Norwalk gazette, Friday, May 28, 1897 · page 10

 

 

A MAN or GENIUS.

Captain John Walker sat alone in
his quarters,. reading a tremblingiy
scrawled note that sent old memo1ies
surging thickly th10ugh his brain and
dimmed for an instant the gleam of
his fea1lcss blue eyes, and caused his
strong teeth to close more fiercely on
the stem of his Briar wood pipe.

“My dear old Jack: The thought has
come upon me—now, as I lie here, with
the night swiftly coming on—that I
must 111ite to you—that I must see
you. If you will come to me—if you
will look with those dear, honest eyes
'into mine~—if you will hold my hand,
and tell me that you have learned to
forget and forgive all the muddle—all
the dreams; if you will whisper that
you have learned to pity the dreamer,
I think I can be happy even now. But
you must not think that I love him the
less; it is never that. I want you
both to be friends; and I want to talk
.to you, for the last time. It cannot
matter now, dear Jack, I am dying.
‘Will you come?—'Eva.”

Captain John W'alker crushed the
note in his hand, and sprang up, with
a sob smothered in his throat.
-“Dying!—Eva dying! my little Eva!
And she wants to see me. I wonder
where that mooney idiot of a husband
is; writing more of those eternal
lyrics, that will never be published,
save by the medium of obscure sub-
scription. It’s a lucky thing the fel-
ilow had money of his own, 01' they
would have starved long since. Dying!
It’s too awful—it's—Here, Childers, get
my things together; I’m going out of
town. And look out for the next train
-——an-d ask Lieutenant North to see me
2-.at once—and hurry up.”

The man of war had taken 11p a lost

and broken thread of seven years
back, merely to find that it ravelled
out in his fingers after all, and left
his eager hands empty. For he had
come to the woman as her tired eyes
”were closing on the great mystery men
call life. He had stood, silent and
lhaflled, and helpless beside the
one woman who had ever
brought any softer rays of beauty
into his stern life—had stood
there, in awe and despair of that relent-
less, unseen power which was slowly
creeping in to snatch her from him.
And, when the end had come, and he
had loosened her fingers from his own,
.and had kissed the calm lips that
never more should breathe his name,
and had stz'ngeied from the 100m,
'Captain John Walker t1easu1ed in. his
heait the remembrance of a pair of
wistful, dying eye es—some half- dozen
broken sentences—and added them to
the memories of seven long years be-
fore, and was g1ateful.
. But now, he stood in anothe1 room.
looking out moodily through the long
Brench windows, at an old- -11 011d gar-
den—thinking, pe1chance, of how often
that dainty figure now so still in the
darkened upper room, had flitted
through it during the seven years that
were gone. The afteinoon sunlight
stieamed in full upon him as he stood
there, while on the fu1the1 side of the
seem, in the shadow, there paced 1est-
l;essly to and fro, with hands clasped
behind his back, and head bent, the
figure of the husband—Maitland
diearsley

A tall, thin man, with stooping shoul-
ders, and long hair falling untidily
upon the collar of his velvet coat; a
man who had doubtless at one time
"been handsome. Even now his fea-
tures weie fine, and 1egular; but their
expression 11' as mar1ed by a look of
peevish 111111111101 that had fu1'1owed
the high forehead, and left deep inden-
tations about the rather large month.
'When he seize—as h' did now, with-
out stopping in his restless movement
.to and fro—his voice was high and
rasping, with a peculiarly irritating
drawl in his ton-es.

The captain turned his head slow-
ly, with raised eyebrows, and looked
at the tall figure pacing to and fro;
not without some contemptuous won-
derment. He had tu1ned his head
again and was looking moodily Olt of
the window 11 hen the d001 was sud-
.ienly thrust open, and a childish 1oice

.b1oke the silence of the 100111 .

‘I will kno-w— I will know!" cried
the voice passionately. ‘I1'o one will
tell me; they only shake their heads
and cry and turn aWay. And her door
is locked, and they will not let me in,
and she does .not hear me when I call
0 her. Father, \what have they done
-‘fith her?”

