Nebraska Newspapers

    [web of steel b’ ">>DY I
Here Is a Powerful Story of Failure and Sacrifice and Love and Courage and Success
Copyright by Fleming H. Revell Co.
II.■ ,■■■■■—=— .—
I Bertram Meade. Sr., plans a great international bridge for the
Martlet Construction company. His son, Bertram Meade, Jr., resident
erg neer at the bridge site, and Helen Illingworth, daughter of Colonel
ll rgwerth. president of the Martlet concern, are engaged to marry as
Sdd« as the work is finished. The young engineer had questioned his
father’s judgment on certain calculations and was laughed at for his
fears. The bridge collapses and 150 workmen die. This installment
describes a memorable scene in the elder Meade’s office.
CHAPTER VII.—Continued.
*1 haven't lost nti) confidence. sir.
V\V all make mistakes. I made oue.
fou know, atwl ><*n t««*k tne up."
"It* Us* late f**r attylswly to take
nr «p Men ewn't make mistakes at
ju> age. No more **f that. We have
mil one thing t** do. set the hoy right
M<tv the world."
"ftut If I were your «<*n. sir. said
the secretary, “rather than are you
mined | would take the hlaiue on oij
■eif. He can live it down."
-|tu: he is not to Maine. < »n the
onntniry be was right, and I was
wrong. Here, S*hurtUff is his own let
ter. T*n know it; you saw him give
It to me Too henr»l the conversation,
and 1 have written out a little arrow.;
eiplan. g it stating that I made light
of hi* protest*. acknowledging that he
was right and I wan wrong, taking the
Whole Mam* 'i|**wi it >*elf. He will he
hack here t • gtit. I on. »ure. 1 intend
«d to give it t» him."
T>h. d*-n't do ’hat. Mr. Meade."
The teUy.h.*ne l»e!l rang.
"Tiie bridge ’" clamored the Insistent
bell.
Staggering aim*—’ like n drunken
wan. * ur .<• \rfx ),;» place hy the
d*s>r rea« It* d hi- thin hand out and
lifted Bp t! telephone, p* belt vibrat
ing It *» i—l with angry, venomous
persist.-!. . through ihe quiet ri**m.
"It's a t*!.-gram," he whispered.
“Te* fhi* 1* Mr. M.-ade* private sec
retary. (si on," he au-wer-d iuto the
•MWthfcere of the telephone.
There was alio’^i* |
ly sileti *> while In- took ’he message.
It wits *sj of ShurtlilT* character
that in *t*He of the horrible agitation
that filled him. h* put the instrument
4«wn carefully on the desk. met h* sl
um!!} hanging up tic* receiver l*ef<*re
he turtt--l t** face, the other man. lie
«fs*kr deprecatingly. No woman could
r\ *1 the tenderness he tuauag—1 to
lafcs*- into his ordinarily dry. etuoiion
l«o voice.
"The bridge i« in The river, air."
"Of ™«r«r; any more."
"AM--it -til ..ne hundreii nnd fifty
Men with It."
my God'" said fh.- old man.
He ss**gered forward. Shurtliff
caugl:t I m and he!jed him dow n into
the btg <h»lr before the desk. The
►»< had been discounted in his mind.
■Ui! -me kind <*f h«>|e had lingered
there Vow it was over.
"We icj*t wire Martlet." he gasjied
“The te .-graph office said the mes
sage wn* 1 to you and Mart
let so they have g.it the news, sir.”
"It won't be t«». late for the last edi
tions of the eVen’.t.g J»a{-er*. either."
Mid the old tux*. 'SbiinSiff. 1 was
going to glte These documents to the
boy when tie jot tstck. but I want them
to appear simultaneously with the
•ew. j# the fa.! of the bridge.
Walt." He seii*-d the pen and signed
his name t The brief letTer of excul
pation.
The writing in the b»*iy of the doc
UMBt w*» we»k and feeble, the signa
ler* str'-ng _nd hold. He gathered
the papers up Usoeiy.
