pi— i * mm—mmm—m—mmmmmmmmm * —mm—m—m——mmrn—rn—m——<~mm«
“A few days ago,” she be
gan, ‘‘I came downstairs at an
unfortunate moment, and
overheard something I wasn’t
meant to overhear. I should
never tell it to you or to any
body if it didn’t seem neces
sary. I can’t help thinking,
since Doctor Chase’s condition
seems so serious, that you
ought to know what I heard
li m sav about you. Because
just after lie had said it, Doc
tor Fiske carried him upstairs
and put him in bed, ami, he’s
been there most of the time
since.”
Macks/ looked both aston
ished and concerned. ‘‘NVhat
was it f ”
‘‘It was this: ‘I can stand
having anybody take my place
except (Jordon Maekay. If he
does it I'll go mad. I warn
you—I'll go mad!”
Maekay stared aV. her in
amazement. ‘‘Take his place,”
lie repeated. <lWhat placet”
""Why,” said Jo Jenney
straightlorwardlv, ‘‘I suppose
of course he meant his place in
Hie church. His pulpit. You
had just iweached in it.”
And now Maekay laughed,
•with evident relief. ‘‘His pul
pit! Why, by all that's absurd,
you’re era /.y yourself, Miss
Jenney. Because I supplied
his pulpit one Sunday in an
emergency—and a summer
Sunday, it was, when city
churches take what they can
get—why, that’s no reason
■why it should enter anybody’s
head that I should ever do it
_* 19
ci n i ■ « •
But Jo continued to look
eearchingly at, him. “I eould
,\’t help,” ahe said, “since I
>'as with Mrs. Chase and you,
overhearing Mr. Pierpont ask
you if you wouldn’t take the
other two Sundays in August.”
“if you heard that.” count
ered Mack ay, “you also heard
me say +hat T was tied up to
the Cherry Hills church, and
wouldn’t leave it again.”
“Yes, 1 did,” admitted Jo.
“But 1 saw Mr. Pierpont'a face
when you said it. And 1 heard
liim say—'‘All right—but I'm
coming up to see you.’ And I
knew that meant he was very
much interested in you. He
could hardly help being inter
ested,” she added. “One could
have heard a pin drop in that
church every minute you were
preaching. People even forgot
to fun themselves, though it
was terribly hot.”
But Maekay made no sign ot
having heard this testimony to
his effectiveness. His one idea
seemed to he to get at what
Schuyler Chase could have
meant by saying that which Jo
had overheard. “1 can’t con
ceive,” he mused, "how the
poor fellow could have got
such a notion into his head.
That church is devoted to him,
proud of him—it will wait for
1 * 1 IP. *1 I • A t -.11
mm nucmiiM i y, in n himiuu.
There’* nobody like him.”
“There hasn't, been,” do said
simply. “Hut lie’s ill very
ill. And bis eyes—I think he
sees Wins clearly very day. It's
pitiful to see him try to dis
guise it but Mrs. Chase realizes
it. and so do I.”
Maekay was silent. TIis face
had grown very grave. He
sliovi I his hands into liis pock
ets and began to pace slowly
about among the blueberry
l)ii slw-s, while .lo, sitting on a
stump, let her eyes foilow him
because it was so evident that
be was thinking of nothing ex
■ct pt Schuyler Chase A extrem
ity. He looked like a man who
has heard had news of one of
his best friends, and as if he
w* re trying to discover some
thing lie could do about it. His
rugg'dly fine featured Scot
tish face had never seemed to
Jo more attractive. When he
finally paused before her, she
was more or less prepared for
his question, it seemed so log
ically the result of his eogita
< all That Literature?
•JUn deiTloiM of an Old Clrcua
Clown," by Hob Sherwood
In i bout Uu* year lMd t wal at -
lathed to U»e Harmon show- at the
Olympic Gardena in London Mark
Twain atari waa In London at the
itiiir. ihortly alter tie !allure of tils
pubi. ii'n* tiuaiueaii We met often
tn wnilu toaellter In Hyde park.
In teU I wa* eondu 'tn* a book
■tore in New York City oppoalte
Ore,* church Mlatk tw at tha*
time living at Tenth »tr*fl and
Fifth a venue, and o**d to < o*«e
art* i.a and m me at moat every
da» and we would have lunch to
•vtr.vf at Um «ld kt Genla hotel.
24
tions.
“What can I do for him?
