21
“Other people know him—
he’s the sou of the George
Tarkhurst Grahams wtio are so
very prominent socially—and
financially, as well.”
ftaiiy thought rapidly, and
succeeded in briuging up a
fa.ut memory of a fair-haired,
rather stout young man who
v as—why, he must be much,
much younger than Adelaide—
a mere boy. The name of Gra
liaui was unodubtcdly well
known in the w'orld of busi
ness; as to its eminence social
ly, she wasn’t so sure.
“Yes, 1 think I know who
they arc,” she said, as cordial
ly as possible. “Have they
more than one son!”
“Only one, fortunately. He
will inherit quite a fortune
some day. Meanwhile—he’s
very charming and very desir
able, even though he doesn’t
happen to have made himself a
niche in your memory.”
soon.”
“Oh, possibly,” Adelaide
eerlainly was carrying it off in
her most affectedly languid
otyle, which had always much
amused the Chases. “I must
hr off. You might say good
bye for me to Josephine Jen
ney—I’ve been too busy to
look her up. 1 suppose I must
n’t leave a tip for her! She
probably wouldn’t mind—but
you would.”
Snlly didn’t answer that.
‘VVliat need! She saw Adelaide
into the car, gave Jimmy his
directions, and said in her
pleasantest voice: “Goodbye,
Adelaide. He sure to let Jim
my take you for all your er
rands before you send him
back.” Ami was conscious of a
feeling of intense relief when
the car swung round the corner
and out of sight. Also she
thought she knew, if ever in
hor life, why fishwives of his
tory have been reported as
breaking now and then into
bdlinrrsgate I
(From Josephine Jenney’s
Nfttebook)
What next! Ami what to dul
l)r. Mary Rutherford, the
game splendid, wise, energetic
person. Her visit, the short
contact with her, like a call to
arms. I want to go—I want to
stay -I want—
1 dare not put down what I
want. It isn’t mine—it can’t
Ik mine—
Julian. . . .
I look at his picture so often
•—1 need to look at it often—to
have the sight of it tell me
what to do. What a face l A
wonderful face. It might have
been the face of . . .
Josephine Jenney—you’ll do
what you must do. There’s
just one thing clear Julian.
xx ir.
'‘Mrs. Chase, would yout
husband rare to see me?”
Cordon Mnckay stood in the
doorway, hat in hand. Sally
Chase looked at him in sur
prise. Usually lie came straight
over the lawn to the place
where Schuyler was almost in
variably to be found. Why,
she wondered, should he have
become so formal that he must
needs inquire as to his wel
come ?
“Why, of course, Mr. Mae
kay,” she answered cordially,
‘‘lie’s always glad to see you.
lb '•■ out in his deck chair, un
til r the beech.”
“I thought, possibly, I’d
tired or bored him of late. I
don't want to do that, yet I
Isa' something I’d like to tell
him this morning, if T thought
him up to a bit of talk.”
“He hasn’t been quite so
w >1 this last fortnight, but
I'm sure—” Sally paused. Her
eves were full of trouble. She
looked up into the steady eyes
whb-h were studying her.
Nothing but utter frankness
was fair to this man, she felt.
she said slowly: "He does
seem to avoid company just
now, Mr. Mackay. I think
he’s unhappy and discouraged.
Possibly the sight of a man
like you, so full of llle and
| strength, makes him feel aJl
the weaker and sadder. You
must remember what a change
for him this illness has made.
His life lias been so full and
rich—n
She couldn’t venture to go
on, for she had been through a
trying scene with Schuyler
which had left her shaken. He
had had an almost sleepless
night, and in the early morn
ing had called her to him to lie
crying brokenly in her arms. It
had been with the greatest dif
ficulty that she had persuaded
him to get out of doors, but
she had persisted, because any
thing seemed better*' for him
than lying in bed where the
very walls seemed to stand for
the shutting in of his life.
“I know,” said Mackay, very
gently. "And I have a story
to tell him which may divert
him for a time from his heavy
thoughts. May I go and try
to tell it. 1 ”
“Indeed, yes. And—if he
doesn’t seem as friendly and
welcoming as you’d wish, be
sure it’s because he’s ill. He
has liked you better than al
most any man he’s known for
a long time, Mr. Maekay. If
you know that, you won’t mind
what's really only seeming,
will yout”
“Surely not, Mrs. Chase.”
