HomeMy WebLinkAboutThe Exeter Advocate, 1897-5-6, Page 2WH'EN THE SULTAN GOESTOISPAHAN.
When the Sultan Shah Zaman
Goes to the city Ispahan,
Even before he gets so far
As the place where the 'clustered palm
trees are,
At the last of the thirty palace gates,
The flower of the harem, Rose -in -Bloom.
Orders a feast in his favorite room—
Glittering squares of colored ice,
Sweetened with syrop, tinctured with
spice,.
Creams and cordials and sugared dates,
Syrian apples, Othmanee quinces,
Limes and citrons and apriems
:And wines that are known to eastern
princes.
And Nubian slaves and smoking pots
Of spiced meats and costliest fish
And all that the curious palate could
wish
Pass in and out of the cedarn doors.
Scattered over mosaic floors
Are anemones, myrtles and violets,
And a musical fountain throws its jets
Of a hundred colors into the air.
The dusk sultana loosens her hair
And stains with a henna plant the tips,
Of her pointed nails and bites her lips
Till they bloom again but, alas, that rose
Not for the sultan buds and blows,
Not for the Sultan Shah Zaman
Virhen he goes to the city Ispahan!
Then. at a wave of her sunny hand,
The dancing girls of Samarkand
Glide in like ships from fairyland,
Making a sudden mist hi air
Of fleecy veils and floating hair
And white arms lifted. Orient blood
Runs in their veins, shines m their eyes.
And there, inthis eastern paradise,
Filled with the breath of sandalwood
,And Khoten musk and aloes and myrrh,
Sits Rose -in -Bloom on a silk divan,
Sipping the wines of Astrakhan,
And her Arab lover sits with her.
That's when. the Sultan Shah Gamna
Goes to the city Ispahan.
Now when 1 see an extra light
Flaming, dickering on the night
From my neighbor's casement opposite
1 know as well as 1 know to pray,
I know as well as a tongue can say,
That the innocent Sultan Shah Zaman
]rias gone to the city lspahan.
Thomas Bailey Aldrich.
IN A PUNT.
One evening, when I bad returned all
alone and very weary, painfully pull-
ing my heavy boat, which I used every
night, I paused a few seconds to take
breath near the edge of some reeds. The
weather was glorious, the moon was
radiant, the river sparkled, the air was
cool and sweet. This tranquillity tempt-
ed me, and I thought it would be very
pleasant to smoke my pipe in this place.
The action followed the thought. I
seized my anchor and cast it into the
river. The punt, which floated with the
current, drifted as fax as the end of its
chain, and then stood still. I seated my-
self in the stern on my sheepskin as com-
fortably as possible.
I heard nothing, not a sound, only at
Intervals I imagined I heard a slight,
almost inaudible, plash of the water
against the shore, and I saw clusters of
tall reeds which assumed surprising
shapes and seemed at intervals to stir.
The river was perfectly quiet, but I felt
agitated by the extraordinary stillness
which surrounded me. All creatures—
the frogs and toads, those nocturnal
singers of the marshes—were silent. Sud-
denly at my right, close to me, a frog
croaked. I shuddered. It ceased, and I
heard nothing more and resolved to
smoke to divert my mind. Yet, although
I was a notorious and confirmed smoker,
I could not smoke. With a second puff,.
I changed my .mind and stopped.
I began to recite verses. The sound of
may voice was painful. Then I stretched
myself out in the bottom of the boat
and watched the sky. For some time
I remained at ease, but soon light move-
ments of the boat disturbed me. It
seemed as if it was making gigantic
lurches, touching alternately the two
banks of the river, then I thought that
some being or invisible force drew it
gently to the bottom of the water, then,
raising it, let it fall once more. I was
tossed about as though in •the midst of
a tempest. I heard sounds around me.
I rose -with a bound. The water was
gleaming. All was quiet.
