AN IRISH
®Ah, sweet Kitt
MELODY,
DY JOUN FRANCOIS WALLER,
Neil! rise up from your wheel
Your neat little foot will be weary from spinning;
Halt
trip down with me to the sycamore tree; .
the parish is there, and the dance is beginning.
The sun is gone down; but the full harvest moon
Shines sweetly and cool on the dew-whitened valley;
While all the ai rings with the soft, loving things
Each little bird sings in the green shaded alley.”
With a blush and a smile Kitty rose up the while,
; . Her eye in the glass, as she bound wer hair, glancing;
¢ Tis hard to refuse when a young lover sues,
| So she couldn’t but choose to go off to the dancing.
} And now on the green the glad groups are seen—
i Each gay-hearted lad with the lass of his choosing;
be, And Pat, without fail, leads out sweet Kitty Neil
I Somehow, when he asked, she ne'er thought of refusing
Now Felix Magee puts his pipes to his knee,
And with flourish so free, sets each couple in motion;
With a cheer and a bound, the lads vatter the ground—-
The maids move around just like swans on the ocean.
Cheeks bright as the rose—feet light as the doe’s—
Now cosily Tetiring, now boldly advancing}
a
Search the world al
round from the sky to the ground,
No such sight can be found as the Irish lass dancing!
! Sweet Kate, who could view your eyes of deep blue,
Beaming humidly through ‘their dark lashes so mildly=:
Your fairy-turned «rm, heaving breast, rounded form—-
Nor feel his heart warm, and his pulses throb wildly?
y A
Poor Pat feels his heart, as he gazes, depart,
} Subdued by the smart of such painful yet sweet love;
: The sight leaves his eyes as he cries with a sigh,
‘Dance light, for my heart it lies under your teet, love!”
—National Magazine,
A Trust Fulfilled.
«q By Roger
IIIT
(+) HIE people of Melstone were
not uncharitable, yet it
T © would have been hard to
find three persons who be-
lieved there was any good
#n Fred Wildburn., A rude, ungoverned
¢hild; a lawless, vicious youth: a reck-
Mess, dissipated man. In all his thirty
years of life he had done no good thing
dhat anyone ever remembered of him.
The people of Melstone were a very
moral sort of people, and did not hesi-
fate to give this one Ishmaelite to un-
derstand the impassable gulf that lay
between themselves and him, both in
fime and eternity. Perhaps it tended
%0 improve his heart and temper; but
3 doubt it.
Among the inhabitants was a family
of the name of Upton. From time im-
memorial there had been a feud be-
tween the Wildburns and Uplons. kept
alive and aggravated by each sueces-
sive generation. A great nu
pefore a Wildburn and
married sisters, and thro X + nice
®i: of diplomacy ca the part of Upton,
his wife was made heiress to the pa-
ternal fortune, and the wife of Wild-
burn cut off with a paltry hundred
gollars.
Later, Henry Upton had succeeded in
getting the whole of a large legacy,
deft by some distant relative, which
should have been equally divided Dbe-
tween Fred Wildburn and himself.
Naturallly, this tended to widen the
breach, and fearful and bitter were the
“vows of vengeance which Fred
breathed against Upton.
Indeed, his ungovernable passion
might have led him to some act of
personal violence, but for one restrain-
eng influence. :
Ten years before the commencement
of our tale, when Fred Wildburn was
sbout twenty years old, he had one of
Ris wrists broken in a fight he had
Bimself provoked. His mother was,
and had been for years, a bedridden
invalid, with an intellect weakened
by long illness and abuse—for her hus-
band drank heavily at times, and liquor
made him wild and furious.
© The broken limb was set by a sur-
geon in a neighboring town; but the
prospect of payment being exceedingly
small, he paid very little subsequent
attention to his patient. It was warm
weather, and the arm was badly torn
and bruised besi{es, and needed daily
attention. Good, charitable, pious peo-
ple, who gave munificently for the
smelioration of the heathen thousands
© of miles away, turned with disgust
from this heathen at their own doors.
