The Universalist. [volume], September 18, 1897, Page 6, Image 6

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A MYSTERY OF SLEEP.
THE LAST WALK.
A STORY BY HIGH CONWAY,
Author of “Called Back.5’
CHAPTER VI.
MY thoughts soon wandered
away from my recent fright,
and took that path which they al
wars followed. My arm dropped to
my side, and my fingers relaxed
themselves. And then once more I
felt the unmistakable sensation of fin
gers that closed round mine. I felt
that there was no hand in mine that
my hand could clasp in return, but
the sensation of a palm against my
palm—fingers twining my fingers—
was indisputable. The sensation of
pressure was there—faintly, it is true,
but it was there. It was no fancy,
no dream, this time. Whether mortal
or not, a hand, or the semblance of a
hand, was holding mine. Again the
horror overcame me—again I strove
to tear my hand away from this in
visible clasp. My blood curdled as
I found the result of my efforts failed
on this second occasion—found that
the fingers which fastened on my own
could not be shaken off, do what I
would. As I moved my hand, even
so the hand that held it moved with
it. If I clinched my own, I could
yet feel the strange pressure of those
unseen fingers. If I grasped my
right hand in my left, there was still
the sensation of another hand be
tween my own. Do what I would,
move how I would, that clasp, or
phanton of a clasp, was ever on my
hand. Yet 1 struggled with fear
until the awful thought flashed
through my brain that this was the
aura, the forerunner of paralysis or
epilepsy. Then I could bear it no
longer. Whether that grasp was the
result of bodily or mental ailment, 1
could bear it no longer—I felt my
mind was going. I rushed to the
door, tore it open, and my screams
rang through the house. Remember,
I was but a woman, and alone.
As the sound of hurrying feet drew
near, that hand or hand clasp lying
on my own quitted it. Then, as the
strange sensation ceased, did I hear
a mournful sound, like a sigh,or was
it only the wind outside? Did the
phantom fingers draw themselves
away from mine soothingly, even, it
seemed, reluctantly, or was that
fancy too? As the servants with
frightened looks drew near me, could
that wild and joyful thought that
flashed through my brain be more
than the thought of a madwoman?
What could it mean?
Except for this I was myself again.
I had been frightened, I told all who
came to me—frightened by dreams,
by shadows, by solitude, and my
own thoughts. No one wondered at
it; what flesh and blood could stand,
unmoved, the anxiety I had borne
during the last week? I was over
wrought and suffering from sleep
lessness, so Mr. Mainwaring insisted
upon giving me an opiate. I swal
lowed it reluctantly, and my maid
sat with me, until, in due time, dull
sleep told of the potency and efficacy
of the drug which I had been made
to take.
This artificial sleep lasted without
a break until late in the afternoon.
Then I awoke refreshed, and in full
possession of my senses. I arose
and prayed, as I had never prayed
before, that my hand might again
feel that unseen touch which had
nearly driven me mad in the night.
“Will it come again? O, let it come
again!” was the constant cry of my
heart; and I longed ardently for the
night, which, perhaps, might bring
that hand seeking my own again.
For incredible as it seems, I knew,
when those fingers last left mine
that love had in part conquered
death—that Walter had been with
me. Now I feared nothing. Why
should I fear? He had loved me
living—he loved me now. Whether
he came to me in body or in spirit,
should he not be welcome? Oh, that
he might come again!
CHAPTER VII.
And he came again. Mr. Main
waring, who would not leave Draycot
that day on account of the apparent
ly strange state of my health, that
evening insisted upon my taking a
turn in the garden. lobeyed him, al
though every plant, every blossom
around, seemed breathing sadness. I
was too tired to walk longer than a
few minutes, but sat on my favorite
seat, and watched the sun sink be
hind the hills. Even then and
there—in bread daylight—I felt his
hand seek my own, and my heart
leaped with joy. I shunned or strove
to avoid it no longer. I let my hand
lie still, and again I felt the touch,
or the spirit of the touch, of the one
I loved. So naturally those fingers
closed around mine; so familiar
seemed that clasp to me; that could
1 have forgotten the last week, I
might have closed my eyes, and, ly
ing there with my hand in his, have
thought I had only to open them to
happiness occe more. If I could but
forget!
