The Herald, 1914-09-16, Page 2Foolis
Or, the Belle of the Season.
CHAPTER, XXV.—(Continued).
Then she opened it, slowly, ae linger-.
Singly she had looked at it, spinning oat
the pleasure, the delight which lay before
her in the perusal of her first dove -letter.
With her foot upon. the old-fas'hioued'
fender, her drooping as ifthere wee'
someone present to see her blushes,she
read the letter; and it is not too much
to say that at first she failed utterly to
grasp its aueaning. With knit beeWs 'and
ivaking, heart, she read it again- and
again, until its signifioanoe was, so to
speak, forced upon her; then her arms
fell limply to her sides, and she looked
straight before her in a dazed, benumbed
fashion, every word burning itself upon
her brain and searing her heart.
The blow had fallen so suddenly, so un-
expeotedly, like a bolt from the blue,
smiting the happiness of her young life
as a sapling is smitten by summer light-
ning. that for the moment she felt no
Pain, nothing but the benumbing of all.
her fatuities; so that she did not sea the
portrait of the dead and gone Heron upon
which her eyes rested, did not hear .her
father's voice calling to her frons the
library, -was conscious of nothing but
those terrible 'words which were dinning
through her brain like the booming of a
great bell. Presently she uttered a low
cry and clasped her head with her hand,
as if to shut out the sound of the words
that tortured her.
It could not be true—it could not be
true! Stafford had not 'written it. It was
some cruel jest, a very cruel jest, per-
petrated by someone who haled them
both, and who wantonly inflicted pain.
Yes,; that was it! That could be the only
explanation. Someone had written in his
name; it was a forgery; she would meet
Stafford presently, and they would laugh
at it together. He would be very angry.
would want to punish the person who h.ad
done it; but he and she would laugh to-
gether, and he would take her in hie arms
and kies her in one of the many ways in
which he had made a kiss an ecstasy of
delight, and they would laugh together
as he whispered that nothing should ever
separate them.
She laughed now as she pictured the
scene that would be enacted. But sud-
denly the laugh died on her lips, as there
flashed across her mind the words Jessie
had eaid. Stafford was engaged to Maude
Falconer, the girl up at the Villa, whose
beauty and grace and wealth all the dale
was talking of.
Ob, Heavens! Was there any truth in
it, was there any truth in it? Had Staf-
ford indeed, written that cruel letter?
Had he left her for ever, for ever, for
ever? Should she never see him again,
never again hear him tell her that he
loved her, would always love her?
The room epun round with her, she sud-
denly felt sick and faint, and, reeling,
caught at the carved mantelelielf to pre•
vent herself from falling. Then gradual-
ly the death -like faintness passed, and
she became conscious that her father's
voice was calling to her, and she .clasped
her head again and swept the hair from
her forehead, and clenched her hands in
the effort to gain her presence of mind
and self -command.
She picked up the letter, and, with a
shudder, thrust it in her bosom, as Cleo-
patra might have thrust the asp which
was to deetrnyher; then with leaden feet,
she crossed- the. hail and opened the
library door, and saw her father stand-
^'ittg' hoe the table elutebine some papers
in one hand, and ggestieulatt.r;"„i'z's !idly
titbhmstoseyes, r there seemed
a be rehershewnt
to him and l"id a hand upon his arm.
"What is ; it, father?" she eaid. Are
you ill? What ie the matter?"
He gazed at her vacantly and struck
bis hand '.'a the table, after the manner
of a child in a senseless passion.
"Lost! Lost! All lost!" he mumbled,
jumbling
eugythe words together almost in -
"What ie lest, f ether?" she asked.
"Everything. everything!" be cried in
the same manner. "I can't remember,
can't remember! It's ruin, utter ruin!
My head—I can't think, ean't remember!
Lost, lost!"
In her terror, she put her young arm
round him as a mother encircles her
child in the delirium of fever.
"Try and tell me, father!" she implored
bim. "Try and be calm, dearest! Tell
me, • and I will help you. What is lost?"
He tried to struggle from her arms,
tried to push her from him.
"You know!" he mumbled. "You've
watched ens—you know the truth! Every-
thing is lost! I am ruined! The mort-
gage! Herondale will pass away! I am
a poor man, a very poor 'man.! Rave pity
on me, have pity on met"
Be slipped, by sheer weight, from her
arms and fell into the chair. She sank
on , and stroked- andmearessedround
him,
withered !nand that twitched and shook;
and to her horror his stony eyes grew
more 'meant, his jaw dropped, and he
sank Still lower in the chair.
