THE BOY LIVES ON OUR FARM.
The boy lives on our fimn, he's not
v Afeard o’ horse* none!
j An] he cun make ’em lope, er trot,
r v* ' e ^ nick, or pace, or ran
(La Sometime* he drives two horsoj, whoa
■; : He tomes to town and brlnjs
!''** A wacron full o’ tat or* non,
Crx An’ rostin‘*ears an’ things.
-
tffc . Two horses is "a team.” he say a,
, Kn when you drive or hitch.
% Thoright. un‘» a “near horse.” I trucs3,
Ov i' ; Kr “off”-—I don’t know which —
The boy live* on our farm, ho told
fy/y? Mo, too, at ho can see,
, By look in at their teeth, how old
A horse is, to u T!
l*d be the gladdest boy alive
Kf I knowd much as that,
An* could stand u«» an* drive,
An’ ist push back my hat,
Like he comes skallyhootin’ through
Our alley with one arm
A wavin’. Fare-ye well! to you.
The boy lives on our farm.
-James Whitcomb rilov.
BLIND JUSTICE.
BY IlEr.KN B. MATHERS.
CHAPTER XIII-CoNTtM-rn. j
••Awh.” sho said, scanning mo
closely, with tho clear, reasonable i
oye, that seems peculiar to tho
'fisheriolk, "’ee pan hide a bit. I seed '
j;.' ’oo war a stranger yhen ’oo corned j
over top o’ tho cliIT. m’appen ’eo bo |
th’ chap fro’ Trovonick as is livin’ to j
Smuggler's Hole?" she added with a j
sudden change of tono as sho set j
bread and lish on tho table. j
"Yes, I’m tho chap from Treven- I
|S&' ick." I said, "and to all appearances I
If.* you haven’t heard much in my favor.”
St “Naw," sho said coldly, "I ha’nt
heard much to you’m credit. Why
couldn’t eo’ lot a poor sawl be. ’stead
S o’ doin’ constable’s work when, as I
hear tell, ’ee be rich eno’ to do nothin’
iS fo’ a livin’? But laws, little perKy
folks is alius up to mischief!”
She stood with hor magnificent
arras akimbo, looking as if for two
I,S' pins she would have taken and
shaken mo like a rat.
But I was hungry and I was happy,
so I ate and drank diligently, anawor
ing her not a word.
••las.’’ sho went on, with a grand
disregard of tho laws of hospitality,
“’iss. you’ra rich, and Judith’s poor,
’eo’ve got tho best o’ un, but if ’iver
a sawl wont inn’eont to hor crool
doath that sawl bo Judith Croft”
She spoke tho last word dellantly
f: as if inviting contradiction, and I
said t) myself, "Judith is richer
than sho thinks, for sho possesses
ouo friend in tho world besides
Stephen.”
d*' Aloud I said,
••You aro tho first woman I liavo
heard express any doubt of Judith’s
i? guilt”
ifU1 The fishorman’s wifo laughed
angrily.
••Doo9 ’em knaw hor so well as I
y.; knaw her?” sho said; "she niver
made but wan fron’ 'raongst tho wo
mo i, and I war that wan, an’ I
k..awod her inside an’ out as well as
a page o’ thieky biblo upo’ that
rf - alien.”
"And yot you have never been near
her,” I said. “I havo board her say
that she had not one friend in tho
; world save Stephen Croft”
s 4 •Awh," said the . woman, sadly,
’fcis true null', if frions is reckoned
by frienly notions, but my haw, ho
>; .be terrible masterful, an’ when
V'J' Judith war took, him ses to me, ‘I
i forbids ’ee t’ go anighst hor; how
aomadevor frions ’ee was, hor baint
fit for a honest woman to stand by
naw,’ An’ I could nivor make ’un
; bliev’her warn’t t’blame. *Pison bo
pison,’ ses ha, ‘an’ who wantod’un
out o’ th’ < Way so bad as her did?”
|V An’ ivory- baw i’ th’ village blinkit at
his wife, as if so be her molght ha’
got th’ same notion in her head
| toward’un."
