was greeted by
the natives as the first popular
“wonder bird driver.” He was ac-
cepted as a member of the tribe,
and given the name of ‘Moose-
Ptarmigan Ben,”
Development of aviation in Alaska
has been rapid and a network of
‘airlines covers the territory. Com-
‘mercial and private have
‘supplanted dog sled and native boat
to such an extent that ‘wonder
birds” are common sights.
When a pilot is down the natives
are quick to assist him. They bring
their finest robes to cover the motor,
protecting it against the sub-zero
temperatures.
tramp down snow for a runway and
stand vigil over a plane during a
storm. The individual native is de-
lighted with the instrument board,
‘and becomes the pilot's life-long
friend if permitted zo tinker with a
spare spark plug or wipe off the
propeller.
All original fear has and
natives are fascinated by airplnes.
TELEPHONE SYSTEM NO
PLUGS IN WALL SOCKET
Now you can carry your telephone
from room to room and Sg it into
wall sockets like a bridge lamp.
This new system broadening the
telephone service until it reaches
every room in a house, has reecntly
been introduced by the Bell System
for domestic use. It is ticular-
ly designed for large dwe ings.
| The “plug-in” type of telephone is
‘usually installed as a part of a pri-
| vate exchange system for the home,
| centering in an automatic switch-
board about the size of a clothes
| closet. Calls from one part of the
house to another as well as calls
coming from the outside may be
made and received by it.
ing
They help refuel,
—Ground wheat can be used in-
stead of a large part of the other
wheat products in the poultry mash
mixture. Good results are obtained
when the combination is properly
balanced.
Fresh vegetables are now avail-
able in large numbers on the mar-
kets. The quality usually is good
and the selection wide, say Penn
State vegetable specialists.
Pastures need fertilizing and
liming after years of use, the same
as other fields. Improvement of old
pastures will provide a larger amount
of feed and better quality grass.
Newly freshened cows should
not be fed heavily at first. A warm
bran mash is very beneficial im-
mediately after freshening. Ground
Jute bran, and oil meal can be fed
ater.
_~—Sanitation helps to reduce young
pig losses. At present the aver-
age number of pigs raised per sow
is five and one half a litter. Adop-
tion of sanitary methods of swine
management should increase the
number to eight or more per litter.
~The success or failure of a
vegetable crop may depend upon
selection of the right variety. In
choosing varieties, consider earliness,
yield, quality, and suitability to the
location. Order only from the best
source.
—There is still time to improve
part of the woodlot this winter by
taking out the dead, poorly shaped,
and inferior trees. Give the best
trees a better chance to grow into
valuable timber.
—Farm and garden items are
broadcast at 12 o'clock noon every
Monday, Wednesday and Friday by
the School of Agriculture at the
Pennsylvania State College, over
WPSC, the college station. Weath-
er reports are given daily. The
station operates on 1230 kilocycles,
Where pear trees and young
apple trees are infected with fire
blight it is advisable to cut out all
of the diseased parts, for there is a
secondary growing season, the trees
may be killed, suggests the New
York State College of Agriculture.
All cuts should be made six to
twelve inches below the last evi-
dence of infection, depending on the
growing condition of the branch.
When the blight is cut out during
the growing season a disinfectant
solution should be used on the tools
and on the wound to prevent spread-
ing the disease. Dip pruning shears
or saws in a solution of one-fourth
ounce of mercuric bichloride, one-
fourth ounce mercuric cyanide and
one gallon of water between each
cut and mix the liquid in glass or
earthenware containers. It should
be swabbed on the wound with a
rag, brush or sponge.
-~Cions for grafting are best cut:
from dormant wood. Select medium-
sized water sprouts or strong ter-
minals to give wood preferably
about the diameter of a lead pencil.
Suen wood cuts nicely for making
s.
Store cions in a box with damp
sand or moss completely covering
them. They must not be allowed
to dry out at any time. A layer
of cion wood and a layer of wet
sand should be used in filling the
box. Keep preferably at near freez-
ing temperature, It is often a good
plan to tak the box of cions to a
cold storage and take out the cions
as needed.
If just a few grafts are needed a
soft wax that can be worked in the
hands can be used. A good for-
mula for soft wax is, resin four
pounds, beeswax or paraffin two
pounds, and linseed oil or tallow one
pound. Melt these together, pour
into water to set. Grease the hands
and pull like taffy until of even
grain and proper consistency. Soft
wax can be heated in water to soft-
en and can be worked by the hands
before applying. It should be cov-
ered with strips of muslin to pre-
vent hot sun melting it and causing
it to run off the grafts.
Grafting can be started as soon
as the sap is active in the tree and
growth has started. If cions are
kept dormant the time for grafting
can be extended until late in the
spring—even up until the first of
June if necessary. For late graft-
it is desirable to paraffin the
cions after setting, to prevent dry-
ing out. Covering the entire cion
with paraffin is always helpful in
getting a good stand of grafts.
--The popular theory, held by
potato growers for many years,
that diseased seed constituted the
only source of infection of blackleg,
has been exploded by Dr, J. G.
Leach, plant pathologist at Univer-
sity Farm, St. Paul, Minn., with the
discovery of two important new
sources of infestation. These new
sources are first, ana second, bac-
teria carried into the seed pieces by
maggots.
Doctor Leach’'s experiments have
shown conclusively that the black-
leg bacteria may live over winter
in the soil. However, he says,
when planting is done under favor-
able conditions and in light, well-
drained soil, a layer of wound cork
is formed on the seed pieces which
immunizes them to the blackleg
bacteria.
Gardens should be planted to
provide the kinds and amounts of
vegetables needed to balance the
family diet. Yields vary with the
weather, so plant enough and in-
sure an adequate crop.
—Try a row of asparagus broc-
coli. It grows as easily as a tur-
nip and needs the same conditions.
This is the green broccoli that has
become popular. “Calabrese” is one
of the fine strains. It is old in
. now, |
wine; ‘How old are you Furope but a new vegetable here.
Willie: “Well, ’'m 13 at home,
14 at school and 11 on the train.”
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