The captain turned and saw a
-~'1u1'dy, velvet-clad boy—~a mere child

‘f some six years—standing in the
middle of the room. There was :1 des-
_1e1'ate eainestness about the little fig

are, and yet, withuaL a sense of timid
:eluctance, as though he stood in
«nine place to which he was denied,
,1 hat touch-ed the man of war. There
was something else. too, that touched
..1im and startled him even more than
Hiat. It was in the childish fame.
flushed and tear-stained and eager: ‘11
was so like that other face that the 1:11.
seen power had touched, and claimed.
and stilled forever—so like, and yet so
unlike. The fair hair was massed about
his face in the same picturesque con-
fusion; the same daik eyes new
here. Only his face was young and
fresh, and hopeful; the other, as the
captain had seen it last, might have
been all these in some fz.1oft' time, but
had been then but a shadowy pictuie.
' fast dimming. Probably the captain
remembered only the far-off time.

Maitl-and Kearsley stopped in his
walk and faced the boy petulantly.
stamping his foot like an irritable
child. -

“You little barbarian!” he burs“
out; “how dare you come in here:
“to away at once, sir! I’ll have yo..
, sent away to school.

"I won’t go away ” said the ch’l.‘

‘i’ll stop here until you tell me wh
.mamma is. She was always lone;

 

wnukur

when I was away from her. They
sent me away this morning; it was a
trick—I know it was. I won’t go un-
til you tell me.”

The captain was about to speak,
when Kearsley. with a harsh cry,
caught up a stick that stood in a cor-
ner and rushed at the child. The lit-
tle fellow did not move, but the cap-
tain sprang forward and caught the
father’s upraised arm and twisted the
stick from his grasp and sent the poet
reeling backward some paces. ‘

“What are you doing, man?” he
cried hotly, flinging the stick from
him. “Would you beat a child like
that?”

“Yes, I would,” almost snarled the
other. “I have told him a, thousand
times over not to enter this room. I
will not be disturbed at any time.

“You discard all else—even your
dead wife's boy ‘2” said the captain
slowly. “And behave like a wild
beast to him when he comes to you in
his loneliness and misery.”

“What of that?” exclaimed the oth-
er. pacing the room. “I tell you, sir,
that I owe a duty to'posterity—my art,
my poetry——

“You owe a duty to her child, man!"
cried the captain angrily. “Your poet~
ry! Good God, man—have you lived
with the Muses so long and never
learned the sanctity, the beauty, the
poesy of the soul of a little child?” '

Mr. Maitland Kearsley was stag-
gered. He paused in his restless walk--
ing to and fro, and faced the soldier
somewhat sullenly.

“I have yet to learn that you have
the right to teach. me my duty, sir,”
he said. “What do you want?”

With a sudden resolve inhis heart
Captain John Walker faced the other.

“I want you to let me take the boy
with me—now, at once—for a holiday.
A house of death is no place for him;
let him go away with me, and forget.
He's a dear little chap—I like him—-
and”—this with something of an ef-
fort—“I suppose he is rather trouble-
some to you at times.”

“It seems quite extraordinary—I—
suppose it's very good of you—I don’t
quite understand. But, yes—yes—take
him if you like, by means; I should
send him away, in any case. Take
him away, certainly.” He glanced at
his writing table and moved toward it.
"I—I am busy—very busy. Many new
and delightful thoughts are surging in
upon me. Yes—~take him away.”

The captain had put his arm about
the child, and had bent to him, with a
whispered word, and he now silently
drew the boy from the room, the child-
ish eyes, so like those other eyes. look-
ing up at him trustingly.

With that day began a new life for
Captain John Walker—a life that had
as its guiding force the child of his
dead love. The boy and the man were
inseparable; the boy absolutely hap-
py with one who understood and loved
him; the man a warmer-hearted, more
charitable being for the thought of
the sunny-faced. merry-eyed boy who
clung to him. The father was a for-
gotten quantity. The child was taught
to swim, to ride, to be absolutely fear-
less—and to obey the captain’s own
strict code of duty.

"Understand, Jack,” the captain had
said, with a grave finger upraised, “if
ever I find that you have done a mean
or cruel action, or ever allow any one
to lick you without fighting until you
couldn’t stand, or ever funked any-
thing, or ever told a. lie, or ever brag-
ged, or been anything but a gentle-
man, I’ll send you back to your father.
That will be the only. place for you.”

The warning was scarcely needed;
the boy was all even the honest sol-
dier could have desired. But, in course
of time, Mr. Maitland Kearsley came
to have a. curious feeling in regard to
his absent ofispring. It was not love.
He had no real affection for the boy;
it was rather an indefinite feeling of
wounded vanity—a petulant surprise
that the boy should have no Wish to
return to him.