She looked after him as he
crossed the lawn toward the
figure which lay so limply in
the deck chair that it seemed
hardly alive, and her own
heart contracted at sight of the
contrast between the two men.
“When I was a 16-year-old
boy, in Edinburgh,” said Gor
don Maekay, starting his story
as one who starts to pull
against the tide,” I began to
be interested in the life that
went on across the city from
my father’s home. We lived
in Great King street. If you
know Edinburgh, and I’m sure
you do, you. know that between
Great King street and the Can
ongate there's a groat gulf
fixed. I used to go through
the streets that led to my fath
er’s church, on Sunday morn
ing—those great, stately, quiet
streets. The ‘odor of sanctity’
of a Scottish Sunday pervades
the very air. As T went I’d be
thinking of what I knew was
happening across the city on
the other side of Princes street,
beyond the Mound. Then in the
afternoon I’d steal away and
go over there, fascinated by al
most the worst slums to he
found on the other side of the
Atlantic. I don’t know whether
making an exhaustive study of
those slums was good for a boy
of 16. I think now I must
have gone protected by a sort
of armour put upon me on
those Sunday mornings while I
listened to my fafher.”
Schuyler Chase was motion
less in his chair. Ilis head
was turned away, the thin line
of his half profile presenting
itself touchingly to Mnekav as
he talked. Chase had barelv
spoken when he came, had let
his hand lie lifelessly in
Mackay’s for an instant and
made a weak apology.
‘‘You’ll excuse me, Mackny,
if I’m not responsive this
morning. I had a bad night.”
‘‘I’m sorry. And I’d go away
ai onee, Doctor Chase, if I
hadn’t something I want very
much to tell you. I’ll tell it
luicfly, but I thing it might in
terest you a little, and I want
your opinion about it.”
So he had proceeded with
his tale, without even the siek
man’s permission, hurrying it,
putting in only the high lights
! --anything, any way, to get it
to him, the knowledge that he
se strangely needed to have, to
make hi it able to bear his great
trial. Tl\ in a way, it was
comprehensible to the man who
was telling the story that what
Gordon Maekay did or refused
to do could make such an im
mense difference to Schuyler
Chase, the fact that it was so,
and that in his hands lay the
power to relieve a pressure of
torment in another human soul,
was quite enough. He had
come to do this errand after
what might never be told of
struggle of his own. That was
past, and he had now only to
bring the trophy he had won
and lay it at this man’s feat.
“You’ve heard my father,
Doctor Chase. You know how
he eau preach. I suppose he’s
a bigger man in these days
than he was then, 18 years ago.
But he had a certain freshness
ot touch, then, that perhaps his
later work may lack. It was a
way of getting under men’s
skins that he can never sur
pass, no matter how lie keeps
on developing in power. It
seems to me that now he ap
peals more to older men with
more mature understandings.
In those days it was the young
men who heard him most glad
ly—he had a tremendous influ
ence upon them. lie had It
upon me—I worshiped him.
As I say, when I stole over to
the Canongate and Cowgate on
a Sunday afternoon it was as if
I went panoplied in my fath
er’s armour—the vileness there
couldn’t get a chance at me. He
would have been distressed be
yond words if he had known of
those visits. He did know it
them later and was distressed
even then that he hadn’t real
ized what his boy was doing
and prevented it. I had no
mother, you see; and my father
was always deep in the affairs
of the great church. Its de
mands were very heavy.”
Chase' stirred a little in his
chair. He was listening. Men
did listen to Gordon Mackay.
“I kept on making those vis
its all through my years in the
university. And by and by, I
began to gather little groups
together, over in the Canon
gate, and preach to them—on
the streets. I did it in a boy
ish way, I suppose, but I was
carrying to those rough fellows
some of my father’s most strik
ing presentations of the triPh,
and that must have been why I
got a hearing. After a time I
eame to feel that though 1
should never make a great
preacher in a great vhurch,
like Carmichael Maekay, I
could do a work among the
common people.
Mackay paused. Perhaps in
all his life he had never—nor
would ever—set himself a
harder task than this one. To
tell a simple tale of renounce
ment, and make it sound like
no renouneement but the vol
untary selection of the less at
tractive thing, was labor which
cost a price in his own blood.