"Here.* Im* "I went you to take
them to a nemsj«j{*r—the Gazette—
th-f will * - cer*nin to issue an extra
-We Must Wire Martlet." He Gasped
Out.
If U |« too late for the last edition.
| wan! thi» letter of bU with mine to
fpt Mile bf sole with the news. There
O.K be a moment of uncertain^
•posit It."
-Mr. Meade, for tiod's aake—"
“Don't atop to algue with me now.
T-a- a tail and get there as quickly as
m cai. Toss are earning my honor.
Bjj mb's reputation. Go."
CHAPTER VIII.
Far the Father.
I Two and as^Ulf hmtn later a
of aniloaa StporUn. clustered
door of Oka Opilft building, were
gamini7.il Into life t»y the arrival of a
tixnnh. out of it leaped Bertram
Meade. He was recognized instantly.
“You know about the bridge,
Meade?" ask.il one. forcing liis way
through tin- crowd, which broke Into a
sudden clamor of questioning.
Meade nodded. He recognized the
speaker, their hands met. Tills was a
man of his own age named Kodney,
who had been Meade's classmate at
Cambridge, his devot.il friend there
after. Instead of active practice, lie
•aid chosen to become a writer on sci
entific subjects and was there as a
representative of the Engineering
N'eus. There were sympathy and af
fection in his voice and look, and in
tiie grasp of his hand.
“Have you seen n.y father. Rodney?"
'I.ude asked, quickly moving to the
••levator, followed by all the men.
"At the house they said he was not
there, and here at the office we get
no answer.”
As Meade turned he saw his father’s
s.i-retary coming slowly through the
entrance. •‘Shurtliff,’’ he called out.
“My father?”
"1 left him in the office two hours
ago. He fold me to—to—go away and
—leave him alone. I have been wan
dering about the streets.”
Outside in the street the newsboys
were shrieking:
"Extry! Extry! All almut the coi
!:>!•'■ -f the International bridge. Two
•i engineers and workmen lost.”
'•iff lull! one of tin* papers in
h]% id. Meade tore it from him.
‘ Who I- ResjMonsible?” stared at him
in big red headlines.
Oentlernen. said Mende, ”1 can
answer that question”—he held up the
paper s.. that all might see—“tlie fault
—tlie Idutue—is mine.”
"We'll have to see your father,
I'.err.'' said Rodney.
lie is in this building, we know,
atel lie II never leave it without run
ning the gantlet of us all,” cried an
"'•i' r amid a chorus <*f approval*
Meade realized there was no escape.
I hey all piled into the elevator with
him and Shurtliff. They followed him
up the corridor. He stopped before
the door of the office.
“I forbid you to come in.” he said.
“Tliis is my father's private—”
“Have no fear. Bert," said Rodney
firmly. “We don't intend to break in.
W e understand how you feel. W'e will
wait here until you say the word, and
then ail \\e shall want will be a state
ment from your father.”
“Tlmnk you. old man. Come. Sliurt
liff.” said Meade, turning his key in
the lock. The two men entered and
carefully do—d the door behind them.
The diM.r was scarcely shat when
H' len Illingworth left the elevator and
• nine rapidly up the corridor. She hutl
ailed at the office before and had no
need to ask the way. The reporters
gathered around the door moved to
give her passage while they stared at
t with deep if respectful curiosity.
•‘1’ardon me, gentlemen,” she began,
• hut I am very anxious to see the
younger Bertram Meade.”
“He has Just gone iato the office,”
answered Itodney respectfully.
The girl ralsi*d her hand to knock.
"A moment, please; perhaps you had
ti' :ter understand the situation. The
International bridge—”
The girl came to a sudden determi
natiou. She could not declare herself
too soon or too publicly.
"My name is Illingworth," she said,
nd as tlie hats of the surprised report
ers ctime off. she continued. "I am the
daughter of the president of the Xlart
!■ t Bridge company, which was erect
ing the International."
“Yes. Miss Illingworth." answered
Rodney, “and did you come here to
represent him?"