¥imid women shrank from entering
the house, because, perchance, old
Wildburn might be on one of his “ca-
souses;” and so the bruises became
snflamed, and the danger that the arm
would have to come off grew immi-
ment. Fred wasn't used to bearing
pain, and raved fearfully, while the
weak-minded invalid cried and fretted
by turns, and Wildburn senior drank
more perseveringly than ever.
Iato this pandemonium there came
one morning a slight, delicate girl,
bearing a little roll of snowy linen in
. Ber hands.
“I have come to dress your arm,
Fred,” she said, quietly, laying aside
her white sunbonnet, and revealing a
thin, rather pale face, with steady,
fearless brown eyes.
“Whe sent you here, Bessie Bran-
don?’ Asked the elder Wildburn, in a
ering voice.
“No one, sir. "I came because 1
thought it right for me to come.
Frederick will lose his arm, unless it
# cared for speedily.”
“Let him lose it,
gruff answer.
“Not if I can hel» it, sir!”
And the brown eyes were lifted fear-
lessly to his face.
Muttering something about “meddling
meighbors,” he seized his hat and stag-
gered out of the room, and Bessie at
once set herself to the work of caring
for the wounded arn.
It was a shocking sight, and the firm
lips grew just a little white as she
stripped off the matted bandages; but
her white fingers wera steady and cool,
as she carefully washed the orm,
bathed it in some liniment she had
Brought with her, and swathed it nice-
‘Jy and carefully in the cool, soft linen
she had brought for the purpose.
“Why, it doesn’t feei like the same
arm!” Fred exclaimed, when she had
gnished; and involuntarily he glanced
then,” was the
Canning. p. -
Jit
obddeb ld blll
at the other hand, which he for the
first time realized, with a faint emotion
of shame, to be almost as sadly in
need of washing as the other had been.
When Bessie came the next day, she
noticed that it was almost as white as
her own.
Every day for fom weeks Bessie
visited the Wildburns on her errand
of mercy, undismayed by old Wildburn,
or the ridicule of her friends.
“I should have lost it, I dare say, if
it hadn’t been for you, Miss Bessie,”
Fred said, the last. day she came. “I'm
a miserable wretch, Heaven knows;
but I shan’t ever forget this,” touching
his arm.
“I am so glad I could help you,” she
said, gently.
“Well, you're the first one,” he said,
a little bitterly.
As I said, this was ten years before,
and, though the years had brought
many changes, the ameliorating influ-
ences had been few in the life of Fred
Wildburn. The drunken father and
Fred quite alone in the miserable,
shabby old house where he lived. He
had not improved with the years; on
the contrary, he had grown more reck-
less and disorderly, until people said
he was utterly and totally depraved,
without one good impulse in his heart.
One thing had happened during these
ten years. Bessie Brandon had mar-
ried Henry Upton; but no one ever
knew of the terrible night which Fred
Wildburn passed when he heard of it.
“Nobody ever should know what a
miserable fool he liad been,” he said,
fiercely.
He need not have feared —his secret
was safe—for no one ever was wild
enough to suspect him of feeling or
sentiment, particularly where the
petted daughter of Squire Brandon was
concerned.
Henry Upton was an honored and
highly respected citizen. He was in-
telligent, educated and wealthy, and
if he looked down from his sublime
height of virtue and attainment a little
contemptuously upon poor, miserable
Fred Wildburn, it was certainly no
more than his neighbors did. And if,
by any possibility, there had been any
little trickery or unfairness in the set-
tlement of that legacy, he could easily
excuse himself upon the plea that it
would only be a curse to Wildburn if
he had it, leading him into deeper de-
bauchery, whereas -he could use it
wisely, and for the benefit of morality
and religion. The fact that Wildburn
did not see it in just that light was
only another proof of his innate de-
pravity, peopie said, piously.
Upton had a mill some four miles
from Melstone, by the main road, but
scarcely three by a cut across country.
