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Home My WebLink AboutExeter Advocate, 1899-8-3, Page 6BE'1'\\TEE TWO LOVES By BERTXLt M. CLAY, Tt had come to that at hast: the hus- band the had loved so dearly, whom she had worshiped with all the love of her girlish heart, was her enemy. They ehtuld never see that she had bean •wheping. She would appear before there gland and stately as the proud lady who lead wen her husband's heart; she 3easd her own d*gnhty to mointai.n--antic was a true wife, emit he Was mother of the heir of Ecastwoli It was for these i ho had injured her, to give way to fe r and to yield—not heaeif, She tint d aside for a few minutes, that tie" wind might efface all treses of her tears. "I shall hate m..seir if I arse," site said. "I want justice, not pity." Cu she stood for some few minutes. "I wish,"elle thought, "that I could put all my tears safely away, to be gnate sure that nese will disgrace zee." Theo when her eold, proud mita had re`trned shew lT:e] toward the house. 'When elle had rang the bell, she know that her admittance was quite certain. he: heart heat painfully fast; her face lest sae of its coke, but she would not. ;gird in. "I have to face rely enemies," elle seii, 44I hive come here for jnstk'e, not tar pitF," A tali fectn n opened the &ior, and • bowel respe".ttelly when he saw the betuti:ial, fair haired woman in the Mach dregs. ° "I want to see Lady Trevlyn," said Daisy, iri a farm voice. "I know that &elle is at hnme." "Her ladyship is at dome, but she da =gazed,'" was the re l&. "Yea." said I3aisy: "Sir f +intoe Adair la here ---I have to meet 'him here." e ""I will tell my lady," saki the man. "I3ut Daisy, admitted once into the hall, placed a couple of sovereigns lotto his hand , "I do not want you to announce me," I: robe said: "1 want you simply to show I zee the door of the scout where Lady ';ley is. T know Sir Clinton well—you need have no fear." "It is as very unusual thing to do.'* said the man. "My lady may be dis- h pleasr4." ""No," replied Daisy, still carelessly, '"riot wit+,.h you, I can promise you --not with yon. Will you do it for me?" "Tr you will take the blame," said the *errant. "There will be no blame," she replied. "I will undertake to answer for it that neither Sir Clinton nor Lady Trevlyn IR -'ll ever ask who opened the door for me." ITe hesitated for one minute, and he /oohed serntihizinrly at the beautiful, fair-haired lady whose black velvet dress was so rich and tasteful. She looked like a perfect lady; there was nothing ill -heed, nothing outre about her; then she had lovely bine eyes, and they were ]oo,cing very imploringly at biros Ile was hut a mortal man. , "Pray ferrive me, madam." he maid. ' "Lady Trevlyn is very particular. I had orders to say that her ladyship was not et home." "I know," interrupted Daisy, "but T am quite sure that she tennis] he at home stn me if she knew that I was here." d It angered her to hear that her beau- tiful rival appropriated her husband so entirely: evidently she would allow of no interruption when Sir Clinton was .'with her. That only made her more de termined. She looked at the footman with an irresistable smile. I "I am a relative of Sir Clinton Adair's, and I have cone some distance to see him. T will tithe care that you are held blameless. I pray you to show me the room." The man bowed. "Her ladyship is In the drawing roam," he said: "that is the door at the end of the hall; shall I open it for you?" "No," said Daisy; "I prefer to open It myself; you need not fear the least . in the world." She smiled so carelessly that the man was reassured. Tt was a most unusual thing to ask—an unusual thing to do. There could be no herrn in it; she was it relative of Sir Clintan—perhaps she wanted to give him a surprise. There was one thing he could do, and, not being over -burdened with consci- ence, be decided upon doing it; he could go out of the way, and, if any inquiries were made as to who opened the door, no one saw him do it, and he could be anent. "She is a lovely woman," he said to himself; "but I do not remember to have seen her face among any of our people." In the meantime Daisy had opened the door. CHAPTER XLIX. SIR CLINTON'S CONFESSION. Daisy had opened the door gently. With one keen, comprehensive glance she took in the whole of the scene be- fore her. It was a small, pretty room, :this morning -room of Lady May's with long, low windows that opened on to a auan•ow lawn, where flowers seemed to ;bloom by magic all the year round. At ' the window she saw two figures—that Of her husband and Lady May her husband standing with a troubled look ' an bis face, yet