J “If she did not kill him,’’ I said,
“how then did he die?”
5 "How oan I toll ’eo?” she said
!’; scornfully. "God a’mighty’s got
his own way o’ takin’ off folks, an’
praps God a’mlghty war angry wi’
•Both for coming’homo an’meddlin’
in what he’d spoilt enuff aready. I
i\ Stiver could abide meddlers my sol’.”
o ( "Why were all tho women so hard
* on her?" I said, pushing back my
chair from tho table: “judging by
what I havo hoard, sho novor tried
to take a lovor away from any one of
them.”
"uo ee think her d any need t’
try?”said the woman contemptuously
“whorlver she war. thar war the dne
j ' -woman, th’ rest o’ ’em was pale shad
§)'■■■■ ders. an’ th' men could as lie’ deny
th’ sun war shinin’ as keep their
> eyes fro’strayin’ to she. Laws, I
always makes lowance fo’ handsome
!‘v folks—seem* as if ’em warnt meant
J fo’ jest wan sawl’s happiness, but
Judith niver wanted no ’lowance j
shade for she. Her war made fo’ luv’, j
. hat somethin' in her kep’ her straight,
'V -an’ luv’ she niver took, an’ niver
t knawed. till Steve corned t’ Trevenick,
i «n' years upo’ years they passed wan |
anlther by wi’ on’y their eyes to i
speak th’ war Id o’ luv’ atween ’em. |
r An’ th’ gigles was all as mad as mad, ;
|s ’cos he wouldna look at ’em, an’ th’
? haws was bitter an’ wild ’cos Judith i
- preferred be, an’ so it was that she’d
, «urry a frien’ ’em all but me, an’ ’tis
l little ’nuff good l’se been to she. If
y yo’ see her” (the woman’s voice
softened, and tears stood in her eyes)
“will ’ee toll her that ‘Lizaboth hpve
carried a sair heart 'pon her account,
:v, but she daurna disobey her man, an’
V her hant a 'null book larnln’ to Write
her a letter. ”
gy, "Yes,” I said, “I’ll tell her, but
you will be able to do it yourself be
fore long. ”
• “Naw,” she said, “that can niver
\ he. An’ do her find it in her heart
to forgive ’ee?” she added bitterly;
‘; “but the lamb alius looks up piteous
like to the butcher, an’ praps her
spirits that broke, her blood be
.turned to watter."
“Her spirit is not broken yet,” I
•aid. “Stephen Croft is the more
j-,: downcast of the two”
y, ••Another'll bo th’ little 'un,’’ wont
on the woman sadly, and now the
t:1: tsars fell heavily on her breast,
fr4- > . ■ ' \ - ■... „ ■ V;
"what’ll 'un do wl’out ’un’s mother!*
Pr’ap* my man ’ud let me take 'un—
fo’ a’ ho’m so sot agon hoi*. Awh.
but ’tis a crooked warld. Years an’
years my arms has achod fo’ want o’
a child t’ fill ’em, an’ here's Judith
’ull ha’ that giod t’ hor that her cant
keep. ” >■ ■
“I’loaso God, slio shall," I said
gravoly, "and your man shall give
her a warm welcome, and ask her
forgiveness for his ill thoughts of
.her. And perhaps,” I added, (for
she had already touohod mo), "you’ll
forgive mo, too, somo day.”
"Naw," sho said with spirit, "that
I nivo r will. 1 baint no seholard,
but I spoiled out ivory word ’eo
tolled up agon her, an’ from fust to
last I thought ’eo a fulo, an’ a med
dlin’ fulo, as is wuss nor all. But ’eo
niver knawod hor, an’ how sho niver
did Seth an ill turn, to’ a’ th' cro d
things 'un did to sho; th’ only dosate
her Ivor showed ’un war when sl*s
giod ’un th’ stuff to make ’un slapo,
when he war like a ligger on wires
wl’ th’ tromblins. I knawod it, an' I
niver blumod’un; hor’d a bin mur
dered times an’ timos but fo’ quietin’
o’ ’un ”
"And yet.” I said, “it played her
false in tho end. If sho had not
given Seth Troloar a dose of it
tho night ho eamo home, sho might
hnvo been made a miserable woman,
but sho would nevor have been
accused of his murder, it was
tho one mistake she mado in hor
otherwise blameless life.”