How can I get this ridiculous
but upsetting idea out of his
head as soon as possible? I
can’t go and say: ‘See here,
this is nonsense,’ because I’m
not supposed to know he ever
said such a thing. Hut I must
do it, somehow. He’s in no
shape to fight fancies, no mat
ter how preposterous they may
be."
“Why not go and see him,
as you do so often, and see
how things develop?" Jo pro
posed. “You haven’t been in
since that Sunday you
preached. Not going in of it
self may have made him think
_11
“You’re right." Mackay’s
face lightened. “I’ve been
kept away by all sorts of
things—people dying, commit
tee meetings, and so on. But
he can’t know that. And he
does know how simple men as~
pire to stupendous things, and
imagines I’ve got this absaird
bee in my bonnet. I’ll go to
day. I’ll go now. Come—you
can’t get any more blueberries
out of this arid pasture. Let’s
go along, and I’ll make the call
instantly.
His will to be about the bus
iness bore her along. He helped
her over the fence and set out
at a great pace down the road,
as if be had but one purpose
ip the world—to get to a man
in a ditch and pull him out of
it. He even forgot to offer to
carry Jo’s lightly burdened
pail—which was evidence
enough of his abstraction of
mind, for he was peculiarly
scrupulous in such small mat
ters. Sally Chase had averred
that he must have been
biought up in his youth in a
most mannerly Scottish house
hold—which happened to be
true.
At the gate of Cherry House
he noticed the omission, said:
“Sorry I was so careless. Was
it too heavy—with a smile;
but then made straight across
the lawn to Schuyler’s chair,
which stood in its usual place
under the beech.
When he went away, only 10
minutes later, it was because
he had been received so cold
ly, and been shown so clearly
that his call was unwelcome,
that he was more puzzled than
before. Sally had not been
present, and Chase had been
excused in a way by his own
evident weakness and unfit
ness for conversation. But he
had not before failed, no mat
ter how unwell he had been, to
be courteous and appreciative.
More than that, he had shown
an increasingly cordial pleas
ure in Mackay’s visits. He had
even sent for him, now and
then, as if there were no one
at hand more acceptable or
congenial. Therefore, this
^ • i . f i . J_
lll^lU I lid IIII i Ui luuar,
unsmiling face, showed to his
new friend plainly enough that
something serious indeed had
come between the two men.
Maekay walked homeward
with a sense of deep unhappi
ness over the situation which
he felt to he mostly conjured
out of the air or the imagina
tion, so unreal it seemed as far
as any actual cause for it could
be discovered.
At his own door, however,
he found some light upon it.
Before the door stood the shin
ing motor with its liveried
chauffeur which he had seen
before and recognized, and as
he came up a high colored faee
appeared at the ear window. A
broad smile broke over the
faee as Sage Pierpont prompt*
I lv got out of the ear, his hand
extend'd.
“I am relieved to find you,
Mr, Maekay,” the elder man
announced. “May I come in
i again? I waited for you half
an hour in your comfortable
We used to slip Into the cafe for an >
appetiser, He aaa not a heavy i
drinker, but waa accustomed to I
14k** an eye opener occasionally. !
Several tunes the i.Uxokiglst set
Into out a chaser o water which
Mark regular!) oust, d aside with
the remark AVhai * the use of
starting a fire and p tllng U right
out again 7”
it waa about this time his stories
began to be printed m English and
Canadian editions wi'houl his con
tent. In an effort to pul a stop to
It he tried to get tht >ugh an Inter
national copyright bill at Washing
ton He waa unauci »<tul, however.
In tits efforts. Turn .:.**» was iSsn
study, where I found my way
myself. No doors locked in
Cherry Square, eht”
“People from the outside
world seldom want anything
to be found in Cherry Square,
Mr. Fierpunt,” replied
Mack-ay. “We don’t need to
keep our doors locked.”
“Don’t they? Then I am an
exception to that rule. I want
something to be found in Cher
ry Square, and want it very
much.”
He proceeded to elaborate
this statement, which evident
ly struck him as a happy way
of putting it. He sat overflow
ing the small Manse’s biggest
shabby chair, smoking one of
his own heavy cigars, and talk
ing blandly and confidently.
He spoke of thp two church
services at which he had heard
Mackay preach, and expressed
his regret that Mackay hadn’t
seen his way clear to take the
city church pulpit those two
remaining Sundays in August.