It was little more than a bridle path,
though Upton sometimes drove through
with his light drag. He started with it
one wild, chilly December morning,
promising his wife to return early if
ic came on to snow, as it promised to.
It was piercingly cold, and the wind
blew in fierce, fitful gusts all the fore-
noon. Just after noon it began snow-
ing—not as usual, in fine, light parti-
cles, but with a wild, tempestuous
force that carried all before it. Long
before might the streets were block-
aded, and the wind roared and shrieked
up and down them like a madman.
Beossie Upton paced the floor of her
pretty sitting room, more excited and
nervous thar she had ever been in her
life before. She had, naturally, a cool,
quiet temperament.
“If only he had not started,” she said,
anxiously; “if Lhe saw the fierceness of
the storm in season to stop at the mill,
instead of attempting to brave itd”
The night came down early; but the
mill owner came not, and his wife,
though still anxious, had settled down
to the belief that he would not come
till morning.
Suddenly a loud neigh, falling be-
tween the pauses of the tempest, struck
her ear.
“Henry has come now!” she ex-
claimed; and, catching up a lamp, she
hurried to the side door.
Only a panting, terrified horse, the
broken harness dangling from his
foamy sides, met her appalied vision.
For a moment she sank, dizzy and
faint, in a chair. She was alone; her
one servant, having gone away for the
day. had been prevented from return-
ing by the storm.
‘® . Dw . . ®
invalid mother had both died, leaving |.
Fred Wildburn was sitting over a
smoldering fire, inwardly cursing the
storm that kept him in, It was not a
pleasant home-—there was that excuse
for him. The walls were dingy with
smoke, the floor was bare and dirty,
the chairs and tables were broken and
dilapidated,
“How the wind blows!
third time—-"
He paused suddenly, for, framed in
the door, the wind and snow whirling
madly about ler slight figure, stood
Bessie Upton,
“Great Heaven, Bessie!” he ejaculat-
ed, and then stood gazing at her in
dumb amazement, while she closed
the door, and came and stood before
him,
“Frederick,” she said, in her sweet,
firm voice, “Henry is out somewhere
in this storm, The horse has come
home alone, If he came the forest
road, he can never find his way home,
and he could not live till morning in
this storm. There is nobody I dare ask
but you to go to him. It is a great deal
to ask, I know; but I think I know
your heart better than anyone else
does, and I shall trust to your courage
and bravery in this dreadful emer-
gency.”
A fieres spasm of pain crossed his
face. Then he turned away without
speaking, and took down his hat and
coat, and they walked together to the
door. He paused on the doorstep, look-
ing wistfully down at her.
“How can you get home?’ he said.
“It is dreadful, I know, Frederick”—
nobody but she ever called him any-
thing but Fred—*“but I think I can get
along,” the wind nearly taking her
from her feet as she spoke.
“If T might accompany you,” he said,
hesitating, and adding, “if you are not
afraid of being contaminated.”
* For answer, she put her hands in his,
confidingly.
While she lived, Bessie Upton never
forgot the close, nervous clasp with
which he held her hands; but he took
her carefully and tenderly to her door,
and then turned away into the storm
and darkness.
One, two, three hours—and, oh, such
long, interminable ages as they
seemed!
“Perhaps I have sent him to his
death, too,” she moaned, sadly. “Oh,
if I could only know and see just where
they are!”
If she could, she would have seen
a slight, determined figure, battling
with the strength of a giant agsinst
the winds that disputed his progress
step by step. Falling sometimes over
prostrate trees, anon borne down by
sudden drifts of snow, yet struggling
on with unabated zeal, till he comes at
last to a still, white figure lying across
the path, entangled and held down by
the debris of broken wheels and tree
limbs!
Two hours later, when poor Bessie
had nearly given them both up for
dead, Fred Wildburn staggered into
the room, and laid her husband at her
feet.
“I have fulfilled the trust,” he said,
faintly, and sank down beside Upton,
who, was slowly rousing from the ter-
rible chill and torpor that had over:
powered him.
This is the
“Oh, Henry} he has fainted! And
see!”