"Jessie! Jason!" she called, and they
rushed in. For a space they stood aghast
and unhelpful -from fright, then Jason
tried which lift
had scollaesed, t The beam
man's eyes closed, he struggled for
breath, and when he had gained it, he
lookedlwhirl ane dded to the
otherwithnt and
terror.
"It's all right!" he whispered, huskily,
pantingly. "It's all right; they don't
know. They don't greet! Then his mare
nor changed to one of, in.tense8alaarm and
d
dismay. 'Lost! Lodi" g p
m
ruined, ruined! Herondale hat gone,
gone—all is gone!. My poor child—!dal"
'Father!' broke from Ida's white lipS.
"Father, I am here. Look at mo, speak
to vie. I am here—everything is not lost,.
I am here, and all is well,"
His lipe twisted into n smile, a smile
of Cunning, almost of glee.; then he groan-
ede and the ery rose again.
"1 can't remember—all le lost! Ruined!
My ,poor' child! have pity en my child!„
As she clung to him. supporting him as
she clung, she felt a shudder run through
and be fell a life -lees heap on her.
shoulder. •
The minutes were, they minutes or
years?—passed,a and" wom Jers ken unto
fragments by y a! Re's—tine mss -
Mies Ida! Mise Id
ter's dead!"
ids raised her father's head from her
shoulder. and looked into his face, and
knew that the girl had spoken the truth,
He was dead. She had lost botb. father
and lover in one day,
. CHAPTER XXVI.
Ida sat in the library on the morning
of the funeral. A pelting rain beat upon
the windows, over which the blinds had
been drawn; the great silence which
reigned in, he chamber above, in which
the dead master of Heron lay, brooded
over the whole house, and seemed in no
part of it more intense than in this great
book -lined room, in which, Godfrey Heron
had spent ISO much of his life. Ida y
back in the great armchair in which he
sat. her small brown hands lying limply
in her lap, her eyes fixed absently upon
he hands lefts it. The peelerttof theta
face
increased by her eorrow, was accentuated
by the black dress, almost as plainly
made as that which the red -eyed Jeesis
wore in her kitchen. Though nearly a
week had elapsed since her father had
died in her young arms, and notwith-
standing her capacity for self-reliance,
Ida had not yet recovered from the stupor
of the shock.
She was scarcely thinking as she Iay
back in his chair and looked at the table
over which he had 'bent for eo many mo-
mentous years; she scarcely realized that
she hewaspassedlin the wut of orld;iandand she was
only gto 1speak, consciousy tsorrow her a doubleedge;a
had, so
she had lost not only her father, but the
man to whom she had given her heart,
beside now,, shielding hern-standing i
strong arms, comforting her with words
of pity and love. The double blow had
fallen so suddenly, so unexpectedly, that
the pain of it had been dulled and blunt-
ed. The capacity of human nature for
suffering is, after all, not unlimited. God
says to physical pain and mental an-
guish, "Thus far and no farther;" and
this limitation eaved Ida from utter col-
lapse.
Then, again, she was not free to in-
dulge in idle grief, in the luxury of woe;
the great house had still to be run, she
had to bury her beloved dead, the mourn-
ing which seems .such a mockery when
the heart is racked with misery, had to
bo seen to; and she did it, and went
through it all with outward calm, sus-
tained by that Heron epirit which" snag
be described as the religion of her class—
noblesse oblige. Jessie had wept loudly
through the house ever since the death,
end could weep as loudly uow; but if
Tda ehed any tears she wept in the silents
and darkness of her own room, and no
one knew her utter a moan. To suffer in
silence and be strong" was the badge of
all her tribe, and she wore it with quiet
stoicism.
Godfrey Heron's death had happened 80
euddenly that the news of it scarcely got
beyond the radius of the estate before the
following morning, and - Stafford had
gone to London in -ignorance of this sec,
and blow with which Fate had followed
up the one he had dealt Ida; and when
the neighbore—the Vaynes, the Banner -
dales, and the Avory's--came quickly and
readily enough to offer their eymPathy
and help, they could do nothing. The
girl, solitary and lonely in her grief as
she had been solitary and lonely through
her life, would see no one but the doctor
and Mr. Wordley, and the people who had
once been warm and intimate friends of
the family left reluctantly and sadly, to
talk over the melancholy eireumstanCe,
and to 'wonder what would become of the
daughter of the eccentric man who had
lived the life of a recluse.
Mr. Wordley would have liked to have
persuaded her to see some of the women
who had hastened to her to comfort her;
but he knew that any attempt at persua-
sion would have been in ram, that he
would not have been able to break down
the barrier of reserve which the girl had
instinctively erected between her suffer-
ing soul and the world. Hi.s heart oohed
for her, and he did all that a man could
do to lighten the•burden of her trouble;
but there was very little that he could
do beyond superintending the necessary
arrangements for the funeral.