Even if I had not known in whose
hand mine was resting, the caress
those fingers gave me would have
told me. I wondered why I feared
and repulsed them at first. If only
I could sometimes sit as I sat then,
and know and feel that Walter was
beside me, I thought that life might
even be happy. So I turned my
head toward him, and said, softly—
so softly:
“Dearest love, you will come often
and often, will you not? You will
be always with me; then I shall not
be unhappy.”
He answered not, but I felt a
change in the clasp of his hand,
and 1 pondered as to what its mean
ing could be. Then I fancied that
faintly, very faintly, that touch was
endeavoring to make me understand
something which my grosser earthly
faculties failed to grasp—to direct,
to lead me somewhere for some
purpose. For it left me and came
again, left and came again, till at
last I learned its meaning.
Then and there I rose. “I come,
my love,” I said. And once more
Walter Linton and his wife walked,
as they had walked many a time
before, hand-in-hand down the broad
garden path; past the rustic lodge,
covered with rosebuds and wood
bine; through the gateway; out into
the high road. I feared nothing: the
hand of the one I loved was in mine,
and guiding me whither he chose;
moreover, it was yet daylight, and I
was not dreaming.
I even knew that Mr. Mainwaring
followed us as we walked down the
path. I saw him come to my side
and look at me with wonder. I
wanted no one to be near my hus
band and myself, so I waved him
back imperiously. ‘‘Follow if you
like,” I said, '“but do not speak to
us.” Perhaps he thought 1 was mad,
perhaps that I was walking in my
sleep, and, if so, feared to awake
me. Any way, he followed us silent
ly, and that was all I knew or cared
about him, or about anything else.
For were not my love and I walking,
once more, hand-in-hand, and it was
not in a dream?
Along and along the road, each
side of which is beautiful with its
green banks and hedges, and every
inch of which we know, even keep
ing to that side we always chocse be
cause the flowers grow thickest there.
How fresh and green everything
looks this evening! The swallows
are flying here and there. Every
blade of grass is washed clean from
dust by the heavy rain of the morn
ing. No. I am walking with my hus
band. A nightingale breaks into
song near us, as we walk. We stop
—who could help stopping to listen?
Now its melody ceases, and Walter
leads me on. It is like in the old
days when we first wed; before we
thought or wished for more wealth.
Those days when all the country
round was fresh and new to me.
CHAPTER VIII.
Never did the wild flowers, I think,
look gayer than they lock this even
ing, although they are closing fast
I would stop, my darling, and gather
a bunch for the children; but they
have so many flowers at home, and I
fear to loose your hand for a moment.
Besides, you wish to lead me further
yet; we have somewhere to go to this
evening. I forget whither it was you
told me, Walter. Is it to the lily
pond, to see if we can find any snow
white cups floating, buoyed up by
the broad green leaves? Is it to
climb the hill that lies in front of us,
and see the very last of the glorious
sun; to catch the crimson sparkle of
its rays on the distant windows of
our dear home? That sun which
will rise to morrow, and waken us
both so early—for you will never
leave me again, Walter—promise me,
my darling, I have been so unhappy.
Is it further yet? To the ruins of
the gray old abbey where the poet’s
ivy grows so freely? Shall we wait
there, as once before, and see the
full moon shine through the rose of
the east windows? Shall we wander
arm-in-arm through the dim glades,
laughing at the foolish monks who
chose to live and die there, knowing
not love, nor the sweetness of life
when two share its joys and troubles?
But our troubles are over now, are
they not, dearest? No, matter, lead
me whither you will: I care not—you
are with me, your band is in mine,
and I am happy. But wherever we
go, we will walk back by moonlight,
and then creep up quietly and kiss
the children just once before we go
to bed. To morrow we will wake and
love again. No, I am not dreaming.