•• ’Iss,” she said, "tho only wan—
an’ 'eo’m found out that, have ’eo?
After’eo’d got’uti into jail, an’ wovo
the rope to hang ’un—awh!” sho
added in a low tone of disgust, "let
yer pity bide t’ home, man, ’tis liko
nothin’ so much as a bitter swato
apple to my thinkin’. ”
I shrugged my shouldors, laid somo
silver on tho table, and was turning
away when my money camo flying
past mo, hurled by a vigorous hand,
and followed by as vigorous a tongue
till I got well out of hearing.
But as I climbed tho cliff I folt
only gladness that Judith had one
such faithful friend, and sho a
woman.
CHAPTER XIV.
Twilight was lengthening into
dusk when I came in sight of Smug
gler’s Hole, and the motionloss figure
of Stephen sitting across the
threshold.
Silent ho sat but the cliff was alivo
with moving figures, and half a
dozen old gaffers and gammers had
crowdod their heads against the nar
row, casement and wore peeping in.
At my approach they slunk away,
but not far, and I heard broken ejac
ulations of pity and horror escape
them, as if moved by some deplorable
spectacle upon which they had just
gazed. I did not stop to question
Stophen, but passed in, and saw that
a frightful change had come over the
Styrian during my absence. His face
was absolutely livid, and out of that
ghastly pallor burned two eyos that
expressed a craving and agony such
as I pray God 1 may never seo in a
human face again.
lie had torn open his embroidered
vest as if to gain air, aud every fow
minutes ho was shaken by a con
vulsive shudder that he strovo to
check with the locked arms that ho
pressed downwards across bis body.
Beside him stood the cup and plat
ter, absolutely untouched.
I turned away and drew down the
blind, shutting out the furtive faces,
white against the dusk, who were
peering in, and then I bade Stephen
cjbse the door also, and come in,
also, which he did, and having kin
dled a fire and lights, I questioned
him as to what had gone forward in
my absence.
“I doant knaw what ’un wants,”
said Stephen, in the faint, weary
voice of one who had not touched
food that day, ••not meat an’ drink
fo’. sure, him’s got plenty, an' I
broffed ’un whisky but ’un would’nt
ha’t, but ’tis semmut ’un wants ter’
ble bad, an’ ’un keop3 on clamourin’
i' that furrin’ lingo t’ get ’un.”
“Has Dr Cripps been here?” I said.
“ ‘Iss, an’ ’un on’y grinned, and
sed yon chap ’ud be wuss afore ’un
war better, an’ ’un war cornin’ back
t’ bide th’ night wi’ ’ee, an’ ’spected
Judith an’ me ’ud hear summut t’
’sprise us afore wo was much older.”
“Good,” I said, intensely relieved
to hear of Dr. Cripps’ intention, anti
then I drew my chair to the fire, and
bade Stove take the other, keeping
my eyes turned away from that hor
rible figure in the background.
Gradually the warmth and rest i
overpowered my limbs and I slept.
In my dreams I found myself in an
Indian jungle, with the savage roar
of some wild beast at a distance
drawing each moment nearer to mo,
and I woke at last to find that the
sound was real, and on glancing at
the clock saw that 1 had slept three
hours.
I sat up. and looked at the Styrian
from whom the last vestige of self
restraint had fallen, and could no
longer control the cries that he had
hitherto by sheer physical force suc
ceeded in strangling.
“Him ha’ bin clamorin’ t’ me to
wake ’ee.” said Stephen, whose
features bore more than their usual
impress of pain, “leastways, so I
guessed ’un to mane. Look ’ee. I’m
thinkin' him’ll be dead by mornin’l”
“My box, give me my box!”
shrieked the Styrian, straining at
his chords as if he would burst them.
