'1'1.v
wEnaLr-
ovuwnnkr
QAZETTE
STRENGTH.
Strength for to-day is all we need
As the: a will never be a to-mor row:
For tomorrow will prove but another to-day.
With its measure of joy or 13mm ,
Strength for to-day—~in house and home,
To practise forbearance sweetly:
To scatter kind words and living deeds,
Sti lltrusting in God completely,
Strength for to-dayl I’Vhat a precious boor.
For the earnest souls who labor;
Fer the '-'1 illing hands that minister
To the loving friend or neighbor!
HE HAD HIS CHOICE.
BY W. PETT RIDGE.
It was an eccentiic gallery, with pic-
tures painted by men 1v ho weie young
enough to know bette1,o of spiawling
ladies in gieen, scarlet landscapes, and
blue angels. The frames formed in
themselves a grim attraction to most
of the visitors; the catalogue was us-
ually pieserved by suburban pations
for the puipose of frightening birds.
"It does one good,” said Mr. James
Niaichant, “to come to a show like this.
If I ever go out to the Cape again—~”
"l1 hich you won’,t” said. the young
lady.
"And I feel wistful—”
"Mal du pays,” suggested theyoung
lady.
"Exactly. Why, thefi, I shall think
of this hideous collection of pictures,
and I shall feel reconciled to my lot.
The Cape is not all honey, but at any
rate you do get nature there. And na-
ture is always good.”
“I suppose these artists think she can
be improved by the introduction of a
little novelty.”
"I wouldnt,” said Mr. James Mar-
chant, 11aving his stick round the gal—
leiy, ‘ give twopence halfpenny f01 the
lot of them.”
“I don ‘t suppose they would care to
sell them fo1 less
Mr. James Marchant laughed good-
temperedly, and touched her hand,
which happened to. be resting on her
knee. It was a very pretty hand and
neatly gloved, and there was good ex-
cuse for him.
“But here is something,” he said,
lowering his voice, “in the gallery, E1-
13,» that I would give every penny I
have 'in the world to possess.”
“A picture?”
“Prettier than any picture?”
“Statuary '3” ‘
“Better shaped than any statuary.”
“Not disposed of already?”
“I hope not. There is only one dif-
ficulty—I am not sure, if I were to
make an offer now, that it would be
accepted.”
“How shall you find out?”
He rose and adjusted his frock—coat
with the manner of a manto whom for
some years frock-coats had not been
familiar wear. He was a tall, brown-
.faced man, with a good deal of ear-
nestness in his eyes.
“I shall ask Mr. Beckett.”
“Oh!” she said. She gasped a little
before she went on. “And you—you
think my step-mother will be—will be
able to advise you in the matter?”
“I think she will.”
“It seems to me,” she said, rolling up
. her catalogue'very tightly, “rather an
,
. have insisted,
old-fashioned mode of procedure.”
“There is this excuse in ~my case.
Mrs. Beckett has an idea, I am afraid.
that I have. brought back from the
Cape untold gold. I want to make her
understand that, when I say I shall
have to work for my living, I really
mean it.”
"I am glad,” she said quietly.
“I know that you are, clear.
suppose parents are ditferent.”
“My parent is.”
“And if she objects. why,” he looked
down upon her affectionately, “I shall
just pack’you up, Ella, and run off
with you.”
“Now,” she said delightedly, “that is
more old-fashioned than even.”
“Itshall see you tonight?”
“I am sure.” she said, with her little
hand resting for a moment in his. “I
think the invitation is for two only.’
"l‘have a great mind,” said James
Marchant, looking down at her affec-
tionately, “to kiss you.”
“That is no evidence of a great
mind,” she said reprovingly. “Beside,
you are in London now.” ‘
"I am afraid,” said James Mar-
chant, ap-ologetically, “that I have
much to learn before I become reach-
ilized. The Cape makes one forget all
0116 S manners.
“It has not made you feiget your
'fiiends, ” she said
“There was one,” he said, as he as-
But I
sisted her into the hansom, "she was
only a small girl—" '
“Not old enough to count?" _
"'Of whom I thought every day of
my life out there.”