But why do you not speak to me and
tell me where you have been—why
you left me so long? Oh, how I
have wept and waited for you!
Dearest, you will never leave me
again?
This is the spot you wished to lead
me to—the place where the ferns
grow? Ah, you remembered what I
wanted. Are there any of that sort
up there? Let us go and see, al
though the day is flying fast.
Through the hazel bushes—deep,
deep into the underwood—on and
on—up and up—brambles and stones!
I did not know it was so 6teep here.
Hold my hand firmer and help me.
More bushes, more undergrowth;
and how the twilight fades! My
darling, we shall find no ferns to
night. May we not go back and
come again to-morrow? Yet on, and
on! Love, where you lead I follow
and fear not! Is not your hand in
mine, and you will never leave me
again! Still on! My darling, you
have brought me to the very edgt of
a rock! Don’t leave me here! Don’t
draw your hand from mine! Stay
one minute—one moment longer! I
cannot see you; it is dark and cold!
I cannot feel you, and the world
seems filling again with grief. Come
back! Come bac»! Walter! Walter!
They told me I dreamed it—that I
walked in my sleep. Clever and
learned men said so, and I am only a
woman, neither clever nor learned.
Mr. Mainwaring, who had with great
difficulty followed us—for I say “us,”
in spite of all that wisdom can urge
—found me lying lifeless at the brink
of the rocky depth to which Walter
had led me and where he had left me.
Down below me lay something that
I, thank God, never saw. They bore
it home and told me it was all that
was left of Walter Linton, my hus
band, But I knew better, for had
he not that evening walked hand in
hand with me for miles?
They told me, also, that he had
fallen from the top of the rock—that
it was not a great height, but high
enough for the fall to kill him in
stantaneously—that most likely he
was led to that fatai place, seeking
some rare plant; as a root and with
ered leaves were clinched in his hand
—that the notes he had placed in his
pocket when he left his home were
there—that Draycot was still mine
and his children’s. But they believe
me not when I tell them that my
love, my husband, through the power
of the love he bore me, could come
from the dead—could take my hand
in his and lead me with him, on and
on, till he showed me where and how
he died—till he saved those he loved
from utter ruin and a life of peuury
—till, more than all, he cleared his
own dear memory from stain and dis
honor. Yet these things were!
f'THK KN1>. j
AUNT MARY’S WAY.
BY LOUISE J. STRONG.
"What a sad face your wash woman
has, Helen,” Aunt Mary remarked
across the dinner table.
"Has she?” laughed her niece, pretty
Mrs. Walford. “I hadn’t noticed. But
I know she is dreadfully slow about her
work. She is always two or three hours
behind the neighborhood in getting the
clothes on the line. I wouldn’t keep
her only that she is so careful and par
ticular.
"To be particular and do the work
well is a good deal to be said for any
one these helter skelter days. She
doesn’t look strong; do you know any
thing about her circumstances?” asked
Aunt Mary.
"Not a thing,” Mrs. Walford ans
wered, "I pay her when her work is
done, and ask her no questions about
her affaire. I don’t know that it is any
of my business.”
"Any yet you belong to several chari
table societies,” Aunt Mary sugge-ted
softly 'Ore of them, I think you said
was called the ‘Helping Hand.’ ”
"Oh the 'Helping Hand' is very exclu
sive, Aunt Mary,” said Mr. Walford,
lightly. “You have to reach a certain
genteel notch before the tips of its ar
istocratic lingers are held out to you.”
"Arthur is always ridiculing us,”
Helen said a little petulantly, "but we
have done a great deal of good, Aunt
Mary, I can assure you; and even a so
ciety mnst draw a line somewhere, you
know.
"Yes, I suppose so,” Aunt Mary as
sented, "though I know very little about
such things. I never belonged to a so
ciety in my life.”