“I won’t make a long story
of it. But it will explain .to
you now why I’ve decided that
I’ll go presently to a church in
the New York slums which
sadly needs me. It’s dying for
want of a leader. It had one
once, a most notablbe one. Its
doors were thronged. This man
died, and since then there’s
In on nobody who seemed to
know how to carry on. I’ve
the experience of alt those
years in the Cannngate—I
stem the logical man for the
place. Of coarse, my mind is
full of ideas for it—of how I
can make the dingy old church
thronged again. What I want
you to tell me is—-is it a wor
thy ambition f”
At last oenuyler laase was
looking at him. He had turned
his head and his deeply shad
owed eyes were fixed on
Mackay. He was breathing
more rapidly’, it was evident,
less shallowly, than when his
visitor had come. He was slow
to speak, but when the wonts
did come they were not in the
lifeless tone in which he had
spoken earlier.
“Of course, it’s a worthy
ambition,” he said. “Immense
ly worthy. And as you say,
you’ve had a remarkable train
ing. Do you realiy want to ao
this thing?”
‘•I want—” said Gordon
Mackay, and then lie stopped,
liis eyes lifted to the depths of
the great branches of the cop
per beech above kirn, lie set bis
teeth hard. Then he got to his
feet, shoved his hands into his
pockets, took a stride or two
about his chair, and finally
spoke in a matter-of-fact tone
which utterly deceived the
man who was listening as if
life hung on the words: “Some
how the phrase has been used
so much, in solemn tones full
cf unction, that I hate to use it.
And yet I do believe I can say
honestly that at least 1 want
to want—to do the will of God.
Just now, this seems to be His
will. I’ve got to do it, haven’t
I" Whether I want to or not?
Anyhow, I’ve made up my
mind. When I leave Cherry
llills I’m going to this church
that asks me. It’s settled. 1
didn’t need your counsel, but
l did need your approval, real
ly.”
Jle smiled as he looKea down
at Schuyler Chase. A touch of
color had come into the thin
cheeks, a faint smile answered
his. He had done his task, and
here was that which he must
accept as his reward. It was
Schuyler’s hand extended, his
voice saying in a tone which to
Mackay’s ears spoke an almost
life-giving relief from devas
tating tension: “You have
that, Mackay. It’s a great
thing to do, no doubt of it. And
some day, when you’ve accom
plished that, you’ll have the
sort of pulpit the son of your
father should have.”
Somehow Mackay got away
before the unconscious and un
meant irony of those last words
could make him cry out, hu
manly and brutally, undoing
all he had sacrificed himself to
do: “But it's in my hands, that
pulpit. And I’m throwing it
away—for you!”
XXIII
Josephine Jenney, a letter in
her hand, came out of the Cher
ry Hills post office. On the
walk outside she met Gordon
Mackay. The evening mail had
just come in, and all Cherry
Hills was accustomed to go per
sonally to get this last mail of
the day. In the small town
this meeting of the clans was
almost a social function. At
least it provided an opportunity
for the members of the small
community to meet and greet
one another, at the same time
observing closely what sort of
mail the others had received.
Jo’s letter was a large square
one, with an engraved address
in one corner of the envelope.
Though it had been expected,
the reception of it had notably
quickened her pulses.
Mackey stopped her. “Miss
Jenney, have you time to spare
for a little walk? Out toward
the old bridge, if you like that
wav?”
“I think so, Mr. Mackay.”
“Just a minute, then, pleace,
till 1 run in.”
She turned toward the west
—it was the shortest way out
from the village into the open
country. She walked along
slowly until Mackay came rap
idly up behind her and fell into
step. His hand was ful of let
ters, which he was stowing in
his pockets.
“I want so much to have a
little talk with you. 1 was go
ing to the house to ask if you’d
take this walk. It’s such a per
fer eventing as one doesn’t of
ten get except in early Septem
ber.”
“It’s a wonderful evening.
And I meant to walk out into
the country anyway, to open
this letter.”
She held it up, and he could
see the engraved address, which
was that of a well-known wom
nmn’s college.
“It looks momentous,’ he
commented, “with that sign
ar.d seal. It was your college,
wasn’t it?”
“Yes. I suppose one never
does see the old name without
a sense of possession, does
one?”