“I do not believe in affection,” he
murmured to himself once. “All-ab-
sorbing passion, that sweeps a man’s
soul with it, is another thing—a wor-
shipful quantity. The domestic af-
fections are made up of a mundane de-
sire fo-r creature comforts and suste-
nance, for the most part, assisted by
a mistaken sense of duty. But I hoped
that the child would have been drawn
by the intellectual side of my char-
acter, and would have become a spe-
cies of disciple to me. I am surprised.
that he should cling to that terribly
brusque, commonplace soldier.”

His thoughts found expression in a
letter, suggesting to the captain that
the boy’s holiday 1ad been sufficiently
prolonged, and asking that he should
be sent home. In his simplicity, Cap-
tain John Walker consulted his solici-
tor, laying before him the whole story.
There was, of course, but one answer;
the child must be given up. The cap-
tain impatiently told the man- of law
that he was an ass and strode out of
the office. But he, nevertheless,
wrote a cu'rt note, informing Mr.
Maitland Kearsley that he would
bring the boy down on a certain day;
he felt that there was nothing else to
be done. So it 'l1appened that 011 the
very day in question Captain John
Walker stood in the poet’s house, with
a very white face, and with the child
clinging to him, while the poet stood,

watching the pai1, with something of
a t1iumphant smile about the comers

of his month.
"In obedience to your request, Kears-

ley, I have brought the boy back
again. I will not say anything of my

own feelings in the matter; I have

learned to love him very dearly, but
that is outside the question; you
have, of course, the right.” He

stooped and kissed the bright hair of
the boy who clung to him. “Jack—go
to youi father, my bov.’

.The boy glanced up at him for a mo-
ment, and then with quivering lips,
walked slow ;;._ ioWard Kearsley. B11:

 

 

 

 

he suddenly burst into a passion of
weeping, and, flinging himself on the
floor, sobbed as though his heart would
break. The captain was turning
away, with dim eyes, when the sound
of Kearsley’s voice arrested him,
speaking in querulous tones.

“You frightful child 2” he was saying,
“get up from there! You know I can’t
bear scenes of this description; they
are so absurdly theatrical. You’re a
most ungrateful little beast; a few
thrashings will do you all the good in
the world. They’ve made a fool of
you, since you’ve been away.”

He stooped and caught the boy
roughly by the shoulder and dragged
him to his feet. Captain John \Valker
wheeled round and shouted:

“Let the child alone! Come here
Jack!” Then, as the trembling boy
rang-to him, and was encircled by his
arm, he spoke again, and his words

'rang out in the silence of the room

like, pistol shots. “No, Maitland Keats'-
ley, I’m damned, if you do! I love the
child, and I won’t leave 'him here, or
anywhere else, to be the victim of
your blows of your childish ill-tem-
per. I think I’m more to him than
you will ever be or ever have been,
and, law or no law, I’ll keep him—~by
the Lord, I will! Keep back, man, or
I’ll break your own cowardly stick
over that addled head of yours yet.
Come Jack; you and me hold togeth-
er until you tire of me.”
* 4: *

 

I

Maitland Kearsley has decided not
to trouble further about his unnatural
child. To a friend, of kindred tastes.
he recently confided the fact that he
had been bitterly disappointed in the
boy. “In fact,” he added, “I have
abandoned all thoughts of him. His
mother was a most worthy woman,
but a terrible Philistine, and the boy
follows in her unhallowed steps. More
than that, he has shown that he has a
decided preference for the common-
place.”

SOWING SEED WITH ARTILLERY.

A Rocky Crag was thus Successfullv

Planted with Trees.
Alexander Nasmyth, the landscape
painter, was a man fruitful in expe-~
dients. The Duke of Athol consulted
him as to some improvements which
he desired to make in his woodland
scenery near Dunkeld. Among other
things, a. certain rocky crag needed to
be planted with trees, to relieve the
grim barrenncss of its. appearance.
The question was how to do it, as. it
was impossible for any man to climb
the crag in order to set seed or plants
in the clefts of the rock. A happy
idea occurred to Nasmyth. Having
observed in front of the castle a pair
of small cannon, it occurred to him to
turn them to account. A number of
tin canisters were filled with all sorts
of suitable tree seeds. The cannon
were loaded and the canisters were
fired-against the high face of the rock.
They burst and scattered the seed in
all directions. Some years after Nas-
mytl. was delighted to find that his
scheme of planting by artillery had
proved successful; ,the trees were
flourishing in all the recesses of the
clifi.