"Never belonged to a society!” Mrs.
Walford exclaimed in astonishment.
But you seem so familiar with charita
ble work; how have you carried it on?”
“The little I have ever accomplished
ha* been by individual effort,” said
Aunt Mary, modestly.
"You must visit our societies, and see
how superior organized work is,” Mrs.
Walford said, rising. "And oh, yes,
Aunt Mary, as you are going to be here,
will you give the woman this half dollar
for me when her work is done?”
As she took the money, Aunt Mary
said impulsively, "Does she do that
large washing for fifty cents?” and then
added, hastily, as Mrs. Watford’s face
Hushed, “Excuse me, Helen, 1 spoke
thougntlessly, but I have so many
things to be washed to day that I think
I ought to add to this.”
"My visitors never pay for their wash
ing, Aunt Mary, it belongs with the
family wash of course; but you must
please yourself.”
A couple of hours later, Aunt Mary
going to the kitchen, found the woman
waiting, her thin face pale and drawn,
and tired lines around her lips and eyes.
It was a delicate, reHned face, with a
gentle patience in it that touched Aunt
Mary’s kind heart. She arose and took
down her sun bonnet as Aunt Mary
entered,
‘You look very tired,” Aunt Mary
said, gently, ‘‘don't be in a hurry to go.
Come out on the porch and rest awhile
in one of the rockers.”
'No, thank you, I can aot stop. I am
needed at home,” then as Aunt Mary
put a dollar in her hand, she added’
anxtrusly, "I can not change it; haven’t
you a half dollar?”
"You had so many of my clothes to
day, I think you have earned the dollar,'
Aunt Mary said, smiling.
An eager look flitted across her face,
and she answered. “It is not usual I
believe, to pay for a few extra things
and I oughtn’t to take it, but I need it
so much, and a half dollar more would
—” she stopped, flushing scarlet and
turned nervously to the door.
Aunt Mary laid a detaining hand on
her arm, and said with gentle sympathy
"Don’t think me intrusive, but will you
not tell me your trouble? I am sure
you are carrying a burden; let me share
it.”
The sudden tears gushed forth, and
the poor creature sank sobbing into a
chair; but she quickly controlled herself
and looking up wistfully, said, "I don’t
often give way like this; I hope you will
excuse it in me.”
Aunt Mary nodded, stroking the toil
worn band she held.
"Things are very hard with us just
now,” she went on, “My husband has
had no work, only an odd job or so,
since the shops closed last year. We
have four children, and I am not very
strong and so slow at my work that we
can hardly get enough for them to eat.”
"You are a conscientious worker,”
Aunt Mary interposed, "haven’t the so
cieties helped you?”
"A little at first,” the woman an
swered, "but they seem to think we are
not deserving and that my husband is
idle and shiftless. Heaven knows he
would thankfully take anything to do,
so that he could be earning something.
Oh why do they not have work enough,
some how or other, so that all the poor
men could take care of their families.
The poor must have work or starve, if
they are too proud and honest to beg or
steal.” She spoke with passionate
earnestr.esB, then started up suddenly
adding, "I must go. I ought to have
gone at once. Oh ma’am, you will un
derstand what a heartache I have, and
how grateful I am to you for this extra
half dollar, when I tell you that my lit
tle oneB have had nothing but a scanty
breakfast of potatoes today; and will
have nothing until I get home. Robbie,
the oldest is a cripple, and takes care of
the rest while I am away.”
"Why didn’t you tell us that your
children were going hungry?” Aunt
Mary said as she rapidly packed a
basket with food. “It.is wicked to let
them suffer and not speak of it.”
“Nobody ever spoke to me about it
before," the woman answered, and it is
very hard to make people listen when
they do not want to. I have tried to
sometimes, but I could't force my
troubles on them when they didn't carp.
I’ve wished so many times that I could
have the broken pieces of food for my
children that I see thrown away at
places where I work.