There were tears in her eyes that
challenged the lightness of her good-
by. The small gloved hand was
pressed in the big fist of the man
from the Cape for one moment. and
then he gave the addiess to the di'ver.
It was with gieiat de. tcrity that at
dinner in Duke Street Mansions that
night Mr. James Marchant contrived
to get himself paired with the excel-
lent Mrs. Beckett.
"I should have thought you would
sim——ply insisted on
taking down my dear Madeleine.”
Mrs Beckett fluttered her fan ' at
Mr. Marchant in a manner that had in
the early seventies been pronounced
bewitching.
“I want particulaily to speak to
vou,1 \Ir.s Beckett. I want to Oder m3-
self—”
“S-s -sh!” said Mrs. Beckett mysteri-
ously. “Not a word. I know exactly
what you are going to say. Mad
eleine, my dear,” she called to a tail.
bony damsel just in front of then.
“you haven’t shaken hands with der.
Mr. March-ant. How very remiss «
you! The dear girl is so thoughtles
do you know Mi. Marchant, that I d-
dare to goodness I believe she’s rea‘
LV
M iss Madeleine received thgs raillery
with a grim smile, and shook hands
with Mr. marchant. Miss. Madeleine
explained that her half—sister Ella had
remained at, home because she had
some writing to (10.
“Poor Ella’” said Mrs. Beckett, with
effusive sympathy, “poor dear girl.
I’m really dreadfully fond of her. Yen
must give me your advice, Mr. Mar-
chant, concerning her at dinner. I
feel already—forgive me for saying
so—I feel already as though you were
one of the family.”
“I have noticed it all along, do you
know, and I am so delighted. Quite
enchanted, really. And my influence
with the dear girl will make her like
you. I dare say you may have thought
her little—what shall I say, cold ?——but.
‘as a. matter of fact, it has only been——
011, bless my soul, thick soup, please—
what is the expression? It has only
been—it has only been—”
“Maidenly reserve,” suggested James
Marchant.
“Pre—cise-ly! Pre—cisely what I
was trying to say. How clever of
you, dear Mr. Marchantl
“I want to speak to you about that,
Mrs. Beckett. I’m afraid you don’t re-
alize what I mean when I say that I
haven’t brought much home with me.”
“Now, my dear Mr. Marchant—”
“You must allow me, please, to tell
you exactly my position. Unless I
work and earn money we sha’nt
have—”
“Mr. Marchant, this eleborate ruse is
one that I have heard of before. A
woman like myself doesn’t live in this
world for— e1], a certain number of
years for nothing.”
“No,” said Mr. Marchant,
money, I know.”
“That is not at all what I mean. But
when you came back from the Cape a
few weeks ago, and hinted that you
had only a few hundreds, I could see
through it at once. It was—this is a
dreadfully slangy expression—too thin.
But the dear girl, of course, didn’t see
through it, and consequently you may
feel quite sure that she will love you
for yourself alone. That’s all you
wanted, isn’t it?” ,
“That, most certainly, is all that I
wanted, but—”
“And, fortunately enough to con-
firm my suspicions, I came across a
letter addressed to a friend of mine;
she didn’t know that I saw it, but I
managed to do it, all the same—from
your partner, Burchison.”
“Really?”
James Marchant was suddenly
terested.
“And Mr. Burchison said that you
and he had made a pile—such an odd
expression, isn’t it?—of twenty thou-
sand pounds. And he said that he
thought you would both stay on for ‘a
few years, but, as we know, you sen-
sibly enough came home.”
Mrs. Beckett looked triumphantly
across at her angular daughter oppo-
site, who was bawling information
about the weather to a deaf archdea-
con, and then atMarchant. She shook
her head waggishly at the man from
the Cape.
“Can I see that letter?”
sharply.
“Luckily I have it in my pocket, but
I really don’t know whether I ought
to show it to you. You see it is pri-
vate.”