with something almost approaching adoration in the eyes that i rested on the lovely upturned face. One i jeweled hand rested on his shoulder. She ]had evidently been talking to him earnestly. At the sound o2 the open • door they both turned round. Lady May looked in wonder at the beautiful, fair-haired woman standing there with an angry light in her eyes. Sir Clinton uttered one low cry. They heard him say, "My God!" then take ere step forward. "Daisy!" he cried, "what, is Hea- ven's name, brings you here?" Lady May looked on in wonder that was almost alantin. Who was this? She advanced to speak to her, and Daisy koked at the tall, beautiful, stately girl, whose rich dress swept the floor, and whose golden hair shone like an aureole. "Do you want me?" she asked. "I ear Lady Trevlyn." "Yes," said Daisy; "I wished to speak to yon." "Daisy," eried Sir Clinton, "what does 11 is mean? Why :have you followed me here?" "To seek justice," she replied—"jus- tice, not pity, not indulgence—I want justice!" Lady May looked from one to the other in wonder? Who was this who dared to speak so to Sir Clinton—who dared to address him in these terms? Thee she looked at her lover. He had grown ghastly pale --so pale that she was alarmed for him. Who was she? What did it mean? She saw that he tried to speak, but all sound died on his lips—nothing escaped them. Them Lady May spoke again, and her clear voice fell so distinctly on their ears that botb 'coked toward her. "You wanted me," she said. "I am at your service -1 de not remember you." "You hare never seen me," said Daisy. "I am a stranger to you—you krow my husband well. I am Lady Adair." No word from the wretched plan. Lady Mey looked up with a sudden gleam of auger in her face. "Lady :Adair!" she repeated, "Pardon me. are you sure there is no mistake?" "I am quite sere'replied Daisy; "and and my husband, Sir Clinton, does not deny it. Ask him, if you do not believe me." "I do not believe you," said Lady May. "I would not believe you on your. oath." ":tpieal to Sir Clinton," said Daisy, `.They befit turned to him at the same moment. "Caro," said Daisy, "speak—em I your wife or not?" "Clinton," said Lady May, "tell ire if this be true?" Ile flung up his arias with a bitter ery, Hien, laying them an the table, hid his face in them, and silence fell over an three, Those two fair women wntched eaeh other—the beautiful, fair-haired Daisy w=ith an angry dash in her face, Lady May calm as a highbred, imperial queen. They seemed, as It were, each to criticise the other—to take in the details of each other's beauty-. Then Lady May, with a cold, polished smile, said: "You see, be doe. not own Daisy replied: "He does not deny it" "I will believe," said Lady May. 'Vett you have gone read. I will believe that you are wicked, false, designing—that the whole world is mad—but I will never believe one word a„aiest the honor and loyalty of Sir Clinton Adair." "A.nd I," said Daisy, "believe in I-Iea- ven, but I have little faith in man now -- in Sir Clinton. Adair. I atm his wife; he does mot deny it." Then the unhappy man- et000d up; he stretched out imploring hands to Lady May. "I dare not ask you to forgive nue," he said; "my sin is beyond all pardon; 1 have no excuse to offer." She looked with a her clear eyes into the very depths of his. "I will take no other word than yours, Clinton," she said. "Ts what this lady urges true?" "Yes," he replied; and again a ter - rade silenee carne over them. "True!" said Ifady May, at last— "truei You have been here, thought by all to be my lover, yet you were married all the time. Oh, Clinton, it cannot be true! I would sooner believe Heaven false, myself mad, than you disloyal. It cannot be true!' "It is true, may darling," said Sir Clinton. Daisy Iooked up with an angry face. "My husband leas no right to call you darling, Lady Trevlyn," she said. "He belongs to me, not to you." "You are right," said the beautiful girl, calmly. "True, Clinton—did you say that it was really true?" "Heaven help us, May, it is true! I am a coward—a traitor. I hate myself, I—yes, it is true." Then, without a word, Lady May turned from them. She walked back to the window, where so lately she had stood in all trust and loving faith,. Per- haps no woman ever passed through such anguish as overpowered her then. Sir Clinton had bowed his white face again, and hidden it with his hands, Daisy stood erect and defiant, but the pride and anger were dying out of her face, as she saw the misery of Lady May. The beautiful heiress, the flattered, courted woman, she who had refused some of the noblest men in England— the lovely Lady May—stood