Give it to me' You can sleep, devil,
while I die here, and you are com
mitting a murder as she did when
she kept Seth Treloar for twenty
four hours without—” he stepped
abruptly, and a crafty look over
spread his livid face.
But he had said enough. I saw
that he could have bitten bis tongue
out for the slip.
“I talk madly,” ho exclaimed,
making a supreme effort that I could
not but admire; “keep what vou stole.
1 can do without it But sot me free,
put me on the road to the noarest
town, and you shall bo troubled with
mo no more.”
"I will set you free,” I said delib
erately, “and I will givo you back
your box of poison, if you will give
me in writing a full confession of
how you taught Seth Treloar to use
it, of the effect produced by a suddon
cessation of the doses, and other par
ticulars that you will know how to
furnish."
The fctyrian’s eyes searched
my face for any sign of relonting,
then turned them upon Stephen
Croft, who had dropped into a weary
sloop, his golden head leaning
against the wall, but more really
beautiful in the unconsciousness of
sleep than even in his waking mo
ments.
The man’s oyes darkened as they
gazed upon him.
“1 can dio, but I will not give her
up to him. After all, tho worst suf
fering is now over, and a few hours
more will see it out. Let the poor
fool be happy with her in his dreams,
for in life he never shall be. My
dying will soon bo over—theirs is to
come. ”
The malignity of his look and
voico froze me, then his head sank
on his breast, and his hair, matted
with sweat, hid his face from me.
And my heart wont cold, for I had
never counted on such resolution,
and I was loath to have his blood
upon my soul.
Looking back after long years on
that night, I seem to feel and hear
the intense stillness in which I waited
for the sound of Dr. Cripps’ approach
ing feot, a sound that never came.
Later, I knew that a railway acci
dent a few miles away had kept him
hard at work of the most painful
description until past dawn, but then
I blamed him bitterly for failing me
when I most wanted his counsel.
For as the hours went by, eaoh mo
ment a hell to the man I watched, as
it was an hour of torture to me who
beheld him, I expected each moment
that death would some to the rescue,
and so he and his secret would os
capo me forever.
How was I to tell where roal suf
fering ended, and simulation began
when I had not even his face to guide,
me?
[to be continued.]
A Horrible Religious Duty. »
A ceremony exists among the
tribes o{ the interior of Sumatra,
which is without doubt the survival
of an ancient and cruel custom, that
has passed in the course of time into
a civil and religious duty. These
people, although of rather gentle
disposition, piously and ceremoni
ously kill and'eat their aged parents
in the belief that they are perform
ing a sacred duty. At the appointed
day the old man who is destined to
be eaten goes up into a tree, at the
foot of which are gathered the rbla
tives and friends of the family. They
strike upon the tree in cadence and
sing a funeral hymn. Then the old
man descends, his nearest relatives
deliberately kill him and the attend*
ants eat him.
One of tho Most Ancient Races.
' The Armenians are one of the
most ancient races in the world.
Their country is mentioned by Xeno
phon and Ezekiel and in tho cunei
form inscriptions of Babylon and
Assyria. All the nations that sur
rounded them have passed away,
but they remain, though their
country has been harried with fire
and sword for centuries. The per
manence of the Armenian race has
been ascribed to the virtue of their
women and the exceptional purity
and stability of their family life.
They have been a Christian nation for
more than 1,500 years and have un
dergone perpetual persecution for
their faith from the surrounding
oriental peoples.
Amber Chip*.
The uninformed would often mis
take the cheapest amber when
made up into commercial forms for
the most expensive. Many long and
beautifully clear pipe stems are
made from amber chips, the waste
product of amber carving. These
are melted and molded into shapes
that are seldom or never seen in
the costly carved amber. These
molded amber articles are extremley
durable, and it is difficult to see
why they should not be esteemed by
practical persons as valuable as
carved amber.
Very Particular.
In 1835 the Austrian press censor
refused to sanction the publication of
two books, one of which was "Prin
ciples of Trigonometry,” which, he
said, discussed the Trinity, a for
bidden subject The other was a
scientific treatise on the destruction
of insects, which he imagined made
a concealed attack on the church.