(TO BE CONTINUED)
A GOOD EWE FEED
It Is impossible to say too much
in favor of legume roughage as
compared with Umoihy hay as a
feed for livestock. It is invaluable
for dairy cows, for growing cattle
and sheep, and, in fact, for all
classes of livestock on the farm, i
It is even of great value for winter- I
ing brood sows. Nor is the high
feeding value of legumes the only
reason for urging a greater acreage
->f these crops. They are, as every
'frmer knows, important soil build
ers. Clover, alfalfa, soybeans and
all other legumes add nitrogen to
the soil, while timothy and other
similar roughage crops remove large
quantities of this element from the
soil. The latter tear down the soil;
the former build It up.
At one experiment station splen
did results have been secured by
feeding corn silage and legume hay
to pregnant as well as to nursing
ewes. These ewes were fed one
pound of legume hay for each three
and one half to four pounds of
corn silage. Silage alone, or sil
age and timothy hay, gave very
poor results. When these rations
were fed the eyes weaned weak
lambs. Besides, the ewes gave very
little milk and failed to develop
normally and profitably.
Lambs from ewes fed silage and
timothy hay or mUlet or sudan ha1*
or other nonleguminous roughages
make very slow gains and many of
them die before reaching a mar
ketable weight. According to re
sults obtained at the 'University of
Alberta. Canada, 50 per cent, of the
lambs weane dby ewes fed timothy
hay die within four weeks after
birth. The addition of linseed meal
to timothy hay at the Canadian
university did not give as good re
sults as when the proper amounts
of protein and mineral matter were
supplied in the form of legume
roughage.
There is, of course, nothing harm
ful about timothy hay. The diffi
culty is that it is lacking in protein,
which is equally true of com silage.
Hence, when these two feeds are
supplied to the pregnant ewes, as
well as to bred cows, the offspring
is bound to be weak at birth, be
cause of lack of the right nourish
ment.
Let us grow more legumes, not
only for the benefit of our livestock,
but also for the improvement of our
soils.
LIVESTOCK COST
A number of our experiment sta
tions are busily engaged in ascer
taining cost of production figures
with a view of interesting farmers
•n better systems of farm manage
ment. Rerecently one experiment
station concluded a series of five
year cost records on 25 different
farms in Green county, Ohio. These
show that the largest item in the
cost of producing livestock is feed.
In the case of the production of
pork, feed and pasture average 75
per cent, of the total cost. Feed and
pasture, on the other hand, rep
resents 50 per cent, of the cost of
producing butter fat and 64 per
cent, of the cost of keeping a sheep
a year.
Those who ra'se sheep will be in
terested in knowing that this in
vestigation brought out the fact
that the farms, which had the
largest net income from sheep,
raised from 80 to 103 lambs per
100 ewes and that those with the
least profits invariably had a low
lamb yield. Furthermore the yield
of wool also had a significant effect
upon profits. The sheep shearing
the largest fleeces brought the big
gest profits. These, of course, are
self-evident facts; at teh same time
many sheep raisers do not give
fecundity and wool production the
attention they deserve. The average
amount of grain fed to sheep in
these Ohio flocks for the last five
years was one bushel of corn and
one half bushel of oats per head
per year.
As an average from these figures
the station deduced the fact that
feed cost in producing a weanling
pig averaged $2.81 per head and also
it was demonstrated, as one would
expect, that the larger the number
of pigs per litter, the lower the cost
of feed per pig. In other words
one of the important factors in
successful hog raising is to save as
many pigs as possible. Methods of
feeding have much to do with this.
The manner in which a sow is fed
during the period of pregnancy has
a tremendous effect upon the vigor
of the pigs at birth and therefore
also upon the percentage that is
raised to weaning. Methods of
feeding the sow during the suckling
period also were found to have a
great influence upon the number of
pigs raised to weaning time.
It was again shown very clearly
that high butterfat producing cows
were the most economical. A cow
producing a comparatively low yield
o fbutterfat does so at a relative
high cost per pound. Those who
believe that dual purpose cows, that
is cows of the beef type that usually
produce a relatively low yield of
butterfat, make up for this by the
greater value of their calves, will
gather no encouragement from the
Ohio figures for they showed that
the increase in the value of young
stock of the dual purpose herds did
not offset the average of higher
milk and fat production in the dairy
herds. This is the usual outcome in
comparisons of this sort. The spe
cial purpose cow is invariably a
more economical producer than the
dual purpose cow, the same as the
strictly beef cow is the more econo
mical producer of beef than the
dual purpose or any other kind of
cow.