His first thought was of the relatives;
but, somewhat to his own dismay, he
found that the only one whom he could
trace was a cousin, a more than middle-
aged man who, though he bore the name
of Heron, was quite unknown to Ida, and,
so fax as Mr. Wordley was aware, had not,
oroeeel'the elneehhold of the Hall foe-
many
ormany years,Ito was e certain; Jolie
Heron, a retired beriestor, who lead gone
in ,for xolieion, not in, the form of either
Of the Fist(i,blislhed C.hurglte 1, lift of ;that
of one of the"leaat known sects, the mean.,
bees et whirah.called, themselves some kind
of brothers, 'Werteleuppeeed to be very
strict observers o " ie Scriptural law, and
Were considered by thoee who did not be-
long b . them both narroweniuded and
uncharitable., •
Mr. John Heron was a .prominent mem-
bee of this little sect, and was fatuous in
its small circlesfor hie extreme sanCtitY
and hie eloettenoe as a lay ereaelser, Mr,
Wordley,with much misgiving,: had in•
sited this, the: only relative he could 'fined,
to the funeral; and Ida was now ae elt-
iug this' gentlemen's arrival.
Tho . <stealthy footsteps width. bel'oiiged
to those who minister to the dead passed
up and down the great shouse; . Jason was
setting out the simple "funeral . baked
meats' 'which are ooneidered appropriate
to the occasion, and Mr. Wordley paced
up anti down the hall with his Bands' be-
hind his back, listening to the under-
taker's man upstairs, and glancing
through the window in expeotetion of the
Carriage -which had been sent for, Mr.
Jahn Heron. Presently he saw it round-
ing a band of the drive; and went into
the library to prepare Ida, She raised
her head but not her .eyes as he entered,
and looked at him -with that dull apathy
which denotes the benumbed heart,. the
mind crushed under its heavy weight of
sorrow.
"I came in to tell you, my dear, that
Mr. John Heron is coming," he said. -'The
carriage is just turning the bend. of the
drive."
"I will come," . she said, raising and
supporting herself' by the heavy carved
arm of the great chair.
"No, no!" be said. "Sit down and wait
here.' He did net want:her to hear the
stealthy tread of the undertaker's men,
and meet the coffin whiehthey were go-
ing to bring downstairs and place in the
hall. "I will bring him in here, is there
anything you would like me to say to
him, my dear?" he asked, and spoke with
a certain hesitancy; for as yet he had
not spoken of her future, feeling that her
grief was too recent, too sacred, to per.
mit of the obtrusion of material and
worldly matters. .
"To say to him?" she repeated, z in. a
low, dull voice, as if she did not under-
stand.
"Yes," he said. "I did not know
whether you had ,formed. . any plan,
whether"—he hesitated. again, "you had
thought of going—of paying a visit — to
these relations of yours. Ile lives in the
north of London, and has a wife and son
and daughter, as you know."
Ida passed her hand acrose her brow.
trying to remember.
"Ah, yee," she saidat last, "I remem-
ber you told me about them. I never
beard of them before—until now. Why
should I go to them? Do they -want me?
Have they asked me?"
Mr. Wordley coughed discreetly. They
certainly bad not asked her, but he felt
quite assured that an individual Whose
reputation for sanctity stood so high
could not be so deficient in eharity, as to
refuse a home to his orphan cousin.
"They have not sent you,a,ny definite
invitation yet, but they will be sure to
want you to go and etay with them, for
a• time at any rate; -and I think you
ought to go."
"I do not think I should like it," said
Ida, but indifferently; as if the question
were of no moment. 'I would rather stay
here."
Mr. Wordley polished his glasses very
intently.
i am afraid you'd find it very lonely
at the Hall, my dear," he said. "In fact,
I don't think you could remain here by
yourself," he added, evading the direct
gaze of the great, sad eyee.
"I should feel lonely auvwhere," she
amid. "More lonely with pe4r Pie I don't
knew, probably, than I shou_d feel here,
with Jessie and Jason -anal ---arid the dogs.
"Well, -well, we can't discuea The til
tion flow, and 'will ende:gtror ".t atm;
dear.: sale-the'l �u.
the best, my, o dr an
still intent upon his glasses. "I heir the.
carriage. I will bring Mr, John in "•
He returned in a. minute or two, ac-
companied by a tall and gaunt individ-
al, who, in his black alathes and white
neck -tie, looked a cross between a super-
ior undertaker and a City scan.' His
features were strongly marked, and the
expression of his countenances tvae both
severe and melancholy, and, judging .by
his expression and his voice, •which was
hareh and lachrymose, his particular
form of religion did not appear to afford.
him either amusement or consolation.