She grew suddenly white as she
pointed to a small stream of blood
that stained his shirt bosom, caused
by a sudden hemorrhage from the
lungs. -
It was morning before they could get
a physician there. Wildburn had Jaid
in an unconscious state all night; but
the fiow of blood had ceased, and they
thought it only the torpor of exhaus-
tion.
“poor Fred!” Henry Upton said,
“there was some gqod in him, after all,
I owe my life to his bravery, and I
shan't forget it in a hurry. I have been
thinking, Bessie, that I will take him
into the mill, and see if I can’t make
something of him yet. I intend to re-
ward him handsomely for this.”
The doctor came at last; but his
erave face told the story before he
opened his lips.
“There is no chance for him to re-
cover,” he said.
A little after noon the dying man
opened his eyes, and looked about him.
“Tred,” Mr. Upton said, feelingly,
“I've not treated you as I should have
done in times past, and I didn’t de-
serve this at your hands. I want you
to forgive me, and—""
“Bessie—where is Bessie?” he in-
terrupted. faintly.
“Here, dear Frederick, here.”
And she took his hands in hers, and
bent over him till he felt a warm tear
splash on his face.
“Oh, Bessie! it's a miserable life, 1
know; but it’s all I have to give, and
I would give it a hundred times over
to save you from sorrow,” he said
with a smile that glorified his coarse
face. “It was my good right arm—the
arm you saved for me, you know, dear
1 told you I should never forget, and
1 never did! Nobody but you ever
trusted to the good there was in me—
little enough there was, 1 know,” he
said, dreamily, his voice growing sud:
denly weak.
Bessie was erying softly. He opened
his eyes, and gave one long, eager look
in her face, and in that wistful gaze
Bessie Upton read the secret no ond
else ever knew or guessed.—New YorH
Weekly.
Don’t Insult the Rog.
When a man don’t give his wife
any money nor pay the preacher nor
contributes a' cent to build up his
town or country, some people call him
a hog, but that is slander—slander
against the hog. ‘Che hog does pay.
He pays the doctor, the preacher, the
storekeeper, builds a new house for the
wife, buys organs, pianos, buggies
and sends the children away to school.
Don’t ever compare a mean, stingy
man to a hog again.—Jewell (Kan.)
Republican.
os
Pluck and @dventure.
THE
STORY OF A WORD,
JRELY we are fearfully
and wonderfully made, as
the psalmist says,” re.
marked the Pascagoula
philosopher to a couple of
gentlemen who were discussing the va-
rious kinds of timber used in building
boats. “How a simple, indifferent
word can act upon the mind like a
spark of fire on a keg of gunpowder,
causing an explosion and reviving
memories lying dormant in the mind of
many years and supposed to be com-
pletely obliterated. 1 was stretched
out on a bench opposite the two men,
whose conversation did not in the least
interest me, but prevented me from
dropping into a nap, when the word
‘Juniper’ struck my ear and started a
conflagration within my mind, making
meé jump up to my feet wide awake.
My friends, whose conversation I had
so suddenly interrupted, were startled
at my action, and wanted to know
what was the matter. I then told
them. It was away back in the sev-
enth decade of the last century, when
I was on an expedition for the Denver
and Rio Grande Railroad out in Colo-
rado with 100 burros, four saddle
horses and twenty-five Mexican burro
drivers to distribute them among four
engineer corps locating railroad lines
for that company thrQugh a wiid,
mountainous country. After reaching
the head waters of the San Juan River
my route was down that stream, along
narrow trails, where we had to march
single file, crossing and recrossing the
stream, and occasionally following its
bed until we came to a narrow canon
with perpendicular walls of rock about
a thousand feet high on each side.