I saw that my nerves were somewhat
ebaken, and I determined to be off. I
palled at the chain, the punt began to
move; then I felt a resistance. I pulled
harder, but the anchor did not come. It
had caught on something at the bottom
of the river, and I could not lift it. I
once more commenced to pull, but in
vain. Then with my oars I turned the
boat up stream in order to change the
position of the anchor. Tbis was useless;
it still held fast. I was seized with an-
ger and shook the chain furiously.
Nothing moved. I sat down disouraged
and began to reflect upon my position.
I could not think of breaking the
chain or of separating it from the boat,
for it was very heavy and riveted in the
bow to a piece of wood thicker than my
arm. But as the weather was still very
fair, I thought that I should not remain
long without, encountering some fisher-
man who would come to my relief. My
mishap bad calmed nie. I sat down,
and at last was able to smoke my pipe.
I had a bottle of rum. I drank two or
three glasses and was compelled to
laugh at my situation.
It was very warm, so that I could, if
necessary, without ' great discomfort,
pass the night in the beautiful starlight.
Suddenly a soft rap sounded against the
side of the boat. I started, and a cold
sweat froze me from head to foot. This
sound doubtless came from some piece
of wood borne by the current, but it
was enough, and I was again possessed
by a strange nervous agitation. I grasp-
ed the chain and strained with a desper-
ate effort. The anchor held firm. I sat
down exhausted.
Meanwhile the river had gradually
become covered by a very thick white
mist which hung very low over the wa-
ter, so that, standing, I could no longer.
see the river, or my feet, or the boat,
but onlythe tops of the reeds, and in
the distance the lowland, white in the
moonlight, and from it great black.
spots, formed by clumps of Lombardy
poplars, arose in the sky. I was wrap-
ped to my waist as if in a muslin sheet
of singular whiteness, and fantastic vi-
sions came to me.
I fancied that some one whom I could
not distinguish was trying to climb in-
to my boat, and that the river, hidden
inthis opaque mist, must be filled with
these strange beings who swam around
me. I felt a horrible disquietude; my
temples were tightly bound; the beat-
ing of my heart almost choked me, and,
losing control of myself, I thought of
saving myself by swimming, but Imme-
diately this idea made me shudder with
fear. 1 cou.id. see myself lost, wandering
at random in that thick fog, in the
midst of the grasses and reeds from
which I cold not free myself, quivering
with fear, unable to see the shore or to
find my boat, and I imagined I could
feel myself drawn by my feet ,to the
very bottom of this blank water.
Indeed, as I should have been com-
pelled to struggle against the current
for at least 500 yards before reaohing a
point free from grass and rushes where
might gain a foothold, there were
Rine chances out of ten that T should
not be able to find my way in this ob-
scurity, and that I should be drowned,
good swimmer as I was.
I tried to reason with myself. I deter-
mined not to be afraid, but there wag
something in me besides my will, and
this other thing was afraid. I asked
myself what there was to fear. My
brave I jeered at my poltroon I, and
never so well as on that day have I un-
derstood the conflict of the two beings
that exist in us—the' one willing, the
other resisting, and each in turn pre-
vailing.
This foolish and inexplicable fear
continually increased till it became ter-
ror. I remained, immovable, with wide
open eyes and expectant ear. Of what? I
I klfew not in the least, but of some-
thing terrible. I believe that if a fish
had thought of springing out of water,
as often happens, no more would have
been needed to make me fall stiff and
insensible.
Nevertheless, by a violent effort, I
succeeded in gradually recovering my
lost reason. I took again my bottle of
rum and drank deep draughts. Then
the idea occurred to me, and I began to
shout with all my strength, turning suc-
cessively to the four points of the hori-
zon. When my throat was absolutely
paralyzed, I beard a dog barking in the
distance.
I drank again and stretched myself at
full length on the bottom of the boat.