VACCINATE THE PIGS
Many farmers consider it good
policy to vaccinate their pigs at
weaning time, regardless of wheth
er there is cholera in the neighbor
hood or not. They regard vaccina
tion as insurance and consider it
a necessary cost item in the raising
of hogs. While th;re are many who
do not follow this practice, there
are also many who sustain heavy
cholera losses from time to time
when cholera suddenly strikes their
nerds without warning.
This is one of the years when it
wui,;.a seem exceedingly unwise to
run tile i«sit oi ij'Ck... , cholera in
the herd as Uie prospects are ex
cellent lor good prices, iiesides, we
understand that serum is selling at
figures that are said to be below
cost of production owing to the fact
that there is a large supply on hand.
Serum manufacturers seem to be
up against the surplus problem the
same as farmers sometimes are and
to move that surplus they are sell
ing their product at what they can
get for it. With cheap serum and
strong hog prices there should ba
more than the usual incentive for
hog producers to seek the protec
tion lor their herds that gcod scrum,
properly administered, gives.
According to government reports
the production of serum in 1927
amounted to 1,386,321.000 cubic centi
meters as compared with 809,939,000
cubic centimeters produced in 1926.
In fact, the 1927 producticn, follow
ing the severe shortage in serum in
1928, was 60 per cent above the five
year average of 1923 to 1927, in
clusive. Farmers who are not in
touch with serum prices this year
would do well to do a little investi
gating on their own account and not
run any unnecessary risks when the
outlook is for excellent hog re
turns.
Hog cholera serum, of course,
should not be bought solely on price.
It is highly important that a good
quality be secured. Those who have
bought serum for years know where
reliable products can be secured and
it is a good plan to buy from man
ufacturers known to have a reputa
tion for producing serum of high
quality and purity. While there
does not appear to be a great deal
of cholera in the country this year,
it is still early in the season and
there is no telling what may de
velop later on as the corn crop
reaches maturity. If the pigs are
vaccinated while they are small the
cost is not excessive and it is worth
a lot to feel secure from the rav
ages of that disease in a year like
this.
THE PURE BRED HOG
The United States Department of
Agriculture has for a number of
years made a study ol the average
price at which pure-bred livestock
is sold for the preceeding year. Such
a report, dealing with the sale of
pure-bred hogs, has just been is
sued. From this it appears ihat 86
per cent, of the pure-bred hogs sold
last year were raised in the corn belt
states; 10 per cent., in the southern
states: and 2 per cent, in each of the
mountain and Pacific ;.tites and the
northern Atlantic section.
There was a slight increase la
prices for 1926 as compared with
1925, indicated principally by the
fact that fewer hogs sold below $25
per head and mpre at Detween $25
and $150. There was about the same
increase in prices last year over the
preceding year as there was in 1925
over 1924. In 1924, for example, ap
proximately 40 per cent, of the pure
bred hogs, sold at auction and at
private treaty, brought $25 per head
or less; in 1925, 22 per cent; and in
1926, 19 per cent, sold at less than
$25 per head. Also in 1924, 60 per
cent, of the registered hogs disposed
of at auction and private treaty,
sold for $25 to $150 per head; in 1925
approximately 78 per cent, sold at
those prices while last year, ap
proximately 81 per cent, reached
that level.
A very small number in each of
these years sold for prices above
$150 each and last year that number
also increased slightly as compared
with the year before. These figures,
therefore, are concrete evidence of
the fact that pure-bred hogs are
gradually coming into their own—a
fact that Is recognized by breeders
everywhere. That this price advance
will continue this year cannot be
doubted. First, because pork prices
will remain strong and second, be
cause more farmers are improving
their herds with the express desire
of lowering production costs. Im
proved blood is one of the means
for bringing this about.
ABOUT HOG CHOLERA
“No cure is known for hog chol
era, but it may be controlled by
preventing it from entering the
herd or by vaccinating the hogs
before they get the disease,” says
an authority on swine diseases.