“Is that why you took it, Mrs. Beck-
ett?”
“Come, come, Mr. Marchant. Don’t
be too severe. One has to keep one’s
eyes open in this world.”
She found the letter with some dif-
ficulty, for the pockets ,in ladies’
dresses are remote and difficult to ac—
cess, and, under ambush of his plate,
March-ant read it.
“Mrs. Beckett,” he said excitedly,
“you have, without knowing it, done
me a very great service. Burchison de-
clared to me that he had invested our
gains, and that all the money had been
lost. It seems from this letter that he
has behaved shamefully, and I shall
make him disgorge every penny that
belongs to me. I shall go back to the
Cape by the next boat.”
“This is very unsatisfactory,” de-
clared Mrs. Beckett, aggrievedly. “You
can’t very“ well get married before next
Saturday.”
“The dear girl will wait,” he an-
swered confidently.
“I am not so sure of that,”
Beckett sharply. “Dear
is not so young as she was.”
“So I should judge. But what has
she to do with the affair? Is she to be
bridesmaid?"
“Madeleine has been: bridesmaid
quite often enough,” said her mother.
“This time providing this money af-
fair of yours comes out right, she will
be the bride.”
‘ Whose bride, Mrs. Beckett?“
“Why bless the man,” cried
Beck ett, “yours."
“I don't see how that can. be man-
aged with convenience. There’s a law
against bigamy, I believe. Besides, I
only want to marry your stepdaugh-
ter.” ,
“Ella?” exclaimed Mrs.
amazement.
“if you dontmind.”
111's Becket laid down her knife and
fork, and stared distractedly around
the table at the other guests. Finally
her eyes rested on Madeleine, and she
frowned so much at that young lady
that Madeleine asked across the table
i‘.n an audible tone if she were ill.
“lll?” echoed Mrs. Beckett, ta1tly; “I-
have uncommonlyg good cause to be. To
think that I have taken all this trouble
for the sake of poor Mr. Beckett‘s ri-
diculous little daughter' by his first
wife. Why. she isn’t worth—J.
"Excuse me,’ , interruptedl Marchant,
promptly; “you will remember, please
that you are speaking of a lady who
is to be my wife.’
“Bah!” said Mrs. Beckett—Cham-
ber's Journal. ._ .
“it costs
in-
he asked
said Mrs.
Madeleine
Mrs.
Becket, in
7
FOR BOYS AND GIRLS
A TRUE HEROINE.
A Little California Gin-1 Who Gave me.
Life for Her Brother.
She lived in Placer county, not fat
from where the pretty town of Au-
burn now stands, for it happened
many years ago, in the early ’60’s.
and I expect that but few new resid-
ing there have any recollections of
the alfair. The family, consisting of
her father, a'miner, her mother and
little brother, dwelt in a small shanty
erected under cover of a convenient
ledge. The shanty was a miserable
structure of two rooms, but it held
what many a grander dwelling failed
‘to contain, a loving household. The
mother lay sick with the fever, and
Carmen, then a girl of twelve, per-
formed the drudgery of the house.
Her little brother, a curly-headed
romp of five, was Carmen’s great re-
sponsibility. The father was away
from early morning until late at night
at his work, and so the little hands
of twelve found plenty to do. In com.
mon with the custom of miners, the
father kept a store of giant powder in
the house, which in the present case
was contained in a sack placed in an
old box that stood by the foot of the
bed where lay the sick mother. The
upper part of the shanty, under the
sloping board roof, was utilized as a
storage place for old dunnage and
rubbish. One night the father was
absent in the mine, on night work.
By some means the shanty took fire,
probably from the cracked and (lefec-
tive adobe chimney. Carmen awoke to
find that the roof was afire and sparks
dropping down. 1
Spiinging up she loudly cried to
awaken her mother and Tommy, but
the little boy became frightened and
hid his head beneath the covers of his
bed. Carmen sprang to lift, him from
the bed, when she saw a shower of
sparks falling upon the powder box.