They Do Not Get so Tired.
It has been found by the British
ordnunce department that workmen
in the works at Woolwich are turn
ing out as much work in a week of
forty-eight hours as they used -to do
in one of fifty-four. The quality of
the work is said to be better than
ever before.
Better Unsaid.
Paterfamilias* to unexpected gue9t
—Why didn’t you send word you
were coming? Pot luck, you know,
my boy! Hope you have managed to
make out a dinner.
Unexpected Guest, politely—Bless
you, old man! I hope you never
have a worse one.—Life.
Free Medical Testimony.
Watts—Doctor, what do you think
of the water cure for fits.
Doctor Bowless—It might work all
I right on ready-made clothes.
($lte (dfarm.
Cleanliness In Cow Stables.
I am always interested in articles pnb
lishedin the Farmers’ Review and other
papers concerning' cleanliness in
stables where cows for milk are kept.
Some articles are very suggestive and
valuable to a painstaking dairyman,
while others border on the ridiculous,
as, one suggests as an objection to
washing the udders that the cream
would sep'arate in the bag, reminding
me of an objection to dehorning pub
lished during the past month in a
widely circulated agricultural paper:
“Just think of it! Nothing applied to
the wound to keep the cold air from the
animal’s brain.” There are two primary
conditions necessary for cleanliness
in the milk pail. The first is in ref
erence to the milker. The difference
in milkers is almost marvelous. Any
dairyman will be annoyed by the
foulness of milk drawn by some em
ployes, while he, under same condi
tions, will have a clean pail of milk.
If a cow has comfortable, fit quarters
for lying down after a few brashes
by the hand over the fiank, bag and
abdomen before the pail is introduced
there can be no dirt that will contam
inate the milk. The fine epithelial dust
that falls from the udder may largely
be kept out of the pail by an occasional
brush of the hand. The loathsome
practice of wetting the hands in the
milk will not be tolerated by any
cleanly person. Second, as to structure
of stable. I should have made a seri
ous mistake in the arrangement of my
floor but for accidentally seeing some
published measurements. Perhaps this
will guide some inexperienced person
in building. No man can have clean
milking without a properly construct
ed stable. With such, milking is en
joyable as apastime. Without it, it is
a repulsive, dirty, loathsome service.
I well remember in my boyhood days
sitting down by a cow with tail, hind
quarters, sides and bag dripping with
semi-fluid filth, feeling with disgust
my way to the teats and trying to get
clean milk, dodging in the meantime
a swipe of the tail across my face.
Even recently, speaking to a farmer of
the profits of dairying, the answer was,
Poultry House Floor*.
The question as to whether earth or
plank is preferable for poultry house
floor is quite often asked, writes I. F.
Tillinghast, in American Farmer.
Having given the subject of poultry
house construction a great deal of
study preparatory to the erection of
some extensive breeding houses, I will
give the results of my investigations.
The roof being the most expensive
part of any ordinary poultry building,
it should be planned to cover as much
space as possible. I have found a most
economical plan is to just set a chest
nut post for each corner of the build
ing. If on a side hill, form a basement
by excavating straight into the hill so
as to form a level earth floor. Front
toward the sun or southern exposure,
and let the two front posts be ten feet
high after being set firmly in the
ground. The two back posts should
be about two feet shorter. Then about
three feet above the ground floor
place a plank floor on 2x4 scant
ling, firmly nailed to the posts.
This forms a basement which
is to be thickly strewn with
chaff, short straw or buckwheat hulls,
and to be used for a scratching pen and
runway for the fowls in storm weather.
It should be tightly inclosed on all *
sides except front, in which should be
a glass door that can be left open or
closed, according to the weather. Here
the fowls wiU be protected from wind
and storm, yet can get sunlight and
fresh air, aB well as plenty of exercise
by being aUowed to scratch the litter
over for grain, which is daily scattered
in it But they should not be al
lowed to roost here. This apartment is
connected with the roosting-room above
by an inclined plank, on which slats
are nailed, thus forming a stairway
leading through a hole in the floor. By
this arrangement you reaUy double the
capacity of your building under a given
roof, for you have the whole size of
your building for a scratching pen,
and the same for a roosting room. And
you have solved the floor question by
giving them both, the natural earth
being best adapted to their needs
in the scratching department, and a
tight plank floor under their roosts.