I remained thus for perhaps an hour,
perhaps two, without sleeping, with
eyes wide open, and with terrors around
me. I dared not rise, yet I wished in-
tensely to do so. I put it off from min-
ute to minute. I said to myself,"Come,
stand up," and I was afraid to make a
movement. At last I raised myself with
infinite precautions, as if my life de-
pended on the slightest sound I might
make, and looked over the side of the
boat.
I was dazzled by the most marvelous,
the most astonishing sight that could
possibly be seen. It was one of those
phantasmagoria of fairyland, one of
those visions related by voyagers who
return from afar, and which we bear
without believing.
The mist, which for two hours before
was floating on the river, had gradual-
ly receded and gathered on the river
banks. Leaving the stream entirely
clear, it had formed on each shore an
unbroken bank six or seven yards in
height, which gleamed beneath the
moon with the superb brilliancy, of
snow. Thus, not a thing was visible
save the river flashing with fiery lights.
Between those two white bills of mist,
and high overhead hung full and large
a majestic, luminous moon in the midst
of a black sky dotted with stars.
All the creatures of the water were
awake. The frogs were croaking furi-
ously, while at intervals, now at the
right, now at the left, I heard the short,
monotonous, melancholy note which the
ringing voices of the toads uttered to
the stars. Strangely I was no longer
afraid. I was surrounded by a scene so
extraordinary that the most striking
singularities had no power to astonish
me.
How long this lasted I know not, for
I had ended by falling asleep. When I
opened my eyes, the moon had set, the
sky was covered with clouds, the wa-
ter rippled mournfully, the wind was
blowing, it was cold, and the darkness
was profound.
I drank what remained of my ram,
then I listened, shivering with cold, to
the rustling of the reeds and the sinis-
ter sound of the river. I tried to see, but
I could not distinguish the boat nor
even my hands, which I held before my
eyes.
Gradually, however, the thick dark-
ness diminisbed, Suddenly I seemed to
feel a shadow gliding very near me. I ut-
tered a cry and a voice answered.' It was
a fisherman. I called to him. He drew
near, and I told him of my mischance.
He then pulled his boat alongside mine,
and we both strained at the chain. The
anchor did not move. Day dawned, som-
ber, gray, rainy, cold—one of those
days which bring one gloom and mis-
fortune.
I perceived another boat. We hailed
it. The man who rowed it united his
efforts with ours. Then, Little by little,
the anchor yielded. It came up but
slowly and burdened with a considera-
ble weight. At length we saw a dark
Wass, and we drew it into my boat.
It was the body of an old woman with
a stone fastened to the neck.—Guy de
Maupassant.
Homes Under the Ground.
In the salt district in Cheshire, Eng-
land, the brine has been pumped so con-
tinuously out of the earth that the land
has settled very considerably. The
houses naturally sink with the earth,
and in some of the streets in Northwioh
only the roofs are visible. The houses
are inhabited, although the rooms are
underground. In a great many cases ad-
ditional stories have been added, so that
by living in the upper rooms the resi-
dents may have some light and air. The
roadways sink, too, but are kept up to
the proper level by the government.—
New York Sun.
Be Wondered Why.
Miss Oldfriend—I declare, I begin to
feel that I am growing old. It's really
unpleasant.
Mr. B. Sharpe—Yes, dear. It must
be especially so for one who has been
young so long.
(And he wondered why she wasof-
fended. )—Boston Globe.
THE LIFE OF THE ROSE.
W'berehear? are voices kingswere glad to,
Where now the feast, the song, the •bay--
adere?
Phe ens es nothing, and the end is near.
And yholovely e—s, my dear!
See tender November rosgaraladen, rank and
dr.
rho endreais nothing, and the end is near.
See how the raindrop mingles with the
mere!
;dark how the age devours each passing
!
The eynedaris nothing', and the end is near.
Forms arise and grow, and wane and dis-
appear.
The life allotted then is now and here.
The end is nothing, and the end is near.
—From the Persian.
HER LAST DANCE.