From there our trail led up a steep
mountain side, covered with juniper
shrubs and an occasional stunted juni-
per tree, a large one of which, with a
trunk nearly a foot in diameter and a
dense round top, looking somewhat like
a Chinese umbrella tree, stood on the
edge of a mesa on top of the canon
near the precipice. A protracted
drought was prevailing and everything
was as dry as tinder. When near the
top, within a hundred feet of that ju-
niper tree, fortunateiy on my feet,
leading the horse (I wos generally rid-
ing) by the woridle, the {op of that tree
suddenly expioded, sputtering flames
in every direction and soon setting the
whole mountain side ablaze. My horse
reared and turned several somersaults
down the mountain side, its descent
being arrested by another juniper bush
at the edge of the precipice, where it
regained its feet, while the frightened
burros rushed pellmell for the river.
We all had to run for our lives, pur-
sued by the rapidly advancing confla-
gration, until we reached a safe shelter
in the canon, where we camped all
night and witnessed the sudden start-
ing of forest fires on the other side of
the river, spreading with amazing ra-
pidity, which Antonio, the chief of the
burro drivers, declared was the work
of Apache Indians. Not long after that
the Meeker massacre, at the White
River Indian Agency, and the annihi-
lation of Captain Thornberg’s com-
mand, going to its relief, occurred, and
I now wonder that I am here to-night
to tell this story of my hazardous mis-
sion, which I successfully accom-
plished.”—New Orleans Times-Demo-
erat. .
ADVENTURES OI' A FINN.
Truth continues to be stranger, as
well as rarer, than fiction. The inge-
nuity of the romantic novelist or the
stage melo-dramatist cannot equal the
thrill and circumstance of real life. We
expect some time to see the adven-
tures of Matti Hjalmari Reinikka on
the stage, and if they get there they
will help to advertise the struggles
of a brave people to be free.
Reinikka is a youth who lately lived
in the village of Kurikka, Finland.
He took part with other youths in re-
sisting the Russian conscription, this
conscription being contrary to the cov-
enant of Russia with his country. He
was arrested and released; and now,
his revolutionary blood being up, he
went to Helsingfors, the capital of the
country, with the intention of killing
the Russian Procurator-General, M.
Johnsson, a reweant Finn—a very rep-
rehensible design, inexcusable even in
an oppressed people. Not knowing the
man by sight, he went to his office on
some pretext to get a look at him, and
there fell under the suspicion of a de-
tective, who arrested him. Matti re-
fused to give any account of himselt.
Finding himself in prison and likely
to stay there, he had a happy thought.
He told the chief that he had not
deemed it well to teli his name and his
errand at the Procurator’s to a subor-
dinate, but that his real object was to
give warning that a peasant from the
parish of Kurikka, named Matti Rein-
ikka, had come to Helsingfors to kill
him. The chief made inquiries and
found that a man of that mame had
disappeared from the village. No
longer suspicious, the police head got
Matti to join him in the search for this
man, and for two days Reinikka went
around Helsingfors with the police,
solemnly searching for himself!
At the end of the second day the
police took him to the circus to see if
the fugitive were there. While he was
in the company of one of the police, a
girl of his own village rushed up to
him and exclaimed: ‘Matti Reinikka!
You here?’ The game was accordingly
up. Matti tried to escape, but was
seized. A riot was commencing in the
circus, however, and the policeman
took Reinikka into a neighboring bar,
wher: the youth broke away and fled
to the railroad station, There he man.
aged to jump upon a train which was
just steaming out into the country.
Of course the police were at once
after him by wire, but before the next
station was reached Mattl leaped oft
the train as it slowed down In a rail
rond yard; but in attempting to get
away from a train approaching on an
other track, he slipped and fell ander
the wheels, and had his right arm
crushed. He was picked up and once
more arrested. In a hospital his arm
was amputated, but as he was recover.
ing it chanced (?) that one night every
electric light in and about the hospital
went out, and the young revolutionist
escaped in the darkness. He fled to
Stockholm, practiced shooting with his
left hand, returned to Finland, and on
March 20 last shot the Russian Gov-
eror of Viborg, M. Miasoyedeff, through
the shoulder and back. Needless to
say, he did not help his cause by this
crime,
Matti was arrested and his victim
will recover; but he has succeeded in
firing every young Finn with an in-
tense admiration for his desperate en-
deavor to wreak vengeance on the Rus-
sians.—New York Evening Mail.