"This is your cousin, Mr. John Heron."
said poor Mr. Wordley, who was evidently
eufferiug from the effects of his few min-
utes' conversation with that gentleman.
Mr, John. Heron surveyed the slight
figure and white fare with its sad, etar-
like eyes—surveyed it with a grim kind
of severity, which was probably intend-
ed for sympathy, and extending a cold,
damp !land, which resembled an extreme-
ly bony shoulder of mutton, said, in a
rasping, melancholy voice:
"How do you -do, Ida? I trust you are
bearing your burden as becomes a Christ-
ian. We art born to sorrow. The trate
was three-quarters of en hour late."
"I am sorry," said Ida, in her loly voice
leaving him to judge whether she ex-
pressed regret for our birthright of .mis-
ery or the latehess :of the train, "Will
you have some Iuneh--some wine?" she
asked, a dull, vague wonder rising in her
mind' that this grim, middle-class man
should be of kith And kin with her dead
father.
"Thank you; no. I 'had an abernethy
biscuit at the station." IIe drew back
from, and -waved away, the tray of wine
which Janson at this moment broughtin.
"I never touch wine. I. and all mine,
are total. abstainers. !Those who fly to
the wine -cup in Moments of tribulation
and grief rely on a broken reed which
shall pierce their hand. I trust you do
not drink, Cousin Ida?".
"No—yes; sometimes; not much,"• she
replied, vaguely, and regarding him with
1Var aer'tlgees--Pitiable Sights on the Road Between >M'a1illes and Brits80S—A Continual Stream of WO,
gt ens on Feot and hi All Rinds' :of Vehicles.
fou
There is never a time when the skill, ex-
pee ience and resource back ,of .Watermari's
Ideal is ` at rest. `Can anything more, be- `;:
done for its users ?-is the constant problem
---the ain ,of, its makers. Users of. Water -
man's Ideals ,have ' the world's best to -day.
If to -morrow h can improve the slightest
detail, they ll. ihave t.
Try 2liem. at Your: Dealer's
L. E;. Waterman Company,
Limited, 'Montreal.
a dull wonder; for she had nevereeen
this kind.' of man before. .
Mr. Wordley ROOM]. Oat a glass of gine,
and, in silent indignation, handed it to.
her; and, unconscious of the heavy ;scowl
with which Mr. John Heron regarded her,
she put her Zips to it. •
"A glass of wthe is not a bad thing at
any time," sa,fd the old lawyer; "especial-
ly when one is weakened and proetrated
by trouble. Try and drink a little more,
my dear." •
It is a matter of opinion, of convic-
tion, of principle," ,said Mr, John Heron,
grimlyas if he evere'in-the pulpit. "We
must be guided ,by the light of our cam
scienees; we 'must not yield. to the se-
ductive influences of creature comfort.
We are told that strong drink is rag -
in g----„
pleasure and an .honor to have her
amongst us as one of our ,own. Of eouree
she cannot remain alone here, in thea
great place."
The old .lawyer bowed.
"1 will give her your kind message, for
which I thank you on her behalf, Lord.
Bannerdale, I do, not know what' she
will do, or where the will go; at present
the ie not in a condition to diseuee any
plans for her future, though to -day she
expreesed a deeire„to remain at the Hall."
He .paused for a moment before he add-
ed: I do no't know whether she can do
s0." ., a... ..
"My oouefn is young, 'and a mere.Chiid,
and she must follow the advice of her el -
dere and her guardian. The future of
even the eparrow is in higher hands than
cure, and we know not what a day may
This was rather more than'Mr. Wordley bring forth," said Mr. John Heron, grim-
could stand, and, very red: in the faee, he ly, and with an .uplifting of his heavy
invited Mr; John Heron to go . up to the
room which he had prepared for him.
When that gentleman had stalked out,
the old lawyer looked at Ida With a mix-
tura of dismay and commiseration.
"Not a—er—particularly cheerful and
genial person, my dear; but no doubt Mr.
John Heron is extremely conecientious
and—er--good-hearted."
"I daresay," assented ,Ida, apathetical-
ly. "It does not matter. It was very
kind of him to come so far to—to the
funeral," she added. "He might have
stayed away; for I don't think my father
knew him, and I never heard of him. Is
it not time yet?" she asked, in a low voice.