"Send your husband here in the
morning,” Aunt Mary said, “They need
a man to do chores and take care of the
garden, and I will see that he gets the
place. The pay will not be very much,
not more than ten or fifteen dollars a
month; but that will help you a little.”
“Oh, ma’am, it will be like a fortune
to us. Ten dollars will more than get
our food, and to have it coming steady—,
oh, you don’t know what a help it will
be! I wash for the rent, and sometimes
both of us together manage to get
enough besides, to keep the children
warm, and something for them to eat;
but often they’ve had to go hungry. I
only wish I could thank you for all your
goodness and—”
" Never mind,” Aunt Mary interrupted
kindly, putting the basket in her hand,
" we must all try to help each other,”
" I have hired a man foryou, Arthur,”
Aunt Mary remarked that evening.
" Hired a man for me 1” he repeated in
surprise.
" Yee,” she answered smiling, “lam
going to be with you for some time, and
I want a good deal of waiting on; get
ting the horse and buggy ready for my
rides, etc. I will see that he iB paid;
he is coming in the morning.”
“ I have often thought of having some
one to keep the place in order,” he re
plied, “ and I think I shall attend to
paying him myeelf. But come now,
Aunt Mary, there U something behind
this. What is it?”
And she told them the wash-woman’s
story; told it so pathetically that Helen’s
eyes ran over; and her husband whis
tied softly.
When she finished he exclaimed,
"Why, I might have given the man work
long ago if I had only known! That's
wbat you call individual effort, is it,
Aunt Mary? I think it a grand way to
do charitable work. Why, it is just
giving a hand to the one nearest you
who may be in trouble and want. That
poor soul has been coming here for
months, struggling silently with her
burden, and we have never given her a
kind word even. I like your way, Aunt
Mary, and 1 am going to begin practic
ing it at once. I remember that our
gray-headed old porter at the store has
looked downcast for a long time, and
I've joked him about being ‘blue.’ To
morrow morning I mean to tied out his
trouble and help him if I can.”
Aunt Mary patted his shoulder ap
provingly as she said, " That is it, Ar
thur, just give a band to lighten the
burden of the one nearest ycu. If all
would do that with kindness and sym
pathy, the bard times would bear lees
heavily everywhere.”
Aunt Mary’s way is a good way. Try
it.—Standard.
Two Acres Enough in Belgium.
What many an American farmer fails
to do on one hundred acres, the thrifty
Hollander in Belgium easily does on two
acres, namely, support a large family
i and lay by something for a rainy day.
He does it by makir g the most of every
inch, by heavy manuring, allowing no
waste places. His two acres are sur
roum ed by a ditch of running water.
The typical two-acre Belgium farm con
tains a patch of wheat or rye and an
other of barley; another fair portion
grows potatoes. A row of cabbage
grows all around on the sloping sides of
the ditches with a row of onions just
inside, leaving bare walking room be
tween them and the grain. The shade
treBB round the house are pear trees.
Every foot of land is made to produce.
He keeps pigs and chickens. We refer
to this as illustrating the possibilities of
land production. In Belgium 6,000,000
people, chietiy farmers, live on c piece
of land the Bize of the State of Mary
land. They furnish an object lesson on
successful intensive farming.—Caiman's
Rural World.
—
When .Men are Strongest.
At what hour of the day is a man at
hie strongest, and so fitted to do hard
work with the least wearirese? Prob
ably the answer occurring at once to
most persons will be, “When he gets
up in the morning.” This is by no
meanB the case; on the contrary, accord
ing to experiments of Dr. Buch with the
dynamometer, a man is precisely at his
weakest when he turns out of bed. Our
muscular force is greatly increased by
breakfast; but it attains to its highest
point after mid-day meal. It then sinks
for a few hours, rises again toward even
ing, but steadily declines from night till
morning. The two chief foes of muscu
lar force, according to Dr. Buch, are
overwork and idleness. Sweating at
work deteriorates the muscles. Many
of the great workers of tbe world have
been early risers. But early rising
according to Buch’s doctrine, ought
always to be supplemented by early
breakfasting.