HERO IN 3000-FOOT LEAP,
Straight down 3000 feet to what
seemed certain death, William Can-
field, a Boston aeronaut, leaped frdm
his balloon in Lynn, Mass. in order
that Mrs, Camille Stafford, who was
with him in the balloon, might have a
chance for her life. She escaped un-
hurt, though she landed in an apple;
he was badly shocked and hurt by
striking a house as his parachute was
swung in the strong wind. Five thou-
sand persons witnessed his startling
act of heroism.
At the time he leaped Canfield and
Mrs. Stafford, who also is an aeronaut,
were in the balloon over a most thickly
populated part of Lynn. The balloon
was leaking badly, and their combined
weight was dragging it down, slowly
at first, then rapidly, as the 5000 per-
sons looked on. Canfield saw that the
only way to save the woman would be
for him to cut loose in his parachute.
After a word of caution to her, tell
ing her to remain with the balloon un-
til it passed over the meadows a mile
away, he cut the rope and plunged
straight down. The balloon, which
had been in danger of turning upside
down, immediately righted itself when
relieved of the man’s weight, and
lifted the woman beyond danger. Can-
field came through the air like a shot
for fifty feet or more, then, suddenly,
the wind caught his parachute and it
flew open. But the breeze was too
strong. He had leaped, intending to
land in a spot where there were not a
great many houses. The wind swept
him out of his course, however, and
he was thrown violently against a
house. The force of his fall smashed
the wooden gutter of the house and
otherwise damaged it. Persons in the
house lifted him up, and an ambulance
was sent for. On the way to the hos
pital he revived. “Is she safe?” was
his first question.
Before the ascent Canfield and Mrs.
Stafford saw that the balloon leaked
and sewed it up. In the air the strain
on it was so great, however, that the
strands parted and allowed the gas to
escape. This was what led Canfield to
leap. Canfield’s legs were badly bro-
ken.—New York Press. s
BILLY BALLOU, HERO.
In the long list of those on the Na-
tion's roll of honor the name of “Billy”
Ballou, private of the Fifteenth Cav-
alry, must have place. On I'ebruary
2, 1904, Ballou, who was a member of
Troop D, with his captain and two
other privates, was surprised by a band
of insurgents, who to all appearances
just “popped up out of the ground”
near the village of Suciatan on the Isl-
and of Mindanao. Before the quartet
of regulars recovered from their sur-
prise the captain and one of the pri-
vates had been killed, and the second
private severely wounded, and Ballou
was left alone to make the best fight
he could. The records show that he
made a good one.
Ballou stood his ground, his faithful
“Krag” all the time peppering an an-
swer to the rifles in the hands of the
attacking insurgents. The fight was
ten against one, but so deadly was Bal-
lou’s fire that the number of his oppo-
nents decreased by one every time his
rifle snapped, and finally those of the
little brown men who were left alive
retreated. When reinforcements ar-
rived they found Ballou, stilt on guard,
nursing his wounded comrade and
ready, should the occasion arise, to
fight another battle single handed.
THE PRIES1 AND THE TIGER.
The Rev. Father Froger, Principal
of St. Joseph's College, Bangalore, In-
dia, writes to the local papers describ«
ing an experience when cycling from
Wellington to Octacamund by the Kos
tagiri Road—this being the road, it is
understood, which comes into Octaca-
mund from the Snowdon direction. Ac.
cording to the Englishman’s summary,
the Reverend Father was riding quiet-
ly along when he saw what looked
like a tiger sitting on a rock on the
bare hillside above him. As he
watched the fact that it was a tiger be-
came apparent, and, to Father Froger’s
horror, it suddenly bounded straight
down the hillside and made for him.
Fortunately, there was a slight incline
in his favor in the road, and he cycled
for his life until the upward grade be-
came too steep and he had to get off.