He said that he had found but
a poor stick with which to fill
them. If Mr. Mackay could
even yet arrange to come, the
poor stick could be thrown out
at a moment's notice. When at
this suggestion Mackay had
shaken his head in a most de
cided negative, Pierpont had
leaned back, smiling with sat
isfaction, and told him that he
admired in him that quality of
saying a thing and sticking to
it, even when it was against
his own interest. Pierpont sup
posed, he said, that that was
“the Scotch of it.”
Mackay was silent. He was
beginning to hear more than
an inkling of where these
preliminaries were leading. Al
ter all, the idea in poor Schuy
ler Chase’s *ead hadn’t been so
preposterous after all. If ever
a man without a purpose and
a will to carry it out sat be
fore another, that man was sit
ting before Gordon Mackay.
And now Pierpont was say
ing in the kindliest tone in the
world that he was deeply af
fected by the knowledge that
Doctor Chase was so seriously
ill. Mackay hardly listened
while Pierpont said all the ob
viously appropriate things he
was due to say in the circum
stances. And then, when they
had been properly said, the
real business of the call was
brought to the fore.
“Mr. Mackay, I frankly ad
mit that I am enormously in
terested in you. As one who
occupies a certain responsible
position in the church it is my
duty to be interested in men
who could conceivably fill the
great place which is in due
time so sadly to be vacant.
Not in a long time have I lis
tened to a man who seemed to
me so full of promise as your
self. I am not alone in my
opinion. Though many of the
chief men of our church are
away upon vacation, several
whose opinion I value highly
are in town. They heard you
speak and they feel as I do.
Mr. Mackay, as I understand
it, your duty to this little
church in Cherry Hills expires
lki' 4 Itn f i i»o f nf '
Mackay nodded. He was
clear enough now as to what
was coining. It was not the
first time he had listened to a
chairman of committee ap
proaching him upon such a
subject. The son of Carmichael
Mackay was not so unknown
as be had seemed to be.
“Of course, while the slight*
est chance remains of Doctor
Chase’s recover. , we can only
engage a supply. But lie can be
what is called in our church a
‘stated supply,’ which means
that he is virtually the
church’s minister. I have a
very sure instinct, Mr. Mack
ay, in such matters, ns in my
own world of business. 1 am
very confident that if you
come to us for about two
months, say October and No
vember, while our members are
returning from their country
places and from travel abroad,
the engagement would result
in your being asked to become
this stated supply during the
speaker of the house. He was a
very good friend of Mark's, who
told me the following story nbou.
him. He aald:
T got on the train at Jersey City
tbe other day 'o go to Washington
On the train was a lot of great big
dirty, greasy politicians. Tom Heed
included Tom aald to me: Mark,
what you going to Washington
tor?' and I said. Torn. I am going
to Washington to lobby for an in
ternational copyright- our Htera
ary efforts must be protected for
our puetertty ’ And Tom Reed, the
groat big. dirty, greasy politician
said to at* Ureal God Mark, you
period of waiting for Doctor
Chase's recovery. My predic
tions need go no further than
that—they wouldn’t be seem
ly.. But to a man of your still
youthful years I can’t imagine
a greater compliment than
such an invitation. And I
can’t imagine your rejecting
it.”
He sat baik in his chair, sat
isfied with his own slightly
“by no means his father’s
and confident that he must
have made a deep impression
He had done so. With all
Mackay’■ unreadiness to think
well of himself, with all his
honest conviction that he was
as he had said to Sally Chase,
son,” he knew that Sage Pier
son,” he knew that Sageg Pier
pont was not mistaken in his
judgment, and that Gordon
Mackay could fill his place. He
could do the work, if not as
Schuyler Chase had done it,
yet in his own fashion, and
men would not be disappointed
in him. “As a strong man re
joiceth to run a race,” so
Mackay felt his pulses throb
bing. and his blood tingling, at
the thought of such a future.
If he had not yet satisfied
that distinguished and exact
ing father of his, Mackay of
Edinburgh, now was coming
into view the chance to do it.
Mackay of Edinburgh- would
be proud of Mackay of New
York, there was no doubt
about it l
(From Josephine Jcnncy'j
Note-Book)
I slew him with my own
hand. I had to do it.
He took it like the man he
is—like the man I’ve known he
was, all along. Refused even
to accept the idea that the
thing might come to him,
though he must known it may.
Rushed back to do his best to
repair the damage to the in
valid's endurance of his fate.