You are saved the expense of an un
derpinning and skunks and rats
wiU have no chance to hide under the
floor.
That General Pnrpoie Cow.
In the face of all the scientific denu
onstrations of the last twenty vea«
we still find some peopleadvocatingtta
so-called “general purpose cow.” Eve„
some newspapers, supposed to be edu
cators of the farmer, publish article,
like the following: ®*
...A , farmers are comine to
believe that there is a general purposeful
cow. In spite of all that has beeTstid to
the contrary. By a general purpose
meant, of course, one which is roodfaJ
butter and milk, and which
ciently well bred to impress all her
good characteristics on her progeny Khl
may be of any one of the tiversS
breeds, but it tea great mistake to sup^sl
that she may to of no breed at aSffo?
then she would not possess this last and
most desirable quality. This idesjfarm
cow should have a large frame, so that her
^jhl to valuable beeves. Bhe
should to well pedigreed, so that the heife?
calves would have a promise to become as
good milkers and butter makers as herself
She should to handled for dairy purposes
from the time she drops her first calf so as
to promote a tendency toward a long p"
riod of milking. There are many firing
on which such a cow will prove of greater
value than one handled especially for milk
or butter.”—Nebraska Farmer.
Now the only fault I have to find
with the above is contained in one
sentence, “This ideal farm cow should
have a large frame so that her male
calves will he valuable beeves.” I
challenge any man that knows how to
figure to show where the profit lies in
the calf of the “general purpose cow."
The trouble is, the people that write
such things never stop to figure out
where the profit and loss- comes in;
they just give their impressions. Be
cause one man with a general purpose
cow gets #3 more for a calf than his
neighbor with a dairy cow can get for
his calf, he takes it for granted that
he is $3 ahead. The fact is, it repre
sents money ont of pocket. The
difference in the value of the two
calves represents the difference of the
cost of keeping those two cows for
one year. Let us stop to figure
a little. We will suppose
that the specific dairy cow
weighs 1,000 pounds, and the general
purpose cow 1,500. The larger cow
weighs 500 pounds more than the
other. The Germans have proved by
experiments that it takes 3 per cent
in weight of food of animals to keep
them alive, before they can gain any
weght or produce milk. That extra
500 pounds of animal will require Id
SIR GEORGE, THE GREAT PONY STALLION—FIRST PRIZE R. A. S. E.
“Yes, and live in cow dung.” The di-!
mensions of my floor are as follows:
from stanchions back to edge of gutter,
4 feet 6 inches. This standing place
rests on a 8x4, resting on the bottom
plank of gutter; .thus the cow stands
six inches above bottom of gutter,
which is 14 inches wide. On the outside
of this bottom plank is spiked another
8x4, and the walk laid on that, making
it four inches above gutter and two
inches lower than the standing place
for cows. This walk is three feet
wide, and is always comparatively
clean. The gutter has a very slight
descent toward the door. For the or
dinary sized cow this standing platform
is ample. She can rest comfortably and
her quarters will get very little soiled. I
have four cows too large for this and for
them I take a 8x6 and spike it to pieces
of 3x4 just long enough to go into the
gutter crosswise. This adds six inches
to standing room and can be run over
when cleaning the gutter. I have
horses standing on same line as cows,
and after cleaning the gutter gather
ings from horse stable are put in
bottom and remain till next day.
This takes up the liquid and goes with
' rest to the field, and the liquids are
not dripping from tails of cows when
when milker comes. And by the way,
all my manure, even in this North
Dakota, from twenty head of cattle
and ten horses, has gone directly to
the fields daily without any waste.