The Uses of Fruit.
1. To furnish variety of diet.
2. To relieve thirst and introduce
water into the system.
3. To furnish nutriment.
4. To supply organic salts essential
to proper nutriment.
5. To stimulate the kidneys, increase
the flow of urine and lower its acidity.
6. To act as laxatives.
7. To stimulate and improve appe
tite and digestion.
8. To act as antiscrobutice.
Concerning the mode of preparation,
ripe fruits as a rule do not need to be
ccoked and are much more palatable
and equally nutritious in the uncooked
state. The time to eat fruits is either
at the beginning of the meal or between
meals, when they aid digestion and exert
the greater laxative effect. Taken at
the completion of a meal they dilute the
gastric juice and tend to embarrass di
gestion.— Prof. A. R Elliott, in Dietetic
and Hygienic Gazette.
How to he Rid of Ants,
Ants frequently become very trouble
some in country bouses, especially where
the soil is sandy. The small red ants
may be captured by taking some bits of
coarse sponge, sprinkling sugar in the
cavities and placing them near the ants’
run. They will visit them in large num
bers, and tbe sponges can be picked up
and quickly dropped into a dish of hot
water carried there for the purpose. If
this course is persisted in the ants will
all be destroyed.
A housekeeper who has been much
troubled with ants filled several vials
with sweet oil and sank them in the
ground to the rim, leaving the mouth
open. These were placed just outside
the pantry where the ants were noticed
to travel back and forth. They like tbe
oil and will sip it, but die of asphyxia
after a little time, as it destroys their
capacity for breathing.
The two methods might easily be car
ried on at the same time.
Fireflies.
“The lightning bugs or fireflies, as
many call them,” explained a bugologist
of the Agricultural Department to a
Star reporter, “disappeared as suddenly
es they made their appearance this sum
mer. They were a couple of weeks
later than usual in making their public
appearance, for but few were seen until
the middle of May. In comparison
with former years the r umber was de
cidedly small. Now, ordinarily, they
are in evidence until nearly the end of
August, but none have been eeen for
nearly two weeks. The more rain there
is during the summer tbe fewer the
lightning bugs. There is only this con
nection between lightning bugs and
rain. The frequent rains wash them off
the trees and drown them. It has al
ways been noticed that they are much
more numerous during dry summers
than wet summers. The present sum
mer bears off tbe palm as a wet summer
In this respect it has not been equaled
for thirth years; that is, in the East. In
tbe Middle West it is just tbe other
way, sxtremely dry. It may be that
tbe ligbtnirg bugs knew of it, and went
to places where there were no rains.”
Autograph Tablecloth.
A famous restaurant in Vienna pos
sesses a remarkable tablecloth, on which
are inscribed the signatures of the ma
jority of the reigning sovereigns of
Europe and of a great number of cele
brities in art, music and letters. The
names were written on the cloth in
pencil, the proprietress of the establish
ment afterward carefully embroidering
them.
Farm, Garden and Dairy. 1
INSTRUCTIVE READING FOR the AGRICULTURIST. 0
, Prepared Expressly for THE UNI VERSA LIST.
AHKICVIjTVKK.
Potatoes should be very thoroughly
dried before they are e'ored away, othfr
wise the dampness will induce rot. It
is best to dig them just after a heavy
rain, as they clean off most easily at
that time.
The boy cannot look upon work quite
from a man's point of view. If you
want the boys to stay by you, show
them that the farm is just as pleasant a
place as can be found.
Make the cellar frost proof by all
means, but have it so that light can
enter at all times, and arrange so that
you can air thoroughly every bright day
when the weather is warm enough to
permit.
The highest quality in any plant is to
be found near the northern limit of its
production, the slower development
further south giving greater chance for
injury from disease or from the attacks
of insects.
Planting seed in the South tends to
make later varieties, while reversing
this process makes varieties ripen
earlier. Planters in the North cannot
afford to use Southern grown seed.