silent, en- during pain and anguish more bitter than falls to the lot of woman—mare bitter than death. A commonplace woman would have given him up to his fate—would have made common cause against him— would have heaped reproaches and in- sults on him—would have taunted him. She did none of these things. His per- fidy shocked her; the knowledge of his deceit grieved her; but far above all selfish pain, far above all thought of vengeance, soared the high and lofty love of her life. She had plenty of cause to turn round and heap better words upon him, plenty of rig it to re- taliate on him, but he was the lover of her girlhood, crushed with the sense of his misery, beaten down, humiliated, and disgrace. She was sorry for her- self, more sorry by far for him. She could understand ell now—his care -worn face, his haggard, sorrowful expression, his constant' depression—the reason why he head hovered round her, yet had never spoken to her of love; and then she re- membered that although he had return- ed to England, it was not he who had sought her, but she who had gone to him —who had knelt at his feet, clasping her whine arms round him, calling him by every loving name she could remember; it was she who had wooed him. It might be that evhen he returned to Eng- land he had no thought of seeing her— he had, perhaps, intended to avoid, her. She remembered how often he had tried to speak to her of that past, and she had steadily refused to listen to him. Ali these were miserable excuses for such a sin—miserable, spurious excuses, but they were true. Her heart went out to hind im! great, boundless pity; her love. seemed to leave the region of self and go into something higher and better; a great sense of kindness 'came over her. After all, she thought, it was her own fault. He had aiways loved her bettee ten Life itself; her coquetry hard driven him foam her, and she had wooed l;im back. The past returned to her in vivid colors, and she was just enoceti to own that the greater paint of the wrong lay with herself. She rose into heroism then—that flattered, courted, lovely lady—she forgot herself to think of him—she lost sight of her own an, guiali in his. She left her standing- place by the window mad went up to him. She held out her hands to hire. "Clinton," she said, calmly, "this le my fault, not yours." He looked up at her with wild, burn- ing eyes. "Oh, my darling!" he cried. "Hush!" she said, gently; "roti must not use suet; words to me—they belong to your wife, Clinton, it is my fault, Now, before the evil grows greater, let us remedy it." She laid her hand for one half -minute en the hande ine head, bent in such humble humiliation before •her, and all. the love of her heart and soul seemed to go out to him in that one touch, 'Clinton, look up; let us remedy the evil. Remember, I sought you—you did not seek me. I will speak to Lady Adair," He looked at the noble, beautiful face i with uuutterab.1 e anguish; he tried to speak to her; but he eot:d fruie na words. Then Lady May t to Daisy. She held out her hands o., her in kindly greeting. "Let us he':p him* Lady Adair," she a." said; be is in great distress," Daisy's pride and anger had melted away; they had never been vary strong; they gave place now to inanite pity told infinite love, "I have no wish to be hard—tn be unkind,," she sa; "but I must have justice—justice f . myself and my little child: " Lady May recanted for half a min- ute; a spawn of pain passed ever her face. "A child!" she said. "Have you s lit tle child, Lady Adair?" "Yes," repliett Daisy, "I hare a love- ly little boy; taut Sir Clinton does not love him; he does not love m+—he loves nothing in the wide world but you. and It is not just, it is not fair." "You are quite right." said Lady May; "it is not just, not fair. Yea shall have full justice, Lady Adair." She bravely trampled her own pains, her wounded love, her dismay and boar, hor, under !her feet, resolving to think only at him, and to do bine good. She mast, she knew, cot ciliate this beauti- ful, fair'.haired wone&n before her. "We must help him," she said, aloud; "he Is very unhappy, and he bas suffer ed much." "He is very nnhappy because he its married me," said Daisy, simply. "I cannot help it; I cannot imagine why he did it. It seems to nee that he has al- ways loved you." "IIe has loved me very much," said Lady May, with equal (rankers. "What was the pretty name I Beard your hus- band—" her voice faltered over the words—"I beard your husband," she ie- peated firmly. "call you by? Was it Daisy?" "Yes," replied Lady Adair, "my name in Daisy." "Then, Daisy," said Lady May, "we must be friends, not foes. Will you not come with me where I can tulk to you? I have much to say to you. Come away from Sir Clinton, where we can talk abent him at our ease—that we cannot do in his presence." "I will go anywhere with yon," slid Daisy. ler heart began to warm to this beautiful, high -bred woman, whose voice was like sweetest music. She went up to her husband and laid her hand on his arm. "Casio," she said, "yon are not angry with me?" "No," he replied, nn a low voice; "per haps it is better so. I am not angry, Daisy. Heaven knows there is no room in my heart for anything but shame." 