*'I am Mr. Bertram Meade. Jr.’s,
promised wife, and 1 am here because
i» is the place where I ought to be.
W hen the man I love is in trouble. I
must he with him."
She raised her hand again, but Rod
ney w as t*m> quick for her. He knocked
! lightly on the door, and then struck
it heavily several times. The sound
rang hollowly through the corridor, as
it always does when the d<M>r of an
empty riMitn is beaten upon. There
was no answer for u moment.
"Oh. I must get in,” said the wom
an.
Itodney knocked again, nnd this time
the door was opened. Shurtllff stood
in the way. He luul been white and
shaken before, but now so anguished
and shocked was liis appearance that
everybody start'd. Shurtllff moistened
111* lips and tried to speuk. He could
not utter a word, but he did manage
to point toward the private office.
"Perhaps I would better go first,”
said Ilodney, as the secretary stepped
back and gave them passage.
Helen Illingworth followed, and then
the rest. Young Meade was standing
erect by his father's chair. The great
hulk of the old engineer was slouched
down, his body bent over, his head
on the desk, face downward. One
■ gTcnt arm. hl« left, extended, shot
straight across the desk. His fist
was clenched, his right arm hung limp
by his side. He was still.
There was something unmistakably
terrible in bis motionless aspect. They
had no need to ask what hud hap
pened. A sharp exclamation from the
woman was the only sound that broke
the silence, as she stepped to her lov
er's side.
“You can't question my father now.
gentlemen,” said Meade; “he is dead.”
In the outer office they heard Sliurt
1 iIT brokenly calling the doctor on the
telephone and asking him to notify the
police.
“Did lie—” began one. hesitatingly.
“He was too big a man to do himself
any hurt. I know,” answered Meade
proudly, as he divined the question.
“The autopsy will tell. But I am sure
that the failure of the bridge has
broken his heart.”
“And we can't fix the responsibility
now," said Rodney, who for his friend’s
sake was glad of this consequence of
the old mail’s death.
“Yes, you can,” said the young man.
He leaned forward and laid his right
hand on his dead father’s shoulder.
Helen Illingworth had possessed her
self of his left hand. She lifted it and
belli it to her heart. The engineer
seemed unconscious of the action, and
still it was the greatest thing he had
ever experienced. Meade spoke slowly
and with the most weighty delibera
tion in an obvious endeavor to give his
statement such clear definiteness that
no one could mistake it.
"Here in the presence of my dead
father," he began. “I solemnly declare
that I alone am responsible for the de
sign of the member that failed. My
father was getting along in years. He
left a great part of the work to me. lie
pointed out what he thought was a
structural weakness In the trusses, but
I overbore his objections. I alone am
to blame. The Martlet Bridge company
employed us both. They said they
wanted the benefit of my father's long
experience and my later training and
research."
"Do you realize. Meade," said Rod- 1
ney, us the pencils of the reporters I
flew across their pads, “that in assum- !
ing this responsibility which, your fa- i
tlier being dead, cannot be—"
“I know it means the end of my ca- '
reer," said Meade, .forcing himself to
speak. “My father's reputation is
dearer to me than anything on earth.” |
“Even than I?" whispered the j
woman.
“Oil. my God!” burst out the man. {
and then he checked himself and con
tinued with the same monotonous de- j
liberation as before, and with even i
more emphasis, "I can allow no other
interest in life, however great, to pre- i
vent me from doing my full dutv to my
father.”
lie had been fully resolved to pro
tect his old father's fame had the fa
ttier survived the shock. The appeal
of the dead man was even more power
ful than if he had lived. Meade could
not glance down at that crushed,
broken, impotent figure and fail to re
spond. It was not so much love—never
bad he loved Helen Illingworth so
much as then—as it was honor. The
obligation must be met though his
heart broke like his father's; even if it
killed him, too.
And the woman! How if it killed
her? He could not think of that. He
could think of nothing but of that in
ert body and its demand.