Recognizing the awful danger, she at-
tempted to leave the child for the mo-
ment and carry out the powder, but
in her excitement she caught her foot
in the overhanging bed-clothes and fell
to the floor, breaking her thigh bone.
Unable to arise, the brave girl crawled
to the box of powder, and drawing
herself up, covered the box with her
body. The mother had by this time
succeeded in. getting out of bed and
getting outside the now furiously
burning shanty, and managed to take
with her the little boy. The cries of
Carmen: “Oh, take Tommy out, won‘t
you!” turned for a. time the mother’s
thought from her daughter’s danger.
The fire had aroused some of the
neighbors, who speedily ran to the
burning shanty and lent what aid
as
“they could. Carmen was discovered
and removed. Her rescuers feund her
almost hidden beneath a mass of
burning‘ Cinders, her back frightfully,
burned. Tender hands bore her to a
neighboring shanty, where all? that
could be done to- alleviate her suflfer-
ings was eagerly bestowed. But hu-
man aid came too late. The brave
little spirit lingered until the follovV-
ing day, and then departed for a
brighter land. It was not known until
after she had recovened consciousness
a short time before she died that she
had broken her leg. Her last words
were: “Kiss me Tommy; I’ve saved
vou, and _.;I’u so happy ”—San Fran-
CiSCO (:21.IV L._
o
A Bear
Having been requested to write a
composition on f‘beais," Johnny pro-
duced the following:
“One. day a hear he went among a
flock of sheeps, and picked out a nice
little 1abm,“"and cot it, and the labm it
said, ‘Ba-ba-bal’ ’cos- it knowed it was
a-goin’ to be et, every little, teeny,
tiny hit up. But the hear he took it
up in his fore poz, like it was a baby,
and rocked it and sed, ‘There, there,
never mine, my pneshus darlin’. Where
does it hurt you?’ But the labm kept
on hollerin’ louder and louder, ’cos,
wile the bear was a—smilin’ and a-
singin’ bus-a a by baby, be was a-
skaweezin’ titer and titer all the time.
Bime-by the old 11am seen wot was
up, and he, dropt his bed, and came
like he was shot out of a ,gun. Well,
sirs, that bear was doubled up like'a
razor, and he dropped his preshus dar-
lin’, he did. And aft-er that the ole
bear went back into ‘the swamp to
hunt around for a drugstore; and that's
the end, 01', as some big writers say,
the ‘finis.’ ”—Golden Days.
Story.
SHADOW PICTURE.
To make the above picture of Miss
Pussy appear on the wall, hold a hand-
kerchief around «the arm, and double
the hand up as shown. Place the sec-
ond hand near the elbow, where it will
not. appear, and wag a finger for the
tail.
Now Is the Time.
Mr. Goodman—Why are you pound
ing your little brother so?
self?
Slopsy—Nit!
growing to be such a biQ boy am;- :11
soon be bigger’n me;
swat him now wbile I kink
5N”
What is the difference between .
cow and an Old chair? .Olié‘s.’ gins.
milk, the other gives—way. ,
Ain t you;
ashamed to hit one smaller than your- -,
:f“:lbottom an old lady of mu h common
Eve!" body sez d'at he E3.
e’llf
I'm‘l‘goiug &
m1")
VALUE OF TIME.
Avoid Petty Economies that Cost More
. Than They Are “forth.
Many housewives who are extreme-
ly frugal in other things seem to have
no idea of the value of time. A good
deal of time is daily wasted and much
extra. labor expended in preparing the
meals by having to wash one sauce-
pan in which to cook a second dish
that could as well have been cooked
with the same fire and watched at the
same time as the first. Or a towel
must do duty as a strainer or colon:
der, no account being made of the
time required to wash the towel, nor
of its becoming worn 01' stained. Or
a silver spoon is used to stir or lift
food for the lack of iron or wooden
ones. Why not afford such kettles
and pans as are really needed for ad-
vantageous cooking and “save” in
some other department?