'Without another word, the two ladies quitted the room together, leaving him to his thoughts. tittietti CHAPTER L. "71 72-3:3 THE Two LOVES. They walked in silence across the hall; then Lady May turned, with a smile, to Daisy. "We will go to the drawing -room," she said; "there is no one at home to - oily, but myself. We can talk uninter• ruptedly there." Then. Daisy saw that she must have suffered terribly, for the color had died from her beautiful face, leaving it pale as death. They entered the beautiful drawing - room. The familiar aspect of the room. where she had spent so many bappy hours with the man whom she believed to be her lover, for otw minute seemed to overcome Lady May; she battled hard with the faintness that oppressed her. There would be plenty of time, the thought, to bear her pain when all hope of helping him was over. She must waist until then. She put It from her resolutely; she would not look it in the face. Time enough for it dur- ing the long years that stretched out hopelessly before her. She closed the door carefully; then turned, with a faint smile on her color- less face, to Daisy. "We both love Sir Clinton," she mat "we love him too much to do anything that would injure him; we both desire his benefit—nothing else; se, Daisy, shall you ered I be friends?" She came near Lady Adair as she spoke, with a charming, careless smile, but Daisy shrank back. "It is very hard," she geld, frankly, "to be friends with one whom your husband loves better thea! yourself." "Hear me, Daisy," pleaded Lady May. They were standing together thein, side by side, these' two women who both loved the same man—Lady May, imperially lovely in her calm, high -bred style; Lady Adair beautiful, restless and agitated. "Hear •ane, Daisy' you must not—you shall not judge until you hear ail." Daisy looked up at her; it seemed se natural for her to command. The loved ly face' eseemed made to be reverenced. "I do not wonder," valid Daisy, slowly, "that dee loves you better than me; you are s. tbousamd times more beautilui." "I do net think so, nor do I think that he loves me so much the best. Daisy, shall we be friends?" "I have never thought of being fT3endg with you," the replied. "How can I? You have won my husband's heart from au; I do not see how I can be your friend; he thinks of nothing but Lady May." "Yon must be just to me, Daisy; re- member these I did not know he was your husbamd. I have no desire to ex - ewe myself; but remember that I went totell you all about my—may friendship for your husband; but I cannot do so unless you promise that we. &hall be fidends." , [To RE CONTLNVBD.] QUEEN ELEANOR IN FiCTION.. Marion Cratvford's Historical Romano* of the ;second Crusade, Queen Elean>r, who figures conspicu- ously in Mr. .Marion Crawford's Century serial, "Via Crucis," is a veritable West- ern Cleopatra. Six months after Louis VII, of France dlvereed bee, sbe gave her hand and imtnenes fortune and estates torH'ez* v IT., who succeeded to the Eng- lish throne two Fears later: .At the finis of her second marriage she was 30 and Henry only 1:l, One of the best scenes in the January installment of Thr. Craw - ford's romance shows Henry, a lad of 13. Plaine at tenths with Gilbert Wards, the hero of the story, The future king sees a rival in the young English knight and —"hatless, ruddy and hot"—stops his play ':o have it out with hien. The fol- lowing dialogue ensues: "Will you answer ,i fair question fair- ly, Master "filbert?" he asked, looking his friend in the eyei. Gilbers had fallen into the habit of treating bit like a man, as mast people excepting the Queen. and gravely nodded an answer. "De yon not think that the Queen of 'ranee is the most beautifulwoman in the world?" "Yea," answered Gilbert, without a smile, and without the slightest hesita- tion. The boy's eyes, which were so near together, gleamed and fixed themselves in rieiug anger, while a dark -red flush mounted from his bare throat to his cheeks, and from bis cheeks to his fore- head. "Then you lovas her?" he asked fierce- ly, and the words were thiol: on bis lips,. Gilbert was not easily surprised, but the conclusion was so sudden and unex- pected that be :stared for a moment in blank amazement before he smiled. "I?" he exclaimed. "I love the Queen? I should as soon think of coveting the King's crown:" Henry looked into Gilbert's Paco a moment longer, and the blood slowly subsided from his own. "I can see that you are in earnest," he said. picking up the ball that lay at his feet. "though I cannot see why a man should not covet ra king's crown as well as n king's wife"." Ile struck the ball.. • "You are young," said Gilbert, "to ride atilt through all the ten command- ments at once,' "Young!" exclaimed the boy, keeping the ball up. "So was David when he killed the giant. tie was Hercules when be strangled the serpents, as you told me the other day. 'young!" ho pried a sec- ond time, with forcibly concentrated contempt. "Yon should know, Master Gilbert, that a Plantagenet of 13 years is the match of any othor man of 20. As I can beat you at tennis, though you are Mx years older than I, so I can beat you .h other natters, and with the Queen berse]f, even though rho is half in love with you already, as all the court is sal- ine; and she shall belong to ma some day, though I hav,i to slay" that dish - faced prayermaster hi a Icing to get her." THE PULPIT AND PEW. San lluelarun D*sousses Preaching nod Listening to a Sermon. "Unto the success of a sermon two people contribate, and without their joint efforts the sermon must be a fail- ure," ail-ure," writes Tan Maclaren, in The Ladies' Home Journal, of "'The Art of Listening to a Sermon," the first of a series of arti- cles by him. "One is the preacber and the other is the hearer, and if some art goes to the composition of the sermon, almost as much goes to its reception. In the art of the hearer the first canon is practice, for it is a fact that the regular attendant not only hears more but also hears better than the person who drops into church once in two months. No doubt if the preacher has lungs of brass, and the hearer is not stone deaf, a casual can catch every word on the rare occasion when he attends, although for the past six weeks he has worshipped at home or made the round of the neighboring churches. The voice of a competent speaker is not so much sound merely, but is so mush music, with subtle intonations and delicate modulations; his pronuncia- tion of a word is a commentary upon it; his look as he speaks is a translation of it; his severity is softened by the pathos of his tone; his praise is doubled by its ring of satisfaction. A stranger's ear is not trained to such niceties; it is the habituated ear which reaps the full sense. Besides. every speaker worth hearing creates his own atmosphere, and one can- not hear with comfort until he is accli- matized." Two of iiiswarok's Foes. ' Two of Bismarck's most stubborn foes still linger on tbe stage. One of these, Count Bernhard Reohberg, was the Em- peror of .Austria's chief adviser from 1859 to 1864, and in that capacity had a hard contest with the "honest broker" over the Danish war and the division of the spoils. He has just kept his 92nd birthday at Mauer, near Vienna. Then there is Count Benedetti, the great ohan oellor's adversary in a yet more eventful struggle. He is 82, and he retains his mental and physical powers almost un- impaired. Year after year a fresh volume of diplomatic studies comes from his un- tiring pen. and he as at this moment pre- paring, in view of Bismarok's recent revelations, a further account of his mis- sion to Berlin and Ems in 1870. Stenting lt000ss in .Mexico. Strangers sometimes mildly, wonder why newspapers or sheets of blank paper are tied on the windows or balconies of pertain houses. A sheet of paper thus arranged is a sign, meaning that there are rooms to rent in the house an which it is displayed, and ie just as significant. in its import as, three golden balls ova eadelet let het-i-iv2-1-i+-i-2-ee 1 2. I _ CARE OF CALVES. Valuable Suggestions Brom the Kansas Experiment Station. X By Professor D. H. Otis. ..a. . , IIII2. i-I—I-i-hI-F—i-3-r�,-� Sterlized skimmilk is good for scours. The calves at the Agricultural college that receive sterilized milk are less subject to scours and recover more readily when attacked. The heating of the milk seems to produce chemical changes that help to prevent scours and at the same time enable the feeder to keep the milk in good condition. Milk delivered at the creamery con- tains large numbers of lactic acid germs. Uniess these are destroyed by steriliz- ing. the skimmilk will sour in a few hours.