HE SAT ON THE CASE.

And Was Perfectly Sure That Life was Ex-
» tinct “'hen He Got Up.

A very ignorant but well- to-do citi«
zen from the backwoods was elected
Coroner of a small county. A few
days after his election he amazed the
ordinary by asking that functionary to
point out his duties for him. “Why,”
said the ordinary, “when a man drops
dead, or is killed by an engine, or
blown up with dynamite, you simply
impanel a jury and sit on him, and

 

 

then render a verdict.” “That’s jest
what I done two hours ago,” said the
Coroner, “an’ the citizens air kickin’!”
“Kickin’ about what?” "The man
what I" sot on.” “Well?" “\Vell. you
see, hit was this way. He drapped by
the railroad thar, . an’ hollered out.
‘Boys, I’m dead!’ ” "\-’.’ell?” "I wuz
standin’ in three feet of him, and ’as
he holler-ed them words I jumped
him.” "Jumped him?” “I mean I sot
on him—~jest like the cor uers air re—
quired by law; as I weigh right smart,
he kep purty quiet after I landed!"
“But he was dead before you reached
him, wasn’t he?” "That’s whar the
question comes in! Ain’t but one thing
erbout it that’s shore an ’certain, an'
that is—he wuz dead when I got up !"~
Atlanta Constitution. "

 

The Railroad Man’s Condition.

Among a batch of stories attributed
to President Lincoln is the following
good one on President Tyler. “During
Mr. Tyler’s izncumbency of the office
he arranged to make an excursion in
some direction, and sent his son ‘Bob’
to arrange for a special train. It hap-
pened that the railroad superintendent
was a strong Whig. As such he had
no favors to best-ow on the President,
and informed ‘Bob’ that his road did
not run any special trains for the
president, ,'\Vhat,” said “Bob,” ‘did
you not furnish a special train for the

said the superintendent, ‘and if you’ll
bring your father in that condition you
shall have the best train on the road.’ ”

 

Took an Electric Light to Bed.

A Lynchburg drummer nearly caused
a serious conflagration at one of the
leading hotels in St. Louis the other
night. The weather was cold, and he
took an incandescent light, which had
along connection to it, in his room,
wrapped a. bed sheet around it,‘ and
placed it in the foot of the bed to keep
his feet warm He was awakened
some hours afterward by smoke and
roasted feet. The light had set fire to
his bed, Which was in full blaze, and

ty. The globe to. the light had become
soft and plastic from the heat' and as.
sumed an almost flat shape—St. Louis
Globe Democrat.

 

I\" 01111 A Lil

funeral of President Harrison?’ ‘ Yes,"

was extinguished after much difiiculf.

. fill j.:.’.‘~

 

 

Beautiful Flemish Women.

A recent: traveller in old Flanders
rapturously praises the fair Flemish

' woman, who is tall and graceful, with

blue eyes and hair like burnished gold.
She is simple, but often elegant in hei
toilet, especially on Sunday, when she
usually appears in a heavy silk dress,
whose soft frou-frou accompanies her

. swinging step. “The Flemish woman,"
he says, “has preserved intact the ad:

mirable n-aivete of the woman of the
middle ages.
of a family; she has no ambition, no
love for art, for music or for poetry;
not a. whisper of rebellion against the
domination—often brutally—of her
husband, for whom she cherishes an
admiration, who in her eyes repre-
sents power, and which can-not be
shaken.—New- York Journal.

 

Nudles.

Many housekeepers prefer to make
nudels themselves in place of macar-
oni or those one can buy. The nudels
are easily made. Take two eggs and
add two tablespoonfuls of rich, clear
stock and a saltspoonful of salt, stir in
as much sifted flour as the liquid will
take up, making it into a stiff dough.
Knead this dough upon the board un-
til it is elastic and soft; the longer the
better; then roll it out in a thin sheet.
Rub the sheet very lightly with flour.
and let it' remain a few moments to
dr ' slightly before turning it over in-
to a long, close roll. With a thin, sharp
knife cut the roll into strips :1 quarter
ofan inch in width. Leave the pieces
upon the board for a. couple of hours
to dry; then they are ready to cook
and serve as macaroni. When prepar-’
ing nudels to use in soup only, the
roll is cut into very narrow shreds.
Nudels may be kept any length of
time.