Have you ever seen some busy
housewife hanging out clothes on a
cold,:windy day, taking 0E a clothes-
pin every time a garment is added to
the line, trying to make the pin hold
two and sometimes three articles?
at such low rates it. seems like very
unwise economy to stand on the cold
and damp ground double the time re-
ally required to shake out and hang
up the clothes and run the risk of tak-
ing cold while so doing. '
Could any mathematician compute
the number of half-hours spent in a
family of half a dozen children in un—
tying hard knots in shoe strings that
are too short or so worn as to require
tying in more than one place and must
again be untied before the little's‘hoes
can be taken off? Shoe strings cost,
it may be 10 cents a dozen pairs.
spend in one year alone in managing
worn—out shoe laces in order to save a
few cents not be better utilized in do-
ing some sewing or some other work
by which enough could be earned to
stock the family with shoe strings for
life? Be ware of these extiavagant
~economies—Philadelphia Record.
Tidiness.
In days gone by, before the new wo-
man appeared upon the scene of ac-
tion, girls were rigidly taught the
good old-fashioned principle of ’tidi-
ness. Neatness hardly expresses my
meaning as well as does the, quaint
old-time word. To be tidy, \Vebster
tells us. is to be arranged in. good' or-
.. (1Q! ; kept. in proper‘and becomingneat-
neSS- Nowadays. girls are. neat to a
certain extent and in a certain way.
They bathe freely and wear clean
clothes, but are they tidy? Fre-
quently they are not. Their hair is of-
ten'loose and prone to tumble down;
their gloves are sometimes ripped at
the finger tips, and one or two buttons
are lacking from their boots. The
stock 00er is often fastened on with
an ordinary white pin that is very ob-
vious, and the veil has occasionally a
hole over the nose or chin. Our girl is
charming; but is she as careful as she
should be?
ing call at a friend’s house, and there
met another caller, a woman who
made a most agreeable impression on
me. She was not elaborately dressed,
but her black tailor-made gown fitted
her Well, and there was not a spot or
a speck of dust on it. I knew that it
had been brushed carefully before she
left her room. _Her linen collar and
culfs were snowy-white, and did not
twist or shift from their proper places.
Her gloves did not wrinkle, and but-
toned smoothly over the wrists; her
dainty—and her bonnet rested firmly
and straight on soft brown hair that,
While wavy and fluffy, was neatly
dressed and so securely pinned that I
fancy a high wind would not have
caused it to come down. A thin veil
covered a fresh complexion and bright
face. The tout ensemble gave one the
idea of daintiness and delicate finish.
In speaking of this woman afterwards
to a man who knows her, I said:
“There is something about her ap-
pearance that charms one. What is
the secret?” ‘
“I will tell you,” he said. “She is a
well—groomed woman. There are
neverany rough orloose ends abouther. "
“You mean that she is tidy,” I said
to him.
“You call it ‘tidy,’ I say ‘w-ell-
groomed.’ We both mean the same
thing.”
However one may express it—in
' sporting terms or with the old-fash-
ioned word—is the condition not well
worth striving for? Nothing is so de-
structive to illusion, so detrimental to
the fascination of beauty 01' personal
charm, as the lack of this quality.—
Harper’s Bazar.
A Protection fm IV: :iiI".
their low-necked corset covers. alarge
kerchief—the word used by our grand-
mothers is the only correct one—of the
finest and sheerest linen, homstitchtd,
crossed over the neck, and brought 1:1)
well in the throat. This is to protect
the lining of the gowns. One of thest
daintiest of women, shows dusky
shadows upon it, which p- int to a hy-
gienic moral.
Sensible Dame Fashion—she is a:
sense—has not as yet pr led a o 1'—
ering for the bare arms tha t are thri .~..-
into elegantly lined 110111.: My la ‘1‘
them. But she 11 "-01. Id be horrified.
"the thought ‘of wearing another g.-;-
=i11ent next her skin for two wec‘.s
without submitting ’ it to ,the- laundrt 1.:
When good Clothespins can be bought .