“Have you no witnesses, no evidence
to substantiate your extraordinary
statement?" asked Rodney.
“I can substantiate it,” said Shutt
lin'. coming into the room, having fin
ished bis telephoning. "The doctor ana
the police will be here immediately,
but before they come—" and he drew
himself up and faced the reporters
boldly. “Gentlemen, I can testify that
everything that Mr. Bertram Meade
has said is true. I happened to lie here
when my dead friend and employer got
the telegram announcing the failure of
the bridge and, although he knew it
was his son's fault, he bravely offered
to assume the responsibility and he
told me to go to the newspapers and
tell them that it was his fault and that
his son had protested in vain against
his design.”
“Why didn't you do it?" asked one
of the reporters.
“I couldn’t, sir,” faltered the old
man. "It wasn’t true. The son there
was to blame.”
He sauk down in his seat and cov
ered liis face with his hands and broke
j into dry. horrible sobs. It was not easy
for him either, this shifting of responsi
j bility.
“You see,” said young Meade, “I
guess that settles the matter. Now you
have nothing more to do here."
“Nothing,” said Rodney at last, “not
in this office at least. We must wait
for the doctor, hut we can do that out
side."
One by one the men filed out. leav
ing the dead engineer with his son, the
secretary, and the woman in the room.
“Bert,” said the woman, laying her
: hand on his shoulder, “why or how I
| feel it I cannot tell, but I know in my
'• heart that you are doing this for your
father's sake, that what you said was
not true. Things you have said to
I me—"
“Did I ever say anything to J’ou,"
began Meade in fierce alarm, while
Sliurtliff started to speak but checked
himself, “to lead you to think that 1
suspected any weakness in the bridge?”
The woman was watching him keen
ly and listening to him with every
sense on the alert. Nothing was es
caping her and she detected in his
j voice a note of sharp alarm and aux
iety as if he might have said some
thing which could be used to discredit
his assertion now.
“Perhaps not in words but in little
things, suggestions,” she answered
quietly. “I can't put my hand on any
of them, I can hardly recall anything,
| but the impression is there."
Meade smiled miserably at her aud
again her searching eyes detected re
lief in his.
“It is your affection that makes you
say that,” he said, “and as you admit
there is really nothing. What I said
just now is true.”
It was much harder to speak the
lie to this clear-eyed woman, who loved
him, than to the reporters. He could
scarcely complete his sentence, and in
the end sought to look away.
“Bertram Meade,” said the woman,
putting both her hands upon his shoul
der, “look me in the face and tell me
that you have spoken the truth and
that the blame is yours.”
Meade tried his best to return her
glance, but those blue eyes plunged
through him like steel blades. He did
not dream in their softness could be
developed such tire. He was speech
less. After a moment he looked away.
He shut his lips firmly. He could not
sustain her glance, but nothing could
make him retract or unsay his words.
“I have said it,” he managed to get
out hoarsely.
“It's brave of you. It’s splendid of
you,” she said. “I won’t betray you. I
don't have to.”
“What do you mean?" asked the
man.
But the woman had now turned to
Shurtliff. In his turn she also seized
him in her emotion and she shook him
almost eagerly.
"You, you know that it is not true.
Speak 1”
But she had not the power over the
older man that she had over the young
er. The secretary forced himself to look
“He Will Point Out Some Way—”
at her. He eared nothing for Miss Il
lingworth. but he had a passion for
the older Meade that matched hers for
the younger.
“He has told the truth.” he cried al
most like a baited animal. “Xo one is
going to ruin the reputation of the
man I have served and to whom 1 have
given my life without protest from me.
It's his fault, his, his, his!” he cried,
his voice rising with every repetition
of the pronoun as he pointed at Meade.
Helen Illingworth turned to her lover
again. She was quieter now.
"I know thnt neither of you is telling
the truth,” she said. “Lying for a
great cause, lying in splendid self-sac
rifice. You are ruining yourself for
your father’s name and he is abetting.
Why? It can't make any difference to
him now. But it makes a great differ
ence to me. Have you thought of that?