The bolt bad falleu that morning, and
with numb, folded hands and dry, ter-
ror filled eyes she sat in the darkest cor-
ner of her gay little drawing room, be-
neath the ghastly chamber whence Were
soon to bo borne the earthly remains of
her husband.
What was she to do? Plow was she to
procure not the luxuries without which
she scarce imagined her child could ex-
ist, but the bare necessities of life? Ev-
try piece of , furniture in the"house was
mortgaged to its full value and her last
jewel had gone to pay the rent. Thank
Heaven, they could have this haven for
some time to come! She was in debt to
butcher and baker, and she had not had
a new pair of doves for months. Shil-
lings had become the basis of expendi-
ture as guineas had been hitherto.
In the morning sympathizing friends
came to support and assist her through
the trying ordeal. All passed like .a
dream. "Tout passe, tout passe," she
said over and over, "but my heart is
strong.
When, a month later, she sat with
Cousin Selina in the same room, in the
same chair, listening again to the gusty
rain as it beat against the windows, it
was to her as if no appreciable time had
intervened. Dreamily she took up the
thread of her thoughts where she had
dropped it that sad night, and the
strange conceit came back to her.
Women less brilliant, but stolid and
plodding, were ensconced in journals
where she had disdained even to allow
her verses to appear. With voices in no.
way comparable to her, she saw others
succeed, while she, who sang like ,a bird
—but like a bird, too, only when in-
spired—could make no impression. And
so, dowered as she was, she was poorer
and more helpless than the humblest
woman who could conscientiously knit
a pair of stockings or embroider a tea-
cloth.
The pretty face seemed pinched and
weary. Two deep lines began to inclose
the drooping mouth. ''I smile en paren-
these," she said to Cousin Selina as she
turned from the mirror, where she was
trying to change the expression of those
quivering lips, that even at the moment
curved upward, a Cupid's bow, at the
quaint. conceit. •
More surely than ever she knew she
could ask no favors, but must put her
own shoulder to the wheel. But what to
do when all else failed? To dance on the
stage! Why not? She could dance. All
her life she had loved to dance. In her
greatest joy she had ever found fullest
expression in dancing to her own reflec-
tions before the long mirror in her bou •
doir. A hundred times her darling had
been lolled to sleep, eased of her pain
by the dancing of her "pretty mumsie."
Once, with her husband, she had seen a
famous actress—a woman chaste as her-
self—dance so gracefully, yet with an
abandon so perfect, as to captivate an au-
dience accustomed to exhibitions from
which she bad turned in loathing—to
his annoyance, since his taste grew
yearly less refined. Even then, "the pity
of it," she had sighed. And how much
even then was implied that she should
say, turning to him:
"That I could do, I am certain."
"May you never need," be bad an-
swered fervently, for he loved her
and was proud of her, though his paths
in life were devious, though he would
not follow her. It all came back
to her vividly -the gay scene, the
eager faces, the murmur of delight,
the applause that rose again and again
and could not be staid. Her heart beat
fast. Yes, she would dance. It might
cost her the few friends she still pos-
sessed, but as long as she helped herself
she could maintain her pride.
Next day became a tiresome round of
interviews with impatient, incredulous
or impertinent managers, with a heart -
growing daily heavier and a brain sharp-
ened almost to viciousness. At last an
impresario, touched by her grace and
the expression of brave despair in her
hungry eyes, granted her a trial, fixing
an hour at the theater on the following
day in the early forenoon. Amid a con-
course of women, some sympathetic,
some brazenly inquisitive, all so differ-
ent from herself that she scarce felt they
were her sisters, she made her first essay.
How unreal it seemed --a dream from
which she would waken in a moment!