Could the hours which some mothers
The other day. I was making a n1orn-‘
shoes were like the rest of her attire— '
Many fastidious women wear, with
kerchiefs, after once wearing by the ,
does not realize how much she Wheel s.
BUTTONS" As oases Tammfis‘s. "
Tiny Miniatures Painted on sun: and Set
in Glass with a Gold or Silver- Elmo.
1 (By Special. Arrangement with the N.Y. San.)
Buttons have a conspicuous. place
among the dress trimmings. The most
exquisite novelty is the Louis Seize
button, which is a. tiny miniature
painted on satin, mounted in glass.
with a gold or silver traine. The back—
ground may be cream or black satin,
and tiny cupids sometimes supplant
the young face with powdered hair.
Jeweled buttons, however, seem t:
have the lead, and the most popular of
all is the turquoise set with rhino
stones.
The ruling tendency in the present
mode of hair dressing is to make a
full soft puff all around the head. So
the hair is pushed forward and held
in place by long side combs circling in
shape to fit the head. Three and foul
of these are used, and the efiect is not
always becoming, especially when the
locks are not very abundant.
The stock, or cravat, whichever may
be the most acceptable name, is a
study in dress which is very import-
ant this season, and to choose fro-m
.
\A
2
J ° \;.:>
the bewildering variety offered you in
the shops requires no little amount of
consideration. We have the simple
scarf of silk passing twice around the
neck and tied in a. bow in front, the
narrow band, like a man’s evening tie,
in all the plain colors, and all the va1
rious plaids, and the sailor’s knot.
sometimes given a touch of femininity
by a finish of dainty lace on the ends.
Crepe de chine is to be very much
worn this season, especially for even-
ing dresses, and in combination witl‘
other materials, and there is a. new
kind ribbed like poplin which is very
delicate and soft. '
In general the new fashions are very
artistic, and the evident tendency for
indefinite rounded lines, soft, clinging
effects, and transparent materials is a
great element in their favor.
Green, black, and cream white are
cleverly arranged as a decoration for a
dark blue and white foulard; tur-
quoise blue velvet and black lace trim
another blue and white silk of a light
er tint, and the same velvet combined
with white lace is very eifective in a
black and white check.
Fancy waists to wear with black
skirts are still a partof fashion’s fab-
ric, and a pretty model illustrated is in
grass lawn, embroidered in checks,
made over blue silk, and completed by
a collar of finely tucked black silk,
striped with cream lace insertion, and
finished at the edge with a double ruf—
fle of chiffon which matches the lawn
in color. Bodi'ces in general are round
and belted. much as 'they have been
all winter, and the belt is sometimes
very wide. beginning just below the
bust. Very short jackets are the rule
among the cloth tailor gowns. ‘ The
revers are narrow and the sleeves very
, small, with very little fulness at the
top.
Ribbon belts are in various widths,
as they are most becoming to the fig.
ure, but One of the latest varieties is
made of Liberty satin, tut bias, and
draped around the. waist in- the form-
of a wide-pointed girdle at the back
and narrowing to two inches in front. ”f the injured“ 81100“.
Pimply Pot-coco.
The cause of the tmuble known 0,1
“pimply” potatoes has been definite“
determined. Min-.ute slender, whifl
grubs have been found boring into thl
tubers, roots and rootstalks of the po
tato during the growing season. TN
pup'ae of these grubs. have been found
in connection with them. The grub:
and pupae have been proven'to be the
early stages of the cemmon cu
cumber flea-beetle, a very injurious in
sect, the life history of which has here
tofore been imperfectly known.
wound made by the boring of the grul
results in the formation of a “silver,"
but a “pimple” may or may not be pro
duced, depending, probably, upon the
stage of growth of the tuber at the '
time the wound is made. ‘
The most practical method of pre
venting the “plmply” potato trouble is
to protect the foliage against the at{
tacks of flea-beetles by thorougth
spraying with bordeaux mixture. '
Seedling plants of various kinds suf1
fer severely from the attacks of flea;
beetles. Bordeaux mixture to: which
a small quantity of paris green has
been added is exceedingly efficient as
a preventive of these attacks, provided
that it is applied thoroughly and fre-
quently.——New York Agricultural Ex-
periment Station.