With such a constructed stable and
such management one can have a clean
job milking.—L. L. Ellis in Farmer’s
Review. _
Hot ix Australia.—The weather in
Australia during the antipodean sum
mer has been unusually hot and op
pressive. In Adelaide during January
the thermometer several times regis
tered over 100 degrees in the shade,
and one day it climbed to 107 in the
shade and 163 in the sun. In Mel
bourne the 100 notch has been reached
more than once, and the scorching
north winds have made the atmos
phere exceedingly oppressive. The
foregoing figures are from weather
observatory readings, and probably do
not represent by several degrees the
temperature of the city streets.—Mel
bourne Letter.
The condition of agriculture in
Great Britain is in many parts well
indicated by the figures which have
been published by the agricultural de
partment showing the acreage of the
various crops and the number of head
of stock in the past and preceding
years. In 1873 the total acreage
under all kinds of crop, bare, fallow
and grass amounted to 31,103,630.
Last year this had increased to 33,643,
709, or an increase of more than 1,500,
000 acres, and yet the acreage devoted
to wheat has decreased during the
same period to an alarming extent. In
the former year it was 3,490,000, last
year it was 1,897,000. In the same
period of twenty years the grain and
pulse acreage, generally known as
corn crops, had decreased by 1,800,000
acres, barley having fallen off nearly
300.000 acres, beans 340,000 acres and
peas 108,000 acres Oats, however,
showed a distinct increase. There is
a slight falling off in the root and
green crops. Rotation grasses show
an increase, although not of a very
serious nature. . Bare fallow is consid
erably less than formerly, while the
permanent pasture has increased from
13.915.000 to 16,493,000, and there is
little doubt that it will continue to in
crease.
Diversifying Crops.—There used t
be an objection to growing grains
other than wheat that had a good
foundation, but no longer exists. I re
fer to the former difficulty of market
ing oats, barley or rye. The line “all
wheat” elevators would handle noth
ing but wheat, leaving the farmer no
chance to sell other grains except to
small local buyers who would pay but
little or nothing for it. Now, either
through “independent houses,” that
will handle anything, or by getting
cars for direct loading, any kind of
grain can be shipped to distant mar
kets with the same facility that wheat
I can. If one farmer does not raise a
I carload of any one grain named it will
1 not be difficult to get two or more to
1 combine to fill one. There are less
f barriers to diversification than form
i merly.—Ex.
pounds of foqd per day to keep it
alive. That ia 3,650 pounds per year.
That amount of extra food can not be
obtained for much less than 99. There
fore, where is the profit on that bull
calf? It is to be hoped that none of our
farmers will follow such thoughtless
articles as that above quoted. Farm
ers should figure out the cost of what
they ■ produce for market—Jay, in
Farmers’ Review.
In combating all fungus diseases it is
essential that something of the life
history .of the disease be known,
thus enabling us to determine the
proper time to apply remedies for pre
venting it, says an Arkansas bulletin.
From what is knpwnof apple scab it is
believed that the trees are affected
oarly in the season. The disease is re
produced by means of spores which
are carried to the healthy plants by
the wind and in other ways. The
spores live through the winter in the
rubbish, old leaves and fruit and under
the rough bark of the trees and are
ready to begin the attack as soon as
the leaves open in the spring.' The
condition of the atmosphere here is
very favorable for the development of
the disease at an early date. The
spores germinate, grow and produce
new spores,which are blown to healthy
leaves and fruit. Thus the develop
ment is. kept up, if the weather is
favorable, throughout the growing
season. The scab thrives best in cool,
damp weather. A continued dry spell
checks the development of the disease.
PoTATOES-WEix Cared For.—Perhaps
there is no crop that pays so well for
thoroughness in working.it or will
show the effect of neglect sooner than
potatoes. This is one good reason for
making it a specialty. The import
ance of having good seed can not be
overestimated. This point would re
ceive proper attention by the specialist.
By growing a large acreage of pota
toes the capabilities of the farm and
the farmer can give the attention when
needed, and have all the tools neces
sary to the best culture and harvest
ing of the ci op, and will produce at a
good profit where the ordinary grower
will make little or nothing. —Ex