She bas kept her glance straight b3 -
fore her, trying to shut out the crudity
of her surroundings — the "sets" all
awry, the glimpses of busy carpenters
and scene shifters, the flashily dressed
men and women waiting for rehearsal
and familiarizing in a way that gave
her a mental nausea. A row of, raw girls
in soiled dancing shoes and fleshings,
their upper halves clothed in ordinary
bodices, went awkwardly through their
matutinal drill. The "odor of dust and
oil and paint began to overpower her,
and she was on the verge of losing het
self possession when the kind voice of
the manager, close behind her, said:
"Your turn, madame. Will you tell
me what music you desire?" The or-
chestra, composed of One violin on the
stage, began the swinging accompani-
ment of "La Paloma," and at the end,
and while the blood beat and surged in
deafening throbs in her heavy head,
again she heard the voice of the mana-
ger, seemingly a great distance off:
"Accept nay compliments, madame.
I shall be glad to offer yon a salary of
CO a week. I am sure yon will have a
success." "tfn success fon," he said,
turning to the orchestra, who graceful-
ly waved his fiddle, bowed law and re-
plied, "Sans doute." Poor woman,`she
looked into their eyes to see if they were
mocking her. Then, convinced of their
good faith, she mustered'all her strength,
and, with the strange surging still in
her ears, smiled, said "I thank you,"
turned quickly and left the theater.
How she got home was always a mys-
tery to her. Martha heard a faint pull
at the bell, hastened to the door and
found her mistress pale as death, but
with her eyes wide open and a set smile
on her lips. She put her to bed, held
her quivering body till by degrees the
tortured soul began to still itself and
the overwrought brain found relief in
such healing tears as had :not come be-
fore in all those strained days of trial.
And now there was practicing and prep-
aration of costumes, then the first ap-
pearance and the many succeeding, all
justifying the acumen of her friend the
impresario. Gradually all pressing
need, the indebtedness, the grinding
care, disappeared, and she could have
been comparatively happy.
All day, save for the morning hour of
rehearsal, she kept Maizie beside her.
It was Maizie who made a daily holo-
caust of unopened billets doux and
adorned her nursery with the flowers
that invariably accompanied them. It
was Maizie who first enjoyed, almost in-
spired, the dances she invented, and
Who first praised her "sweet mumsie'
in her artistic costumes. Every evening
she left the child with a new pang,
tbough she could not but • feel her safe
with good Martha, and flew ou the
wings of love to her bedside on her re-
turn. Resolutely she shut her eyes to
all that displeased her in her new sur-
roundings, and soon her dancing became
to her au infatuation. For the time she
was on the stage all else was forgotten.
Her grief fell from her like a dismal
garment, and she stood the personifica-
tion of laughing youth, grace and joy.
Always garbed in white and ,with a
gauzy, winglike scarf—La Paloma they
called her after her first dance—she
floated in an atmosphere chaste and po-
etic, too delicate to be misunderstood,
and, as before, even the women were
charmed. Yes, she might have become
content, but daily Maizie grew weaker
and more fragile, and her heart failed
within her. She would take the child in
her despairing arms and hold her so
close that the little one would cry out,
yet was happy withal in the embrace,
for she loved her "mumsie'' with a deep
devotion and seemed with a strange
prescience to understand much.
One night—it was about three months
after her debut—she left home a little
lighter of heart than usual. Maizie had
been feverish that day and had grown
quieter toward evening, and they had
had a royal game of romps and a "big,
big hug and kiss" when she left. To-
ward the close of the evening she began
to grow ill at ease, and throwing her
fur lined mantle about her, without
obanging her costume, she left the thea
iter hurriedly and, jumping into a han-
som, was driven home in all haste. The
front door was open. From the hall
came the voice of her physician:
"Go, quickly, or she will not know
her."
" Who will not know whom?" she said
to herself. "Who will not know whom?"
she reiterated to the physician as she
walked quickly into the house.
He tool her in his strong arms, oar-
ried her to the nursery and placed her
in a chair beside the child. The dear
little face, already fanned by the wings
of the angels, flushed softly.