Keeping Butler.
The secret of success in packing but»
ter for long keeping is in making it
right to begin with. It is the water.
and especially the buttermilk left in
the butter that are the most active
agents in spoiling it or causing it to
become rancid. Butter fer long keep
ing should be much drier than would
be proper for butter to be immediately
marketed. You want a dry, hard,
waxy butter that will pack in. a firkin
perfectly solid. When the firkin is
filled within an inch of the top chime,
loosen the hoops and put in the head.
Bore a hole in this head and pour in,
until it runs over, a brine made strong
enough to float a fresh egg. Let the
firkin stand a day, then pour in all the
brine it will take and plug the hole.
The firkin. should be kept in as cool a
place as possible, a cellar, icehouse or
other place, until wanted. If there is
not butter enough to fill a firkin, then
use well- glazed stone jars. Fill with
strong brine and seal the cover on with
plaster of paris to keep the air out,
but force all the air out first with
brine. Butter made into rolls and sunk
in brine will not keep nearly as well.
If you can bury the firkins or jars in
the ice house, you had better do so.
Canker in Fowls.
The disease of which the first symp-
toms is a sneeze, a. white ulcer back of
the tongue and in the windpipe, and
which rapidly grows larger, and the
birds are dying in from two days to a
week, is canker. The sick birds should
be isolated, as the disease is conta-
gious. Push the windpipe forward, re-
move the ulcer with a sharp stick, and
wash with kerosene. Watch the bird
and repeat treatment as often as a
new ulcer forms: The birds should be
kept toned up.—J. B. F.
Sick'Sheep.
There are sheep which are af-
fected with what is called “Leech,”
caused by the sheep drinking water in-
fested with leeches. They get into the
liver, the sheep swell at the neck 33nd
get very thin and die. This is a de-
rangement which is easier to prevent
than to cure. Give each sheep two tea-
spoonfuls of turpentine in 2 oz of raw.
linseed oil twice a day for a week,
skip a week and give again if neces-
sary. ‘
Intelligence in Hens.
It may not seem to be of much im-
portance that hens should be intelli-
gent; but it is. I find the best lay-
ers are, as a rule, the most teachable
and every way wisest. I have a'lit-
tle busybody which outlays all the
rest of the flock; and she is nearly as
intelligent as my Scotch collie. She
speaks to a human friend in tones un-
like those used to the flock. Another,
in a flock of Plymouth Rocks crossed
with Light Brahmas, proved to be a
specially wise creature, and as com-
p-anionable and affectionate as a cat.
By some accident her leg was bnoken.
We splintered it; 'put the leg throng:
slits cut in a sack stretched over th
top of a barrel. There she laid f0
three weeks, talking with us, and ap
parently fully comprehending the situ
ation. She too is an excellent hen fo
eggs, although the flock is bred f0.
meat instead of eggs. I believe tha
intelligence is of special importanc.
with cows; and I will not buy on-
that is not first of all satisfactory i
the face and head. It will pay us
apart from milk and eggs, to have 'al
of our domestic creatures companion
able and kind in disposition—E. P
Powell, Oneida, N. Y.
' ‘—‘_——T
Stem dinner of the Currant.
This insect, both a girdler and borer
is not unknown, but its ravages ar
increasing. By studying its habits th-
damage can be easily checked. In Mia
and June the female deposits eggs in
the pith of curra-nt shoots a few inche
from the top then uninch. above th
egg girdles the Shoot with her oviposi
tor. The young shoots wilt, die an
finally drop off. As soon as the eg
hatches, the grub begins tunneling 1
the pith. To get rid of this pest, cu
off the affected tips’soon after the .
jury has been done, and burn. I
looked after early remove two or thre
niches. 1f delayed until fall or win -
cut and burn eight inches of the tip
I
Norwalk Chronicler