\Vhat is ‘Vorth “’hile.

Dr. Anna Robertson Brown, speak-
ing in Philadelphia recently to a.-
branch of the Association of Collegiate
Alumnae, said, upon the topic “What
is Worth While?” “We may drop pro--
tense. EternityDis not good for shams.
Whatever we really are let us be that
in all fearlessness. Whatever we are
not, that let us_ cease striving to
seem to be. If we can rid ourselves
of all untruth of word, manner, model
of life, and thinking, we shall rid our
lives of much rubbish, restlessness,
and fear. We may drop worry. The-
serene soul is strong. Worry is an
infirmity, a spiritual nearsightedneSS,
a fumbling way of looking at things
and of magnifying their value. True
spiritual vision sweeps the universe
and sees things in their right propor-
tion.” ‘

Poi.

Poi, which always takes a prominent
place in the fascinating stories which.
have been written of Hawaiian life,
is being imported into this country. It
has always, or for some time, been
served in hotels and private houses at
Honolulu, where it is used as corn-
starch or cornmeal. It is said to be
very delicious and nourishing. The
taro root, from which it is made, is
raised in the Hawaiian Islands as tur-
nips are raised in the United States.
The flour is somewhat granulated and:
of a gray-blue color. It will not be
eaten raw in thiscountry, as it is by
the native. islanders, 01' sour, the con--
dition when they consider it a great
dainty. Poi is said to be excellent for
invalids and for young children.

 

Servants Who will not Take Tips.

The servants in a. well ordered Jap-
anese household are the most deferen-
ti'al beings alive. Every time- they
bring you a cup of tea or come to re—
move a dish at dinner or breakfast.
they will kneel and bow until their
foreheads touch the floor. Nor Will :1: 1y
of them accept a. fee. The other night,
as we left the residence of the J apan—
ese gentleman where we had been tak-
ing dinner, one of his servants piloted
us through the grounds to the gate
and I attempted to give him 3. 51.1.1]
coin. When I offered it, he clas-”11edl. is
hands together and made a ve1y luv
bow, keeping his head down until 1hc
carriage started.

Constantinopie’s Tulip Festival.

Tulips are much cultivated in Con-
stantinople, and there is a tulip fes-
tival there once a year, in spring. Ev-
ery palace, room. gallery and garden
is decorated with tulips of every kind.
At night they are all lighted by col—
ored lamps and Bengal tires, and 1111
Sultan sits in their midst, while 11'..-
men sing around him, and his 011111
esques dance before him—Pittsbr-
Dispatch. ’

What Else Could she no?

“I was surprised to hear that Per.-
elope had broken her trgagemertsé' I
thought she was determined to st.c‘.1
to him in spite of the opposition of he:
father.“

“She was, but the idiot wrote 111:1:
some poetry, as he called it. And he
rhymed her name with ‘let us then
elope.’ That settled 1111113” Cinan—
nati Enquirer. '

.A little girl in a Pennsylvania to: 1'11.
in saying her prayers the other 11i,;,3.:t.

was told to pray for her father 1111:"

mother, who were both very ill, and f 1-
one of the servants, who had lost 11..
husband. She faithfully did as 6.11
was told, and then, impressed with 1h
dreary condition of‘ things, added 1.1
her own account: "And now, 0 ($11-11
take good care of yourself, for if any
thing should happenvto you we shouh.
1-1 pieces. Amen."-Pittsburg

G ,A z 1: '1'." r 15-7

She is an ideal mother-

 

THE ’CYCLE AS A FLYiN'G MASHINE.

William Shields Found it More or Less 0!
a Success.

William Shields is young,
and a native of Woonsocket,
of which is in his favor.

He is a. good bicycle rider and a
youth with strong legs and a strong
heart That, too, is in his favor

He has a hobby to ride down the steps

pluck y

R. 1., all

'of large buildings like national capi-

tols, cathedrals, city halls and such
structures. Whether this is in his fa~
vor is a debatable question. How-
ever, he likes such amusement, and is
still alive to tell the story. ,

He has descended the steps of the
Capitols of Ohio and Kentucky, raced
down the long incline of the City Hall
of Cincinnati, did some harum-scarum
deeds in Louisville, and c upped the cli-
max by trying to ride down :1 paint-
er s ladder from the second story of a
building in Cincinnati.