I'm going to marry you anyway. Only
tell me the truth. Bert. By our love I
ask you. If you want me to keep your
secret I'll do it. But if you won't tell
me I'll get that evidence, I will find
out the truth, and then I shall publish
it to the whole world and then—”
“And you would marry me then?”
asked Meade, swept away by this pro
found pleading.
"I will marry you now, instantly, at
any time,” answered the girl. “Indeed
you need me. Guilty or innocent, 1 am
yours and you are mine.”
“Listen,” protested the engineer,
“nothing will ever relieve me of the
blame, of the shame, of the disgrace of
this. But I am a man. I have youth
still, and strength and inspiration. Un
til I can hold up my head among men
I am nothing to you and you are free.”
There was a tiuality in his tone
which the woman recognized. She
could as well break it down as batter
a stone wall with her naked fist. She
looked at him a long time.
“Very well,” she said at last, “unless
I shall be your wife I shall be the wife
of no man. I shall wait confident in
the hope that there is a just God, and
that he will point out some way.”
CHAPTER IX.
The Unaccepted Renunciation.
The doctor and the officers of the
law entered the outer office. In spite
of the brave words that had been
spoken by the woman, the man could
only see a long parting and an uncer
tain future. He realized it the more
when old Colonel Illingworth entered
the room in the wake of the others.
After he had recovered himself he had
hurried to the station in time to catch
j the next train and had come to New
York, realising at once where his
daughter must have gone.
“My father is dead,” said Meade as
the doctor and the officers of the law
examined the body of the old man.
The son had eyes for no one but the
old colonel. “The failure of the bridge
has broken his heart; my failure. Id
better say.”
“I understand," said Illingworth. “He
is fortunate. I would rather have died
than have seen any son of mine
forced to confess criminal incompe
tency like yours.”
“Father.” said the girl with a reso
lution and firmness singularly like his
own. “I can’t hear you speak this way,
and I will not.”
“Do you go with him or do you not?”
thundered the colonel.
It was Meade who answered for her.
“She goes with you. I love her and
she loves me, hut I won’t drag her
down in my ruin.”
“I am glad to see honor and decency
are in you still,” said the colonel, “even
if you are incompetent.”
“If you say another word to him I
will never go with you as long as I
live," flashed out Helen Illingworth.
“I deserve all that he can say. Your
duty is with him. Good-by,” said
Meade.
“And I shall see you again?”
“Of course. Now you must go with
your father.”
Helen Illingworth turned to the colo
nel.
“I shall go with you because he bids
me, not because—”
“Whatever the reason.” said the old
soldier, “you go.” He paused a mo
ment, looking from the dead man to
the living one. “Meade,” he exclaimed
at last, “I am sorry for your father, I
am sorry for you. Good-by, and I
never want to see you or hear of you
again. Come, Helen.”
The woman stretched out her hand
toward her lover as her father took
her by the arm. Meade looked at her a
moment and then turned away delib
erately as if to mark the final sever
ance.
With bent head and beating heart,
she followed her father out of the
room. There he had to fight off the
reporters. He denied that his daugh
ter was going to marry young Meade.
She strove to speak and he strove to
force her to be quiet. In the end she
had her way.
“At Mr. Meade’s own request,” she
said finally, “our engagement has been
broken off. Personally I consider my
self as much bound as ever, but in
deference to his wishes and to my fa
ther’s—”
“Have you said enough?" roared the
colonel, losing all control of himself at
last. “No, I will not be questioned or
Interrupted auother minute. Come.”
He almost dragged the girl from the
room.
Within the private office the phy
sician said that everything pointed to a
heart lesion, but only an autopsy would
absolutely determine it. Meanwhile the
law would have to take charge of the
body temporarily. It was late at night
before Bertram Meade and old Shurt
liflf were left alone. Carefully seeing
that no one was present in the suite
of offices Meade turned to Shurtliff.