Well—-I’ve known Gordon
Maekay—a little. I’m the rich
er for that. A good many
walks and talks and ehanee
meetings, in all. Every one
has counted. The summer's
over—everything will soou be
changed.
I’ve only one thing to think
oi—one person—Julian.
XXI
Can you tell me please,
whether Miss Josephine Jen
ney is to be found in tins
houset It’s the home of Mrs.
Schuyler Chase, isn’t it If”
Adelaide Sturgis, just re
turning from mailing a letter
in the small post office across
Cherry Square, stood still be
side the large motor from
whose open rear window a
deep and pleasantly inflected
woman’s voice had accosted
her. A strong, decidedly fine
face under a plain hat looked
out upon her, the attentive
eyes of a person accustomed
to the world scanned her.
“Yes, certainly. Miss Jen
ney is Mrs. Schuyler Chase’s
housekeeper,” Adelaide re
sponded with a clear empha
sis on the last word. Just why
she had felt an instant impulse
to impart this particularized
information to one who merely
asked the whereabouts of the
nerson in Question. Adelaide
couldn't have told.
“Thank you, so I under
stand,” said the middle aged
lady in the ear. “Do you hap
pen to know whether she is
in!”
“Probably she is. I imagine
her duties would keep her iu
at this hour. Won't you come
in!”
“I shall be glad to, thank
you.”
The chauffeur was out ana
had the door open before the
words were quite said, stand
ing stiff and straight beside it.
Adelaide noted his livery—it
was extremely correct in all
details. The lady, descending
with quick movements, showed
an active though slightly stout
figure, exceedingly well
dressed after a fashion as plain
ns that of her hat. It was
easy to see that here was some
one of position and authority;
Rhe had the indefinable air
whieh betrays such fuels.
(TO BE CONTINUED)
don't rail that stuff you write lit
erature, do you?* ” ’
• * .
t'nria.mrd,
From Tit-Bun.
Houreholdrr 'complaining of let
ter* gone artrayt: I forgM the P
M O ’* name. Sat if I address •
letter to "the basest imbecile In
London'' who would get it?
Postman; It would be returned to
th« wrriter
• • — -i
Nw OnwM %bout It.
From Pasring show
Hubbv Thl* blueberry pte look ,
queer, dear.
Wifey, Oh dear, maybe 1 put in
toe much bluing •
RAISE MORE BEEF
, Now that fccef cattle prices are
high and likely to r:mrin so for
several years to come, more interest I
will be taken in the raising and
feeding of beef calves. That is as
it should be It is a difficult mat- I
ter to induce a producer of beef !
to feed his calves liberally when he
is looking forward to an unprofit- I
able market and yet, if a man is i
going to raise his own calves for 1
the feed lot there is no cheaper way 1
of doing it, regardless of the price
of beef, than to get the greatest
possible growth on them while they
are suckling their dams and that
means grain during the nursing
period, of which compartively lit
tle ha3 been done in recent years.
Calves like pigs and all other farm
animals, make the cheapest gains
while young and when a calf is to
be marketed as a baby beef, that is
when the plan is 10 put it on full
feed as soon as possible after wean
ing, there is no question but that
liberal grain feeding during the
nursing period is profitable.
There are two ways of feeding
grain to calves while nursing their
dams. They may be fed in the
pasture away from the buldings
by arranging a creep for them or
they may be kept away from the
cows during the day time and al
lowed to run to a self feeder in
the barn where they can be kept
in a darkened place and then al
lowed to run with the cows in the
pasture overnight. One method is
as good as the other. The one to
be preferred will depend upon con
ditions. Those who are in position
to let the calves stay in a darkened
barn during the day find this an
excellent one because the calves
are then troubled less with flies.
Some also claim that they will eat
more grain than they will from a
creep in the pasture. But when
the pasture is a considerable dis
tance from the buildings, so that
it is impracticable to bring the
cows up at night, a creep should
bo constructed and in some place
where shade is available- If there
is no natural shade a temporary
straw shed may be provided where
tho calves can secure protection
against the hot sun. The creep
should be constructed close to the
watering place of the cows, if pos
sible, as they will be more apt to
mail at auuie ouier
places which cows do not frequent
regularly.