Then he journeyed East. finally
reaching the City of 'Washington. His
idea. was to ride down the steps of the
Capitol.

The particular part of the steps that
be selected leads to the Maryland ave-
nue entrance to the grounds. There
are four flights of steps mounting the
terrace. The total number of steps in
the descent is seventy-four, and there
are three landings to be passed over
by any other person desiring to emu-
late Shields’ .example.

Everything was clear when Shields
made ready to toboggan. Before
reaching the bottom of the uppermost
flight he had lost his pedals, and,mak-
ing no attempt to regain them, sat
bolt upright, his eyes fixed rigidly in
advance of him on the path at the bot-
tom.

The descent lasted only fifteen sec-
onds, but the strain on rider and spec-
tators was intense. When the bicycle
came to the last landing the impetus

was such that it leaped over the last -

fight of sixteen steps at a, single bound,
striking the path below and bounding
into the air. The force with which the
bicycle struck the ground was too
mush for Shields. and he fell off the
wheel. He was considerably b1uised,
but not seriously injured, and the only
accident to the bicycle was a bent
handle bar. Shields will? always have
the reputation of being a very clever
imitator of his New England proto-
type, General Israel Putnam.

 

Bicycle “’heel Pincushion.

This novel pincushion will be appre-
ciated by cyclists ;. it is made in the
form of a; cycle wheel with pneumatic
tire. A large wooden curtain ring is

used for the wheel ;- this is covered with
black satin ;. the spokes are formed by
stretching silver thread from one side
to. the other, and connecting them in

r
,1}.

 

the centre by a spur: stitch worked as
in point lace; the tire is the cushion,
which should be at least one inch in
diameter, and long enough to go round
the ring;. it must be tightly stuffed,
then cover with gray satin the same
color as india. rubber; it is fixed to the
ring bv seccotine. A loop of ribbon,
finished by a. bow. is sewn to the back
of cushion, by which to suspend it.

 

. The Wheel in Africa.

One would scarcely expect to find bi-

cycles and a bicycle club in the .heart
of Africa and. six hundred miles from
any railroad. One club in- Buluwayo,
Matabeleland,' South Africa, is in a
flourishing condition, having twenty-
five members out of a population of
twenty-five hundred‘.
. During the late war in Matabele-
land these bicyclers all rendered val-
uable service to the English. By them
scouts were often able to “locate the
enemy” or to deliver a message where
a man on horseback would not have
dared to go, for a Kafiir can outrun a
horse every time—that is, such horses
as they have in Africa.

In one instance a bicycler put to
route a whole camp of Kaflirs, who ev-
idently never had seen a bicycle be-
fore, and this man, who came nearer
to the camp than he had had any in-
tention of doing, and who was much

alarmed for his own safety; when he.

realized where he was, to '1; heart
again when he saw these Kaffirs throw
up their hands as if in consternation,
and, uttering savage sounds and
noises, jump to their feet and run for
their lives. They evidently thought
Satan himself was after them.

 

A Slave to His \Vheel.
Belle—I’m so glad Jack has got a bi-
cycle; it has helped his: disposition
Wonderfully.
' Nan—-His disposition? Why,
could it?
Belle-Oh, when he gets up to give

 

how

baby a drink and steps on a tack he is

so glad that ’it is in his foot instead of
his pneumatic tire that he doesn’t say
anything—Pearson’s Weekly.

Junior partner: “ T’hy did you. give
Crammer the job of collecting debts
for our firm? Do you think he is'~any
good?” Senior partner. “W ell, he col-
lected- a debt from me one day!” _‘

' of plant food.

‘is nothing equal to

 

 

£1»:- -
Sugar Beets.l’revcnt Hog Cholera.

Within exactly ten years‘I have had
such painful experience with hog col-
era, which for many years appeared
to be entirely beyond my cohtrol, that
I wish always to say I never feel
quite safe and regardjt as possible
that an outbreak may take place at
any time, which I may find difficult
to manage.