“Get me that memorandum I wrote
to my father. You know where he kept
It”
“Yes, sir, separate from the other
papers concerning the International, In
the third compartment.” He turned
the big safe door slowly. The third
i compartment was empty. “It’s gone,”
he said.
Meade went to the safe, a small one,
and examined it carefully and fruitless
ly. His letter was not there with the
other papers, where it should have
been if it were in existence. It was
not anywhere.
“Father told me he was going to de
stroy it. but I rather thought he was
keeping it to have some fun with me
when the bridge was completed," he
said at last.
“Yes, sir. that was his intention. In
fact, I know he did not destroy it at
first. He told me to file it with the
plans. He must have destroyed it
later. I haven't looked in this com
partment for weeks.”
“I’ll never forget the lie you told to
back me up. Shurtliff. I can see you
loved him as much as I."
“No one will ever know the truth
from me, sir. You saved your father’s
name and fame.”
“I think we had better search the
office now. I wouldn't have that paper
come to life for the world,” said Meade.
Shurtliff was the most orderly of
men. The care of the old engineer’s
papers and other arrangements had de
volved upon him. The search was soon
completed.
“I guess he must have destroyed It,”
said the young man, “but to be sure I
will examine liis private papers at
home. Good night. You will be going
yourself?”
“In a few minutes, sir.”
“Come to me in the morning after
the autopsy and we will arrange for
the funeral,” said the younger man as
he left the office.
Shurtliff waited until his footsteps
died away in the hall. He waited un
til he heard the clang of the elevator
gate. Even then he was not sure. He
got up and in his catlike way opened
the door of the office and peered down
the hall. It was empty. He stood in
the door waiting, while the night ele
vator made several trips up and down
without pausing at that floor. He sat
down at the dead man’s desk. From his
pocket he drew forth a packet of pa
pers.
There were no legal proceedings, al
though there were many inquests at
the bridge. The cause of the failure
was clear. It wns recognized by every
one, whose opinion was worth consid
ering, that the disaster had resulted
from a mistake which any engineer
could have made. As a matter of fact
there was no experience to guide the
designers. There never had been such
a bridge before. Certain elements of
empiricism had to enter into their cal
culations. They had made the plan
after their best judgment and it had
failed. They could be blamed, even
vilified as they were in the press, but
that was the extent of their punish
ment.
The bitter weight of censure fell en
tirely upon Bertram Meade. His ruin
as an engineer was immediate and ab
solute. He was the scapegoat. No one
had any good to say of him except Kod
ney, who fought valiantly for his friend
and classmate, at least striving tc
mitigate the censure by pointing out
the quick and ready acknowledgment
of the error which might have been
ascribed to the dead man without fear
of contradiction.
An effort was made by competitors
and stock speculators to ruin the Mart
let Bridge company. By throwing into
the gap their private fortunes to the
last dollar and by herculean work on
the part of their friends, the directors
saved the Martlet company, although
its losses were tremendous and almost
Insupportable, not only in money, but
in prestige and reputation. Colonel
Illingworth came out of the struggle
older and grayer than ever. The terrific
combat had left him almost broken fot
a time, and his daughter saw that it
was not possible even to mention Bert
ram Meade to him, then.
The funeral of the great engineet
had been strictly private. Only his
confreres, men who stood high in
scientific circles, certain people foi
whom he had made great and success
ful designs, a few others whose ties
were personal, had been invited to the
house for the services. The interment
was in the little Connecticut town of
Milford, in which the older Meade had
been born, and from which ha had gone
forth as a boy to conquer the world.
The next Installment tells of
young Meade’s big move, which
leads to even more startling con
sequences than the recent hap
penings in his life.
(TO BE CONTINUED.)
MEN WHO TRAVELED CIRCUIT j
Not the Least Famous of Noted
Preachers Was Lorenzo Dow—
Cautious in Lovemaking.
Many were the famous characters
produced on the circuits of early days,
says Mr. Arthur \V. Spaulding in “The
Men of the Mountains"—men fearless
in danger, unwearying in labor, endur
ing in privation, powerful in exhorta
tion, ready in wit. and often prepured
to use physical as well as spiritual
muscle in their combats with the devil
and his human agents.