A calf will begin eating grain
when two or three weeks old and
it may safely be allowed to eat all
It wants as there is no danger in
eating too much when it has access
to grain at that early period. A
mixture of two parts by weight of
shelled com and one part by weight
of whole oats makes a good combin
ation for calves running with their
dams. Later in the season when
the milk supply wanes a little lin
seed meal should be added. Then
a ration composed of 60 pounds
shelled com, 30 pounds oats and
10 pounds linseed meal will supply
enough of protein and keep the
calves in splendid condition. Cot
tonseed meal or some other pro
tein feed may be substituted for
the linseed meal, but protein of
some kind should be added to the
grain ration in late summer when
grass is short and the cows begin
to dry up.
A calf that has been fed grain
during the summer months will
practically wean itself; at any rate,
it will not lose in weight when
weaned and put in the feed lot. On
the contrary it will keep on gain
ing and this is one of the advan
tages of growing one’s own calves
for the feed lot as compared with
purchasing them on the market or
on the range.
CAPONS PROFITABLE
I could tell you a dozen or more
reasons for caponizing cockerels
says an expert, but the two big rea
sons are greater cash return from
the sale of cockerels, and less ex
pense in holding cockerels for table
use at home.
Most of the other caponizing con
tribute to the foregoing ones. Ca
pons don’t fight, they stand closer
confinement than cockerels, their
flesh has finer flavor and texture
than flesh of cockerels, capons fat
ten more easily at less cost, they do
nnf KaoAm A nf n ran., - -__ I_ 1 * ■
~ ———- ■'“•’dsj uwvMtcja uu
at an advanced age, they bring a
better price than cockerels—Oh!
there is almost no end of reasons for
caponizlng the surplus cockerels. The
capons can even be used for brood
ing chicks.
It is wise, of course, to draw the
line somewhere. That Is. don’t ca
ponize all cockerels. The early
hatched chicks bring good returns
as broilers, but the later hatches
some into market at a time when
the the market is crowded and prices
low. These late-hatched cockerels
canbe turned into capons and put
on the market after Chirstmas holi
days at a good price. If I have not
made it clear already. I will say
again that the premium secured on
capons is due to the fact that they
grow to much larger in size and
their meat is decidedly superior to
that of cockerels. Due to their docile
habits they make beter use of feed,
and they can run on the range with
nullets all through late summer and
fall.
The big mistake some folks make
in caponizlng Is to caponize every
cockerel. Cockerels of Inferior stock
never make good capons, and there
is no gain in canonizing the light
breeds, such as Leghorns. The
American. EngIL-h and Asiatic
breeds make good capons. Still is Is
not wise to raise a meat breed Just
to have large cockerels for capon
Izing—the average farmer had bet
ter stick to a good laving strain of
the utility type and raise the capons
as a side-line, if he wants to raise
capons.
The time for caponl*ing Is in June
and July—about the time cockerels i
begin to grow combs. This Is at
about two months of age If th»
cockerels attain the right size too !
MOV BRAN* VALUABLE
It is well to bear In mind that j
soybeans, grown for grain, would
take the place of a considerable I
amount of high protein feed that
has to be purchased for cattle feed
ing purposes' Soybeans, on good
soil, yield all the way from 18 !o j
M bushels per acre.
*»■' i ■ —a
STUDY POULTRY NEEDS
Sunlight, or the tack of It, has a
direct effect upon the feeds need
ed by poultry Rations that give
satisfaction in seasons or climates
nf ample sunshine mag be entirely
deficient In rainy or dreary weath
er i
late in th esummer, they will not
reach marketable size eariy enouzgh
to escape competition with early
spring broilers. March is about the
lsit date for getting capons on the
market. A capon is not ready for
mara . until at least eight monins
old—that is, the returns fror*
younger capons are not much bet
ter than returns for cockerels.
To prepare cockerels for capon
izing, withhold feed for 36 hours.
Withhold water for 12 hours The
necessary instruments for capon
izing are knife, spreader, hook and
remover. These instruments can be
bought at hardware stores or or
dered from poultry supply houses.
It pays to buy good instruments. A
dollar saved on a caponizing set may
be lost a dozen times as a result of
poor caponizing.
Put the caponizing board on *
barrel or box. so it will be about
waist high. Fasten the bird to the
obard so it can not struggle. Wings
and feet must be held securely.
Pluck the feathers from a space
about an inch square in front of the
hip joint.
Make an incision between the two
ribs, starting at a point slightly
lower than the point of the hip oint
and extending lor about an inch.