"I was waiting, mumsie," she whis-
pered. "You will dance for` me now,
will you not?"
She fell on her knees beside the pouch
and took the little one in ber arms.
"Sweet, lovely mumsie," said the
child, kissing her bare arms, "you will
be a real dove in heaven."
"Maizie, Maizie, do not leave mel"
wailed the trembling woman.
"No, mumsie," answered the child.
"You shall come too."
The mother gazed at her, speechless
and wild with alarm.
"Mumsie,"said the little one, trying
to raise the heavy little head with the
short, goldeu curls in damp ringlets on
the pale forehead, "mumsie, dear, do
dance. Perhaps the angels don't dance,
and I love it so!"
With a great sob and a supreme effort
she rose from her knees, threw off the
heavy cloak which was still about her
and began to dance. Was ever such mar-
tyrdom, ever such bravery? Ah, mother
and saint, in other days canonization
was often more lightly won. On she
danced in the 'dimly lit death chamber,
those outside standing with bated
breath, not daring to enter, yet seeing
it all. Sweetly the child smiled, lifted
the little hand once as if to thank her,
then the fluttering eyelids closed, the
long lashes rested • on ' the pale cheeks,
and she was still. Closer and closer
danced the mother, till she leaned anx-
iously, breathlessly, over the child, fear-
ing to stop abruptly lest she should
waken her. Then with a cry that rang
through the house, and rings now in the
ears of the two who waited outside the
door, she fell on the couch beside her
angel and the brave heart broke. --
Black and White.
Queer Conduct of a Tree.
An unusual incident occurred in the
timber near Fossil, Or., the other day.
limber and French sawed through a tree
measuring 13 feet in circumference,
and, though they sawed until the teeth
of the saw came through on the opposite
side, though the tree top was free , from
all support, though they pried and
Shopped and wondered and talked, still
that tree stood there, and still the saw
remained pinched in so tightly that it
could not be, moved. At last they were
obliged to go home,' leaving the tree
standing on its stump. Next day the
tree was down. It had apparently
sprung or slid from the stump, striking
perpendicularly in the sandy soil at first,
making a hole five feet deep and as far
tearoom—Spokane Spokesman -Review.
JERSEY WORTH HAVING.
Yield of Six Per Cent Baiter ['at and a
Big. Calf.
Here is a famous old Jersey cow, im-
ported originally from the island which
is the native home of Jerseys. She has
never been forced for a record, but has
been one of the best cows straight
through her career ever owned in pri-
vate life. When she was 18 years old,
her milk yielded 6 per cent butter fat to
the test.
A writer in The Rural New Yorker,
from which paper the illustration is re-
produced, says of the old herd mother:
This photograph was taken when her
calf was about 3 weeks old, and the cow
was not looking as well as usual, having
fallen away somewhat in flesh after giv-
EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD.
ing birth to her calf, which was a very
large, vigorous young fellow. At this
time the mother was giving on an aver-
age about 25 pounds of milk daily, test-
ing 6 per cent butter fat. Although very
nearly 18 years old at that time, she is
a valuable dairy cow even yet. The next
time a man tells you that he is afraid to
feed his cows heavily because he chinks
that they will last only a short time
under this treatment just call his atten-
tion to old Cypres, who has stood heavy
feeding for nearly 19 years, and today
her udder and teats are in as perfect
condition as when she was a heifer. As
long as you are able to milk it out don't
be afraid to put the feed into a' dairy
cow.
'Whey Calves and Other Calves.
For a number of years vee raised 10
to 25 calves every year. We sold our
milk to the cheese factory and had our
whey back; This problem of raising
good calves on whey was a serious one.
We always started our calves on new
milk till they were 3 or 4 weeks old,
then gradually diminished the milk and
added a little whey, and at the end of a
week the whey would be substituted for
the milk and no bad results from the
change, as is often the case when the
change is made abruptly. But to make
up for the loss of the milk we boiled a
kettleful of old process oilmeal, adding
a little of this to each feed.