Among the most interesting of them ;
was Lorenzo Dow, a roving preacher
whose work was not confined to the
mountains or the frontier: for although
he labored from the high peaks of
North Carolina to the banks of the
Mississippi and from Georgia to Can
ada. he was well known also along the
Atlantic coast, and even in England
and Ireland. Uestless and eager, he
continually traveled; nor would he
marry until he had found a young
woman who would promise that she
would spare him from home twelve
months out of :hirteen.
His proposal or marriage, a letter
that is, I think, unique in the delib
eration and caution with which it ap
proaches the subject, ran as follows:
"If I am preserved, about a year
and a half from now I am In hopes of
seeing this northern country again:
and if during this time you live and
remain single, and find no one that
you like better than you do me, and
would be willing to give me up twelve
months out of thirteen, or three year*
out of four, to travel, and that in for
eign lands, and never say, Do not go
to your appointment, etc.—for If you
should stand in the way, I should pray
to God to remove you, which I believe
he would answer—and if I find no one
that I like better than I do you. pep
haps something further may be said
upon that subject.”—Youth’s Com
panion.
Hearty Appetites of Birds.
It is interesting to observe that hun
gry birds—and birds are hungry all
the time—are not content with full
stomachs, but after stuffing the stom
ach until it will hold no more, they eat
until the crop or gullet also is cram
med. It is an undisputed fact that
birds have healthy appetites. To show
the astonishing capacity of a bird’s
stomach, and to reveal the indebted
ness of man to birds for the destruc
tion of noxious Insects, it is often the
case that a stomach will contain two
or three times as much material as the
stomach should seem normallv to hold
This is proved by the reports from
examinations made by the assistants
of the biological survey. A bank swal
low In Texas devoured 68 cotton boll
weevils, one of the worst insect pests
that ever invaded the United States.
A night hawk had eaten 340 grasshop
pers, 52 bugs, three beetles, two wasps
and a spider.
How to Kill Ants.
Ants may be driven away by taking
a handful of tansy leaves, broken Into
pieces and dropped Into boiling water.
Dip a brush into this and wash where
the ants frequent Do not let the steam
get near your eyes, as It Is extremely
painful. Another recipe Is: Mix one
teaspoonful of tartar emetic and one
teaspoonful of sugar and place on the
floor. A sure remedy for red eats Is
hot alum water, in proportions of two
pounds of alum to three quarts of wa
ter. Apply to crevices thoroughly
Ants on the lawn may be killed by stlri
ring up the holes and pouring In kero
seoe and hot water.
_
For Western Canada and the
160-Acre Homesteads.
"In a war like this, they also serve
and serve effectively who till the fields
and gardens.
“It cannot be repeated too often that
the world needs every ounce of food
it can produce this year, and that the
growers of that food are sure of good
prices. When men now of middle age
were casting their first ballot, ‘dollar
wheat’ was the farmer's ideal of pros
perity. Today, we have two-dollar
wheat, with other grains and meats
and vegetables in proportion; and indi
cations that any shift from these
prices is as likely to be up as d a.
“Every acre must work. The farm-r
who increases his crops is performi: g
a national service, as well as assuring
prosperity for himself. There cannot
be too much, and unless a united and
consistent effort is made, there will
not be enough.”—Chicago Journal.
Now that the United States has
joined with the Allies, the sentiment
of the past has merged into the per
sonal interest of the present. The duty
of the loyal and patriotic citizen is to
bend every effort to bring the great
World’s War to a satisfactory conclu
sion. to assist in all ways the forces
that have been fighting at tremendous
odds the giant power of autocracy.
Victory is now assured; the union of
the great fighting force of the United
States navy, its military, its financial
co-operation, its full and complete sym
pathy, will eventually bring about a
peace that will be solid and lasting.