- When sterilized and cooled to the temperature of well water, skim - intik may be kept sweet from 36 to 48 b'.ntra. Feeding sweet milk at ono meal anti our at another is very y apt to cause seours and stunt the growth of the calf T.he stomach of a calf is delicate and sensitive. and any change of feed should ills made gradually Do not chemic from whole milk to skiann*ilk faster than a pound a day, allowing from tan lays to two week for the chine, Be- fore turning on pasture in the spring it is better to feed a Iiia* green feed and radnally increase the ausount until dm limit of the calf is reached; other- wise the calf may Keifer severely trona teuurs by the sudden cbaui a to pasture. Severs] canalilaints halve reached us •ihont skiuiniillt intended for calves souring, even when placed in tubs of c"uld writer as soon as received from the creamery. Sterilized slcizuniilk will not sour until it is cocled to about blood temperature. A can of hot milk will warn* a tub of water to about that temperature, and as the anilk is coaled at the same time the best of conditions are offered for the development of lactic acid germs, The tub of water only helps to keep the milk at blood tem peraturo. Under such conditions the water is worse than nothing. If hot skimmilk is cooled in a tub, it should be done by canning water. .A much better way world be to uee a cooler and then place the can of milk in a tub of cold water in order to keep it cool. Don't overfeed. Calves are very greedy at feeding times, and there is often a great temptation to give more milk than the calf can properly bindle, thus causing it to scour. Overfeed- ing is undoubtedly the main reason why so many farmers are unable to raise good, thrifty calves on skimmilk. At the college we find that calves from 3 to 4 months old will not stand more than 18 to 20 pounds daily per head; from 7 to 8 weeks old, 14 to 18 pounds, and 3 to +, weeks, 10 to 12 pounds. One quart equals two pounds. Kaffir corn meal is proving an excel- lent feed for young calves at the Agri- cultural college. It is constipating and aids materially in keeping calves from scouring. They commence to eat the meal when 10 days to 2 weeks old. At first a Little of the meal is placed in their mouths after drinking their milk, and in a short time they go to the feed boxes and eat with a relish. Our herd of 13 calves, averaging 8 weeks old. consumes two pounds daily per head. Never put corn, Kaffir corn meal or any other grain in the milk for calves. The starch of corn has to be changed to grape sugar before it is digestible. This change only take! place in the presence of an alkali and is done chiefly by the saliva of the mouth. When corn is gulped down with the milk, the starch is not acted upon by the acids of the stomach, but remains unchanged until it comes in contact with the alkaline secretions of the intestines. With bogs the stomach is small and the intestines are Iong. This allows starchy matter to be digested in the intestines. The opposite is true with the calf, the stomach being large and the intestines short. Unless the starchy matter is largely digested by the saliva of the mouth complete digestion will not take place in the intestines, and the calf scours. Flaxseed meal and Blachford's meal, made into a jelly or gruel, are good to mix with skimmilk to take the place of butter fat Oilmeal is frequently used for this purpose; but, like skimmilk, it has a large amount of fat removed, and is not as good as meal with the fat in. Calves like fresh water. Any ar- rangement like the Dewey hog waterer that will keep clean, fresh water before them all the time is the best way to supply it. Our calves drink between seven and eight pounds daily per head. Fall Calves. W. F. Wing, writing in an ex- change, says: Calves dropped in the fall are more easily reared and make better cows than those which come in the epring or summer. The fall calf has many advantages over the spring ones. They have not flies to bother them in their young days, and when grass comes in the early spring they are of proper age to be weaned, and when turned on to grass their growth is con. stant, while the spring calf goes into winter quarters to be half starved all winter,and when turned on to grass is often smaller than one six months younger. Until full grown it will be six months behind the calf dropped in the fall Brine Salting. By brine malting the butter is not worked into the butter, but the gran- ules are coated with a film. There is no risk of destroying the grain of the butter or of having the butter too salty. Milk and odors. awnbrooker's shop are in other noun• Milk 1s extremely sensitive to the eAenoe of any odor or taint in the ti lis alkal .'