They would thrive nicely on this till
hot weather came on, when the whey
would get too sour for calves.
This dilemma confronted us several
times, At last we decided the whey
must go, and we adopted a new system,
which proved a succesla. We made hay
tea by taking an old washboilee and
crowding it full of sweet clover hay,
then pouring boiling water over it and
covering up to steep. When the new
milk was taken away from them, at the
age of 3 or 4 weeks, a little of this tea
and also a little of the cooked oilmeal
was given each calf. By thinning with
water the desired amount of drink was
obtained. This was increased as they
got older, and also a little bran added.
At the start the quantity of oilmeal
to be used is at the rate of two table-
spoonfuls to each calf. At the age of
3 months the hay tea may be omitted,
as the calves will then be old enough
to eat plenty of grass, but they should
be on good pasture.
The cooked oilmeal and bran should
be given them all summer by thinning
it as a drink with water. It should be
measured, not guessed at, and each one
fed in a pail separately. We wisinto
emphasize the word "cooked," for if fed
in its raw state it is liable to scour the
calves, while if cooked it will not;
hence very important. This bay after
being steeped is not altogether wasted,
for horses and cattle will eat it more
greedily than in its dry state, though it
is true much of its strength is exhaust-
ed. --Exchange. -
•
Question and Answer.
If I skim with separator a pound of
cream from each 6 pounds of milk that
tested 4 per cent butter fat, what per
cent of fat should the cream show in
Babcock test? Why should it not show
six times 4 per cent, or 24 per cent?
Answer. -It should, barring the inev-
itable loss, and this is frequently larger
than is supposed. A separator needs con-
stant watching, just like any other high
speeded machine. The loss in the skim -
milk ought not to exceed one-tenth of 1
per cent, but is quite frequently more
than twice that. In the case cited, if the
skimmiik contained two-tenths of 1 per
cent fat, the cream would not test quite
23 per cent.—Hoard's Dairyman.
Salt Butter Uniformly.
Some butter receivers are complain-
ing that the consignments of butter,
even. from first glass creameries, vary
widely inthe amount of salt used, some
being nearly fresh and some so salty as
to be almost unsalable, all in the same
shipment too. This is an old complaint
against dairy butter, but it is surpris-
ing to find that any creamery should
send out such goods. It is supposed that
everything is done by weight and meas-
ure, and that such variations are im-
possible. It is evident that some butter
maker needs stirring up. Such haphazard
practices will never do. If they be per-
sisted in, creamery butter will lose its
prestige.
Wash your milk strainer after the
milk of four or five cows has been passed
through it before you strain any more.
A strainer quickly becomes foul.
CHEESEMAK1NG.
Qsef'hl Information. Concerning Curds,
Cleanliness and Curing Rooms.
.M a meeting of the Western Ontario
Dairymen's association many facts were
brought out that show how our Canadian
rivals make their oheese. From speeches
and papers reported in Hoard's Dairy-
man we clip various notes.
Here is a description of the Black
Hawk model oheese factory:
It is built and equipped for both but-
ter and cheese making. The creamery is
a room 35 by 40, at the south end of the
building, and immediately adjoining
the creamery on the north comes the vat -
room, which is 35 by 52; then conies the
pressroom to the north of the vat -
room, this being 85 by 30. The milk is
taken in at the two windows on the
west side of the building and opposite
the vatroom. The'boiler room is on the
east side of the building, and so situated
that one door opens out of the vatroom
and another out of the creamery into it.