Apparently, the beast did not pursue
after he had lost sight of the cyelist,
but the unprovoked attack is in itself
an unusual occurrence, especially with
Nilgiri tigers. There seems little doubt
that tigers are unusually numerous
this year, and in the vicinity of Ko-
tagiri bears and panthers are also said
to be in unaccustomed numbers.
FARM TOPICS
IT
A GOOD RATION.
You can make a fairly good cattle
ration with twenty pounds of wheat
hay, eight pounds of bran and four
pounds of meal daily, The carrots
will be useful as succulent feed, and
the wheat straw may be fed as much
as the animals can consume. The car-
rots and wheat hay together would
have perhaps about the same feeding
value as ensilage from corn, and the
ration may be made to contain ten
pounds of the wheat hay and twenty
pounds of the chopped carrots.
iy
Te
SELECTING BROOD STOCK.
If one has raised a litter of fine pigs
of good breed there are probably sev-
eral among them that will make good
brood cows if properly brought up.
The individuals should be carefully
watched as they grow, and when the
selection is made the pigs should be
nbout five months old. From then on
they should be separated from the mar-
ket stock, and until the end of the sea-
son placed on the best grass possible.
All females intended for breeding pur-
poses should have less carbonaceous
food than that given to those intended
for market, I'rom one-half to two-
thirds corn is enough in the ration
from the time the young sow begins to
eat grain,
OAT HAY.
For several years the practice of
making a part of the oat crop into hay
has been coming into use. On farms
where there is a large amount of this
grain grown, this method seems to be
preferred to letting the entire crop
ripen, and then having so much straw
to feed or otherwise dispose of.
When the crop is intended for hay it
is well to sow a little more thickly in
order that the growth of straw’ may,
be finer and of better quality.
The crop should be cut about when
the grain is in the milk, or a little
past, and while the straw is yet green
and succulent. The process of curing
is about the same as with grass. It
may take longer to cure, and can be
put in cock if need be. Secured in
good condition oats make an excellent
feed for cows in milk and young ani-
mals,
POPULAR WYANDOTTES.
We believe that some of the troubles
of raisers of the White Wyandottes
come from improper feeding. While
the breed is supposed to be tough and
hardy, there is a weakness in them
somewhere which demands careful
feeding. In an experience of ten years
with the breed, we have found they
must be uniformly fed at the same
hours daily, and that their food must
be of the best quality and in consid-
srable quantity.
Handled in this manner they will
give satisfactory results and produce
eggs in about the same numbers dur-
ing the year as the Plymouth Rocks,
but, with us at least, they do not equal
the Leghorns in this respect. On the
other hand, there is considerable to the
carcass and they are readily fattened
for market when desired. In the hands
of some poultrymen they are very sat-
fsfactory and will probably become
more so in the years to come, for they
are noticeably better and stronger now
than they were ten years ago.—Indian-
apolis News.
STORING FOOD FOR WINTER.
Any flock of hens which is turning
fn to its owner less than $1 a hen a
year profit cought to be carefully gone
pver and the drones picked out; then
the owner should begin to study him-
self and his methods of feeding in order"
to ascertain where his weaknesses are, .
for quite as much lies in the care and
treatment as in the individual hen. It
fs not intended to convey the idea that
one can make a dollar a year profit
from each hen and have enormous
flocks, for it has been repeatedly dem-
onstrated that the larger the flock the
greater the expense attending, and
hence the smaller the profit. Make it
Jour business to watch your hens and,
earn their individual needs. ¢
The advice given by an old poultry}
man that one try to furnish the same
plan of feed for fowls in winter that
they find for themselves on the range
in the summer is well worth follow;
fng. Store away root crops and clover
hay to furnish the green food; febd
moderately of green bone and anifnal
meal or meat scraps, to furnish the
substitute for the insects of summer.
Furnish the dust box, the grit and
tHe clean, dry quarters, and you will
have come pretty close to summer
conditions, and eggs will follow. If,
under this treatment, the returns are
not up to the mark, then it will be evi-
dent that the trouble is with the fowls
and a new lot should be bought.—In-
dianapolis News.
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