Let no farmer buy staples which he
can raise himself, paying another the
profit he should have. He can live al
most wholly within himself, if he will
and live upon that which is fresh and
better.
In slipshod farming there is no charm
at all; none in weedy fields or untidy
fences, fence corners or barns, or with
the buildings in a general state of dis
order.
Dig a hole between the roots on ore
side of a stump and partly under it,
large enough to start a fire with kind
lings. Slip an iron cylinder over the
stump, to which affix a joint or two of
stove pipe, and you will find it a most
effective furnace.
sheep.
We are not a mutton eating Nation,
as are some otberF; but, while 8 few
years ago we could sell but a small frac
tion of the sheep put upon the market,
we now know that the public taste is
being wonderfully developed in this di
rection.
Try changing the Hock of sheep from
one pasture to another every week or 10
days, and see if it is not better for the
sheep and better for the pasture.
Between the Hock master and the
consumer there used to be the “buyer,”
the “feeder,” the “shipper,” and all that
ilk; but he is a behind-the-times fellow
who today does not rake in all these
profits which formerly went to other
men.
Growers who take inferior mutton to
market, and butchers who handle it,
both do much to hurt their business,
for they discourage the growing fond
ness for the meat of sheep. The future
of the mutton industry is in the hands
of the growers, and they can make it
what they will.
The man who is earliest in the market
with his early lambs can command al
most his owd price for them; he is jus
tified in almost any outlay in producing
them.
Butchers are on the lookout for good
mutton all the time, and the complairt
is that they cannot get enough of it;
that is, good mutton.
S WINE.
No matter if slops or milk are regu
larly given, they will not quench thirst
nor satisfy the hogs as fully as pure,
fresh water, and if they have not con
tinual access to it, it should be provided
regularly in their troughs, and just as
regularly as they have their feed.
There is no lack of cheap food now,
and hogs should be brought to grem
corn very gradually. Cramming them
with it will soon destroy digestion, and
they will be thrown off their feed; pos
sibly it will lead to a cholera scare.
Pigs will eat more of soaked food and
make greater gains from it than from
whole grain. This is true whether we
are feeding them shelled corn, cornmea),
shorts or a mixture of these foods.
The farmer needs the right kind of a
boar because every pig he raises by that
boar is worth more money to him at
market time than if he had placed a
scrub, grade or any makeshift of a hog
at the head of his herd.
Buy ycur boar while you can choose
what yon like, and then get him well
settled at home and in good breeding
condition by the time you want him.
The sow must be thrifty to produce
thrifty pigs. Feed her on succulent
food. Fresh, cooked or steamed clover,
turnips, potatoes, beets or other things
of like variety, with a due proportion of
grain, will keep her in just the right
condition.
There is a little fortune in a good sow,
and she ehculd be kept tor breeding
purposes. Such a one is a good breeder
of choice pigs, makes a good mother, iB
a good euckler, and ehe produces large
litters of pigs.
t'.4 TTi.K.
The old idea was to build the frame
and afterward put on the superetruc
ture of flesh. In this way the bill for
food of support ran along a long time,
and took away the profit which could
have been made from feeding the food
for gain.
If the farmer must have a general
purpose cow, she should have a large
frame, so that her male calves will be
valuable for beef; she should be well
pedigreed, so that the heifer calves will
have a promise to become as good milk
ers and butter makers aB herself.
The future supply of cattle from the
■‘round ups” in the Northwest and
Southwest will grow lees and loss; hence
forth our supply must come from the
farms, and not from the ranches.
Spring calves do not receive much
benefit from the grass the first season,
because the ruminating stomach is un
developed, and between the summer
heat and the pestiferous Hies they have
a sorry time of it; yet, under natural
conditions, most of them come in the
spring.
Heavy cattle seem to be the favorites,
and command a premium. The export
outlook is more favorable each year, and
buyers are hunting the cattle to ship.