The ceilings are 12 feet high, the walls
are of hollow brick and finished outside
with red mortar. There is a wainscot-
ing of cement 4 feet high, and above
the cement white plaster. High ceilings,
large windows and white walls make
an airy and well lighted building. Both
the cold and hot water tanks are ele-
vated above the ceiling of the boiler
room, the cold water tank being high
enough to empty into the other, and
pipes connect with both of them from
all parts -of the building. The whey
runs from the vats to a large tank in
the ground, from which it is forced '100
yards through pump logs to the hog.
pens by an ejector. The washings and
waste water go to a small tank and are
forced by the same ejector past the hog.
pens to a large open trench with gravel
bottom, through which it filters to a
neighboring stream. The factory is thus
rendered, free of offensive smells.- The
curing room contains ice racks suspended
4 feet from the ceiling for use in hot
weather. A pipe runs from the cold wa-
ter tank to the receiving station, and
water is turned into every can after it
has been emptied. This is greatly ap-
preciated by the patrons.
Mr. Barr said of cheesemaking (1)
that curds which were 8 to 8% hours
from setting to dipping made better
cheese than those that occupied a shorter
space; (2) that curds dipped with less
than one-quarter inch of acid made
nicer, more silky cheese than those dip-
ped, with more than one-quarter inch_
Here are some of his "don'ts."
To factory men:
Don't cut your cheesemakers' wages
any lower.
Don't buy a gang press with a tin
trough under the hoops. Have it wooden.
Don't buy a cheese truck with four
wheels. Get ono with three.
Don't expect a man to make a good
fall cheese in a skating rink without a
stove.
To cheesemakers:
Don't tender for a factor so low that
you cannot live just for the fun of mak-
ing cheese.
Don't take in bad milk.
Don't overripen your milk to hasten
the work. You will retard it and make
poor cheese.
Don't give your curd more than one;
quarter inch acid.
Don't wash your curd sinks once a
week. Wash them every day.
s Don't wear the same pair of pants
from April to November without wash-
ing them. Seep yourself and factory.
neat and clean.
Dairy and Creamery.
No butter scored perfect at the Na-
tional Creamery Butter Makers' annual
meeting at Owatonna, Minn. The high-
est score for separator butter was made
by H. M. Miller of Randolph, Ie., who
got the gold medal. His butter scored
98.5. It is to be noted that the prize
butter from gathered cream did not
score so high as the separator butter.
The gathered cream butter scored only
96.16 points, and even then there were
those who declared that the man who
got the medal for it, Mr. Herman Beck
of Minnesota, had a separator concealed
somewhere about his creamery.
Now, in the beginning of spring,
watch every appearance of leek, rag-
weed, wild garlic, wild parsnips, cam-
omile or any other malodorous weed
and root it out of your pastures. It will
save your reputation as a milk producer.
The man whose herd of dairy cows
averages, each for a year, 305 pounds
10 ounces of factory made butter, like-
wise yielding milk and butter enough
for all his family, feeding nine calves
and leaving some milk to sell besides,
has no reason to complain. That is
what one up to date dairyman's cows
are doing.
If a cow is dried off too quickly when
near calving time, part of her udder
often inflames, thickens and afterward
will not produce its due quantity of
milk. This is what is known as defec-
tive quarter. Frequent bathing with
hot water attended by gentle rubbing
and kneading of the defective part, will
sometimes restore it to usefulness.
The milk rate war on routes leading
into New York city has become subject
for action by the interstate commerce
commission. Certain railway lines have
been in the habit of charging exactly
the same freight on a can of milk ship-
ped 90 miles as on one shipped less than
40 miles. The dairymen near New York
complained that this was an injury to
them. There was no way of reaching
any of the roads except those passing
through two or more states, as New
Jersey and New York or Pennsylvania.
These could be dealt with'under inter-
seate commerce law, and they were thus
brought to book. The commission de-
cided that for distances less than 40
miles the proper freight charge was 23
gents per can of 40 quarts. For the sec-
ond group of distances, over 40 and un-
der 60 miles, a rate of 26 cents per Can
was fixed. For distances between' 60 and
90 miles, 29 cents; over 90 miles, 82
cents. For cream 18 cents more per can
is charged than for milk over all die
Canoes,