Canada, just across the border line,
that has no mark of fortification, no
signs of defense, welcomes the assist
ance that the United States is render
ing, welcomes this new partner into the
arena that is battling for a disruption
of the forces that breed and beget tyr
anny and oppression, nn<i figluing for
a democratic and free world. What a
sight it will be to see the American
and the Canadian, with the Stars and
Stripes and the Maple Leaf of Canada
emblazoned in one fold and entwined
in their effort to rid the world of an
incubus that has disregarded all laws—
human and divine.
There Is a necessity for the greatest
■ effort ever was made, not only on the
| battlefields of Europe, not only on the
mined and submarined seas, but in
carrying out on the peaceful fields
of agriculture, the plans so urgently
requested by those at the head of
the departments of resources. The
recent reports by the Government
show a great falling off in the amount
of grain that may be expected from the
crop as of recent date, being only a
little over CO per cent. 16 per cent
less than the average. Every patriotic
American will bend all his effort
towards increasing this. He may not
shoulder a musket, but he can handle
a hoe, he can drive a team and man
age a plow. He will be doing yeoman
service in this way, and assist in a
wonderful manner the man who is
fighting in the trenches. If he does
not now own a piece of land, by all
means get one—rent it, buy it—get it.
There is lot of vacant land that will
give ample return for his labor.
The desire to possess a home, to im
prove it and to prosper, is natural to
every American, and today unprece
dented offers are being made to secure
the residence of the home-hunter. The
war condition is drnining the continent
of its foodstuffs and economists are
endeavoring to meet the rapid deple
tion of the nation's stores of grain and
other farm products. Western Canada
has proven her claim to being the natu
ral producer of economically grown
foodstuffs aud is endeavoring to over
come a world’s shortage in necessities
by offering her lands, practically free,
to anyone who will take them and pro
duce. Labor is scarce in Canada, and
is now being bonused. Good wages are
offered and the time a farm hand is
drawing pay in 1917, is considered by
the Canadian Government, the same as
residence duties on one of the free 160
ncre farms, that this Government is
giving away, in order to settle the fer
tile prairies and bring about within
a few years a half billion annual crop
of wheat.
The most conclusive evidence is
available to any inquirer, that Western
Canada farm lands will produce more
wheat of a better quality and at a
lower cost of production per acre than
has heretofore been known in grain
growing countries. It is no idle state
ment to say, that yields of fifty bushels
to the acre of wheat are grown in Can
ada ; the statement is made in all seri
ousness and is backed up by the let
ters and affidavits of reliable farmers
in Western Canada. These farmers
are enjoying the same home comforts
that their neighbors to the south par
ticipate ; they have the same good
houses, the same good horses and
cattle, the same good roads and com
munication, as well as the same good
social conditions, and, best of all. they
own their laud and what they earn
they own for themselves, being a foun
dation for greater wealth and Inde
pendence.—Advertisement.
Queer Things You Hear.
The Small One (a benedict)—You
should marry, old top. A bachelor is
but hall a man.
Allen's Foot-Ease for the Troops.
The antiseptic powder to be shaken into the
shoes or used in the foot-bath. Young men in
i every community are using Allen's Foot.Ease
in their drills for Military Preparedness. t'--d
. by the Allied. French and Euglish troops be
! cause it rests the feet, takes the friction from
the shoe and makes walking easy.—Adv.
; Inhe a day off occasionally and let
j the rest of the crowd do the worry
ing
your duty before blaming others
for not doing theirs.
! fiEwE! Murine is for Tired Eyes. 1
1 WiOYiOS Red Eyes — Sore Eye#—5
2 Granulated Bye lids. Reeti — =
s Befreshes — Restores. Murine is a Favorite =
2 Treatment for Byes that feel dry and smart. 2
Z Give your Byes as much of your loving care z
2 at yoar Teeth and with the tame regularity. 2
E CUE FOR THEM. YOtt GAMUT BUY MEW EYES! z
2 Sold at Drug and Optical Stores or Dy Mail. =
| Ask Hurst Ejrt Renefly Co„ Chicago. for Frtt Book =
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