I have tried, I think, every kind of
medicine that was invented up to the
time when I discontinued the use of
any hog remedies, about six years ago,
and I made two experiments of inoeu~
lation under 'the direction of Dr. ‘Bil.
lings. I think that every medicine we
tried did some good.

Since, however, I became interested
in the culture of sugar beets and the
use of sugar beets and forage beets for
feeding cattle, and consequently for
feeding hogs, I have had-no trouble
whatever with hog cholera during the
entire '[autumn season when feeding
beets.’ While I formerly d1eaded the
approach of the fine weather of Indian
sgmmer as almost certain to produce
an Outbreak of cholera. I now feel
pér-fectly safe at that time of the year,

 

g. believing that we are secure. from an
outbreak, because I have never had a

suspicion of one since I began to grow
and feed beets. Hogs should have
plenty of range, and I suppose on most
farms they get this. During cold
weather they should have an abun—
dance of bedding, and probably on
most farms they get this also. I do
not believe that they get an abun-
dance of roots on most farms, and
when it becomes the universal habit
in our northern states to feed roots,
especially in the autumn season, I ex-
pect to see the ravages from hog chol-
era greatly abated—Pres. Sugar
Growers’ Society.

 

The Value of Clover.

Clover is the farmers best friend
and most willing servant- No other
plant will produce so. large a.- crop of
the best feed and leave the: soil
richer than before. Its value as a
fertilizer lies in the fact that it oh-
tains so much of its substance from
the air which could not be otherwise
utilized. The air is bountifully sup-
plied with nitrogen, one of the most

necessary and expensive elements of .‘

plant food. Clover has the ability to
gather this nitrogen from the atmos-
phere and store it in the soil for the
growth of other plants. About 20,000
pounds of this element of fertility are
said to be suspended above every acre
of our soil, leady to be taken up by
leguminous plants, of 11 hich clover is
the best, and transfemed to the soil

The use of clever ‘ as a. fertilizer

should become more general than it

now is. When the entire crop. is
plowed under, we get a. very large
supply of food at the smallest pos-
sible cost. If the foliage is. cut and
cured for hay, much of value remains,
as the roots contain a. large amount
Its worth as a. green
manure has long been recognized On
soils that are deficient in humus, as
clay soils are apt to be, it furnishes this
much-needed element. ‘The cost of
seed and seeding is small,. and. it needs
no attention until it is ready to turn
under. It requires no hauling or
spreading, as does barnyard manure,
neither does it require extra machin-
ery to drill it, like commercial fer-
un'zen—o. J. Vil‘il.

- Acidity of Soils.

The acidity of upland soils is prob
ably due to the removal. of crops and
the use of certain fertilizers that ex-
haust the lime and other basic ingre-
dients of the soil, leaving more of the
acid than would be the case were na-
ture; allowed to take her course. An
aci 'condition of the soil therefore
results. Some plants thrive best un—
der such condition, but clover, timothy
and beets are injured on such soils.
There is no easy way of telling to
what extent soils are acid, but a.
strongly marked reddening of blue lit-
mus paper indicates acidity. A dan-
gerous degree of acidity, or at least
a fatal lack of carbonate of lime, ap-
pears to exist in upland and naturally
well-drained soils and is not confined
to muck and peat swamps and very
wet lands, as most American and
many other writers seem to assume.
Such assumption is because the par-
tial failure of certain crops upon these
lands has been attributed to other
reasons. These are the conclusions
arrived at by the Rhode Island ex-
peiime-nt state after several years’
111011;. The remedy seems to .be :1.
gr. ncrous application- 0%; f“
lime. The amount applied? ' A
50') 102,000 lbs per acre
c1.~:'.ed and halrowed in.
ist.

 
 
 
 
 

Wounds from Pruning;

Wounds made by pruning will heal
over more readily. and rapidly if
made when the tree is at its height of.
summer growth. Wounds made in the
winter are exposed to the high winds
of that season and of the spring also,
and sap secreted for the purpose of
healing the wound is lost in the at-
mosphere. This should be corrected
y painting every wound of more
than one-half inch in diameter, 'no
matter when made. For this there
red lead and

boiled linseed oil. -A little lamp black

yadded will give a color nearer that of

the bark.

Thousands 0 trees are lost because
1f neglect in covering their
int-aids with some substance imper-
vious to water.—Philadelphia. Ledger. 1 _' '

‘11,“