Press the nail of your forefinger
between the ribjs an dinsert the
blade of the knife alongside the nail.
Press down hard and draw toward
you, thus forcing the blade clear
through in one attempt. Let the in
cision be about an inch in length.
Then insert the spreader and ooen
the wound to a convenient size. You
will find that a thin membrane
hides the organ. Tear this mem
brane away with the tearing hook.
Now you will clearly see the organs
of the abdominal section. If the
bird has bee nstarved for about 36
hours before operation, the inten
tines w'ill not hide the other nre'iina
You will find the testicles along
the backbone, and they are about
the size of a navy bean and yellow
in color. The spermatic artery is
back of the testicles. Be careful that
you do not sever this, or the bird
will bleed to death.
If necessary, press the intestines
down with the probe in order to
bring the testicles into clear view.
Insert the remover, closed, and care
fully manipulate the organ into tho
opening of the remover, being care
ful not to cut the artery. You can
now remove the testicles by drawing
out and twisting the cords.
Remove the spreader, turn the
bird over, and repeat the operation.
It is possible to remove both the
organs from one side, but it is safer
to perform the operation from both
sides. It is not necessary to sew up
the wounds. Release the bird and
see that when he stands the muscles
of the thigh cover the inner incision.
Do not house the young eapons
in large numbers for the first week.
Rather, put them in coops of not
more than 10 or 12 birds together.
Be careful when you feed them, as
they have been starved before the
operation. Give them a light feed
of moist mash, made of bran and
ground oats moistened with sour
milk. Use this method of feeding
for a couple of days until you bring
them back to their regular feed.
For a few days after the opera
tion, watch for wind puffs. I have
seen some birds bloat badly follow
ing caponizing. This is not a dan
gerous condition—all you need to
do is catch the bird and puncture
the wind puff with a sharp knife.
Be careful not to cut any blood ves
sels when puncturing the skin.
In some neighborhoods there are
men who do caponizing at so much
per bird, or by the dav. The inex
perienced person, or the one who
dislikes ‘ operations.” may be able to
have caponizing done at a reason
able charge.
VITAMINS CHICKS NEED
Starvation in the midst of abun
dance is an every day occurrence
among little chicks on farms where
the necessity of carefully balanced
rations is not understood.
Without certain nutritive ele
ments and food properties called
vitamins chicks cannot make nor
mal growth, regardless of the
abundance of other foods supplied
them. This has been proved again
and again in a great number of tx
periments.
Leg weakness may result from a
shortage of calcium and phosphor
us. Without these elements rapid
growth of bone is impossible, yet
grain and grain by-products which
make up the bulk of ordinary chick
rations are deficient in these ele
ments. This defect can be rem
edied by adding 5 per cent, raw
bone meal to the chick mash and
frrnimH nifctar pKnll 1IM.
stone in open hoppers
Yellow corn is the only kind of
grain that furnishes an adequate
supply of vitamin A. Therefore, it
is recommended over all other
grains by poultry experts. If a com
bination of grains is made, the
larger portion should consist of
yellow corn.
Vitamin B. which is necessary
for good growth and health in
chicks, is abundantly supplied in
whole grain and shorts or mid
dlings. It is not necessary to add
vitamin B from other sources.
Vitamin D or direct rays of the
sun makes possible the assimila
tion of calcium and phosphorus in
bone formation. If the weather to
too rainy or too cold for the chicks
to get out on the range into the
sunlight and minerals of the right
kind and quantity are not fur
nished. they are likely to have rick
ets or leg weakness. Under such
conditions the chicks should be sup
plied with vitamin D in the form
of egg yolk or cod liver oil
- — ... - -■ ...
nil> YOU KNOW THAT
Agricultural discoveries worth
millions of dollars have their course
in the quiet, painstaking, often dis
agreeable. apparent puttering" of
research workers in tne state col
leges and experiment stations.
WHAT IFFICIENCV MEANS
Efficiency as applied to the poul
try business Is not a matter of arm
chair philosophy It must r*** a
practical proposition. 11 must mean
something that ran be put Into
practice on the average farm Mens
theory will not do. Anything that
cannot be put to practice by tha
average farmer cannot be include*
in an efficiency program.
• •
THOSE HtHY ( Hit RN
Some of the reasons for hign
mortality In young chicks are un.
proper Incubation, inherited diseas
es, unsatisfactory brooding equip
ment, insanitary range rondlUoM
•nd umifuuer faedltuf