All this indicates better prices.
Mineral fertility makes rich grass;
wherever brush heaps or stumps are
burned, leaving potash in the soil, the
grass will be closely cropped. Cows on
old pastures crave bones, and it is an
indication that phosphate is lacking in
the soil. Itis cheaper to make the grass
rich than to feed bone meal to the cows.
A dressing of potash and phosphate not
only increases the yield of grass, but
makes the value greater.
HOUSES.
You can select your customers for
your horses in advance, and name your
price. You can breed high class horses
for the best customers, or you can raise
common, medium, all purpose horses,
or mules, and cater to the cheaper
trade.
The farmers are really getting behind
on the score of humane treatment of
horBes. The city horsemen of all classes
now lead the way in abolishing the
cruel check rein and the useless blind
bridle. The handsome carriage teams,
heavy draft horses, express and cab an
imals, almost universally have the free
ub6 of their heads and eyes. The hu
mane societies have had much to do with
this.
The horse is not caring. By and by
there will be Dothiog but nice, easy jobs
for him. he can afford to laugh at the
bicycle, and the trolly car—great horse
laughs.
There is no other live stock which will
make eo much value in a given time as
the horse—that is, a good horse. Give
him a place henceforth in your farm
system; but know juBt what ycu are
doing.
All the other provinces of France envy
Le Perche. The Percheron has, as a
horse for all purposes, undoubtedly
placed himself at the top—the very top.
His qualities are good, every one. He
comes nearest the Arab in style and ap
titude.
Yes, electricity and the bicycle have
superseded many horses, but it is like
wise true that there are more horses in
use today than ever before. The growth
ot both business and pleasure has more
than kept pace with suspensions.
UAMUY.
Even though not making dairying a
specialty, if the wife can have the prop
er conveniences she will make a surplus
ot butter which will be a surprising help
to the income from the farm.
Neither the atmosphere nor electricity
have direct effect in the souring of
milk, but the bacteria to which we now
attribute this change grow and multi
ply best during the warm, sultry
period immediately preceding electrical
storms.
Most of our losses in the dairy are
from lack of care. A large per cent, of
the butter fat is lost if the cream is per
mitted to become too sour; it is not
destroyed, but simply fails to come out
of the buttermilk.
There is an astonishing rapidity in
the growth and increase ot bacteria,
those microscopic forms of plant life
which produce the ripening changes in
cream; each exudes minute drops of
acid, eo sour that none of the commer
cial acids can compare with it.
If the cream is rich, containing a
third of butter fat, it can be churned at
a temperature of 50 degrees, or but a
little beyond that. The temperature of
the churning room should be a little
colder than that of the cream, that the
butter may not warm up and become
greasy or waxy.
A cow to be really profitable must
give a good yield of milk for at least 10
months in the year, but it will be diffi
cult to get her to do this if you do not
milk her the first year juBt as long as
possible—even after there ceases to be
a profit from her product. Feed her
the best milk producing foods, and look
to the future for your profits.
HOUTIVMTUUIC.
Trees dug in tbe fall and “heeled in’’
are equal to those fresh dug in the
spring. The flow of Bap is retarded, the
wood is ripened, and is better able to
stand the frost. They can be planted
earlier, and will then have a better
chance to grow.
If one wishes to water fresh planted
shrubbery it is best to have a mulch
around it, to prevent tbe soil from pud
dling; and a little water thus applied
will do more good than double the quan
tity without a protection to the ground.
K^ep familiar with the wants of tbe
orchard, and go among your trees often.
Every month has its work, Clean up
the windfalls now and if the trees are
over burdened, gather and market some
of the fruit. Then gather tbe brush,
briars, large weeds and the robber
sprouts.
The maturing of so many seeds is
what robs a tree of its vitality, und is
the cause of alternate "off ytars.” A
full peach tree which is thoroughly
thinned will till us many baskets at
‘maturity as when left alone, and the
.product will be better and more valua
ble.