..-----a& FEEING CONTRIVANCES. Timely Suggestions For Protecting Chicles' Food From Fowls.. No doubt some of the readers have experienced difficulty in raising chicks in the same yard with hens, which re- sulted in the chicks being crowded out at mealtimes and being pecked by the hens. They were afraid to go among them, the chicks securing only the food not desired by the hens. In the illus- tration No. 1 shows a box into which the chicks can go at any time to feed. and the bens cannot get to them at all. The box is made of 16 foot board, 12 inches wide, the board being cut into four pieces, each piece four feet long, and nailed together. The box has no bottom, but the top is covered with a lath, the sides having holes that admit • the chicks and exclude the bene. By la't'e having the box bottomless it may be moved from place to place, thus avoid- ing filth. A cheap coop for a hen and a brood of young chicks mai' be made of an or- dinary large cheese box, as shown in No. 2. If tbe box is not deep enough, two of them may be fastened together. It is only intended for use during the first few days of the cbicks, as the box world not answer for the hen during any length of time, the room being too restricted. It serves well for summer use, as it is cool and can be cleaned or moved easily. Simply mark the box all around into strips about two inches , wide and cut out each alternate strip. The object of the contrivance is to en- able one to prepare a coop in a short time and at almost no cost. As the chicks will be removed after they are large enough to run abort, the coop may then be used for the next young brood. More properly No. 3 may be termed a cover for the feed dish or it may be :. made larger for confining a hen, the chicks to run in and out. Simply at- ! bZ1641i"�V , j i II it �ilea! ,ld tach a handle to an old basket or a box of any kind and make eutmance holes of a diameter just sufficient to permit young chicks to run in and out. The bottom of the basket or box should first be removed. The object is that when feeding young chicks their food may be so coy- ered as to protect it from larger chicks or fowls, while the chicks can help themselves unmolested.—Poultry Keep- er Illustrator. The Keystone Association. The Keystone Poultry, Pigeon and Pet Stock association of Philadelphia has been organized for the purpose of j breeding and exhibiting blue blood stock in the feathered family. At the organi- zation meeting enough subscriptions to stock were guaranteed to insure the 1 success of the association and the pay- ment of all premiums and expenses on the closing day of the show. The date of the first annual exhibition was fixed for Nov. 28 to Dec. 2, 1899, inclusive. All entries will close Nov. 18. The standing and special committees of the association have been appointed and are all that could be desired for in- fluence and effectiveness. Preparations are being made for one of the largest, most attractive and important poultry, pigeon and pet stock exhibitions that have ever been given in this country. It is the earnest wish of the managemet of the association that the breeders b the country be made to realize the fact that Philadelphia is to have henceforth a yearly exhibition second to nothing in that line and that fairness and jus- tice to all exhibitors have been firmly' established as cardinal principles of this association.—Philadelphia Times. To Avert Contagion. To prevent contagion we should Leo late every sick bird as soon as discover- k, ed. All new birds should be subjected • to at least ten days' quarantine before being permitted to run with the flock and if suspected of being diseased should r not be allowed to be with other birds until you are positive that disease is not present. Sick birds that have recov- ; ered should not be returned to the flockf until it is absolutely certain that they, are cured. Never go direct from han- dling sick fowls to the quarters of the well ones. Do not allow your neighbors' birds to run with your own. Do not go direct from your neighbors' henneries to your own, and last, but not least, never keep sick birds in the same room where the food for other fowls is kept. —Dr. Woods. Geese Live Long. Geese are long lived birds, some liar. ing been known to attain the age of 40 years, while birds of 15 and 20 years of! age are not uncommon. They retain their laying and hatching qualities through life. Ganders should not be kept for breeding after 3 years of age. Young ganders are more active and in- sure greater fertility of the eggs than old ones do. Besides, ganders become snnas anarrohoma as ads .II.r...ra It