For this reason, he warns
breeders, whose hogs may have had
cholera or if the disease is in the
neighborhood, that they should
either be careful to keep out the
disease or should have their hogs
vaccinated.
When hogs are vaccinated they
have a mild attack of the disease,
but this immunizes them against
the disease for life. The amount
of serum needed for the vaccina
tion and the cost of it depends on
the size of the hog. A 60-pound
hog usually needs about 60 cents
worth of the serum, while for a
full grown hog it costs about $1.50.
It is often somewhat difficult to
keep the disease from entering a
herd of hogs. Dr. Metzger says, for
it may be carried by streams which
flow through lots in which diseased
hogs have been, by breeding crates
or litter, by dogs that feed on the
carcasses of dead hogs, or even on
one’s shoes. The germs are pres
ent in all parts of the bodies and
discharges of diseased hogs; there
fore carcasses should be burned or
buried deeply.
Vaccinating a herd after cholera
has started is costly and never en
tirely successful, he says.
THINK IT OVER
Where agriculture flourishes
best in the old world, you find the
farmers are the most thoroughly
organized along the co-operativa
methods of any in the world.
BUSINESS OF BEING FENNY
By Frank Crane
In no country In the world and in
no period of history is so much space,
time and energy shown in the busi
ness of being funny, as may be seen
in ‘his country and In this day.
New. papers teem with comic pic
tures, columns of jokes, and pages
of humor. Whole Sunday supple
mr.'ic are full of all manner of gew
gaw3, jimcracks. cartoons, quips,
abn:rditles, and monstrosities, where
wrn to provoke laughter.
Ar.d when you see a group of
Americans reading lhis matter on a
*u hu; ban train, they lock / i solemn
a» wls
Wn«t. in the matte-* >ith us? Am
we an exhausted crowd of nervous
wrecks, weak and sad from the lassi
tude following business dabauch,
■jeople who must be s,.'.lvanized in
o mirth by ultra-clownishness?
We lik? a fool and love a mounte
ank—once In a wh:’. '; but to live
jrever among face-making, heel
: racking, heehawing humans, whose
.hole aim in life seems to be to pro
duce a spasm of each.nation—this Is
too much.
To go to a vaude\ lie every day,
to read a funny paper every day, is
as bad as to go to church or to a
funeral every day. Come to think of
.t. the nrofessional funny man ana
the undertaker have much the same
facial expression.
We hardly realize the fundamen
tal lav: of fun which is that it is
founded on seriousness. Without a
serious bottom no funny structure
can stand.
A professional medium is most
successful in convulsing his audienoe
when he keeps a sober, and even a
gloomy face A grim remark from a
sour-faced Scotchman strikes us as
witty, when the same thing said by
a laughing clown will not seem fun
ny at all.
Pun is the foam a»d sparkle and
shine of life, but it must be upon
the service of great deeps. The
waves of the ocean are mor? beau
tiful than the ripples of a shallow
pond.
When we mak: a business of fun
we are in great danger. Dr. Holmes
points out the embarrassing fact that
i when we once stand on our head be
: fore an audience, that audience will
never be satisfied unless we stand
! on our head all the time.
Fun is like salt and pepper to life.
A little of it gives relish, but too
much of It spoils the meat.
Q. Have the Federal Reserve
banks any agencies outside of the
Urlted States? S. T.
A. There is one agency at Ha
vana. Cuba.
THE SOW AND PIGS
When pigs are to be weaned the
amount of grain fed the sow should
be reduced. It is also a good plan
to take the sow off pasture for a
few days at that time until her
milk flow ceases. During the sum
mer, sows should run on good pas
ture and be fed enough grain to
bring them along in good condition
to farrow in the fall. Three or four
pounds of grain per sow per day
should be sufficient. The young
sow should be fed enough grain to
provide for normal growth.
Pigs plus pasture equal mere
'TOflt.
SELECT FEEDERS CAREFULLY
The practice of feeding younger
cattle for market is becoming mom
general. Some feeders who try
fattening calves and yearlings am
disappointed because they do not
get as rapid gains or as good fin
ish as they do with older steers.
In order to secure satisfactory re
sults In fattening young cattle. It
Is necessary to select feeder calves
of good beef types and breeding.
Hogs multiply more rapidly than
other farm animals and make
greater gatlj* per 100 pounds feed
consumed.