As dhe spoke, Jessie name in and took
her upstairs to her room to put on the
think black cloak, the bonnet with its
long crape veil, in which Ida was to fol-
low her father to the grave; for in spite
of Mr. Wordloy's remonstrances, she had
remained firm in leer resolve to go to the
church -yard.
Presently the procession started.
The old clergyman who had christened
her and every .Sunday had cast glances
of interest and affection at her as she
sat in the great "loose box" of a pew,
found it very difficult to read the solemn
service without breaking down, and his
old, thin voice quavered as he spoke the
wards of hope and consolation which the
storm of wind and rain caught up and
swept acrose the narrow church -yard and
down the dale of which the Herons had
been so long mestere.
Mr. John Heron stood grim and gaunt
opposite Ida, as if he were a figure carv-
ed out of wood, and showed no sl'gn of
animation until the end of the service,
when he looked round with a sudden
'eagerness, and opened his large square
lips as if he were going' to "improve the
ovcasion" by an address; but Mr. Word -
ley, who suspected him of such intention,
nlppe,d it in the bud by saying
" Wt1I you give your arm to Miss Ida,
Mr. Heron? I want to get her back to
the Hall as soon as possible."
Ida was led to the carriage, passing
through a lane of sympathizers amongst
whom were representatives of all the
great dale families; and all bent• their
heads with a respectful pity and sym-
pathy as the young girl made her way
down the narrow ,path. About half a
dozen persons had been asked to goto
the Hail for the funeral lunch, at which
Mr. John Heron, as representative of the
family, presided. It wee a melancholy
meal; for • meet of those present were
thinking of the orphan girl in her room
above. They spoke in lowered voices of
the dead man hnd of the great family
from which he had sprung, and recalled
stories of the wealth and lavishness of
past Herons; and when the meal was
over, there suddenly fell a .silence, and
all' eyes were turned upon Mr. Wordley;
for the moment had arrived for .the read-
ing of the will.
Mr. Wordley rose, coughed, and wiped
his eye -glasses, and looked round gravely.
"As the legal adviser of my late client,
Mr. Godfrey Heron, I have to inform you,
gentlemen, that there is no will. My client
died intestate."
The listeners exchanged glancee, and
looked grave and eoncerned.
"NO AVM?" said Lord Bannerdale, anx-
iously: then his kindly fate cleared. "Hut
of course everything goee to his dangle.
ter; the estate is not entailed?"
11ti•, Wordley inclined his head. •:
'The estate is not entailed, as you eay,
Lord Bannerdale; and may client, Mies
Ida Heron, inherits "everything,"
They drew a breath of relief, and nod'
led assentingly; and presently they made
a, general movement of departure.' Lord
Bannerdaie, lingered behind the -others.
"I won't- ask• the poor child to see me,
Mr. Wordley," he said.• 'Will you there-
fore be good enough to give her Lady
Bahnerdale's love, and to tell her that,
as Lady Bannerdale has written to her,
we shall be more than pleased if she will
some to us at the Court. She is to eon -
Sider it bier home for just as long as she
should please; and we shall feel it a
"Quite so," said Lord Beeper ale, who
had taken a great dislike foil i1M ;a.n"etT
monious speaker, and •who could 'scarcely„
repress a ehudder as be 'shook Mr. John
Heron's cold and clammy hand.
When they had all gone, Mr. Wordley
said:
We had better go to the library and
talk inattere over. I will send for bliss
Ida: It seems Cruel to disturb her at
such a moment, but there is no help for
it."
"You speak as if you had bad tidings,
Mr. Wordley, to give„ use ' said Mr. John
Heron.
"1 aan afraid. I have," responded the old
lawyer, shaking his grey head sadly.
(To be continued.)
BISMARCK'S WAY.
Preferred Killing Prisoners to '1`ak'
ing Them Captive.
Reports that the Germans have
been giving "NO quarter" to any
of the Belgian peasantry who op-
posed them areit is to be hoped,
exaggerated, liut sueh methods
commend themselves to Bismarck.
"Prisoners! More prisoners!" he
exclaimed at Versailles after one of
Prince Frederick Charles' victor-
ies. "What the devil do we •want
with prisoners ! ' Why don't they
make a battue of. them?" To
Frames-tireurs he strongly. object-
ed to mercy being shown; and
stormed because Garibaldi's "free
company" of 13,000 volunteers were
granted terms of surrender. "Thir-
teen thousond prisoners who are
not even. Frenchmen!" he cried,
"Why on earth were they not
shot V 2
Bismarck may have objected to
the taking of prisoners, but his pre-
judices obviously had no effect in
the Franco-German War. Accord-
ing to Moltke, who wrote the of-
ficial history of the campaign, the
French prisoners reached the ex-
traordinary total of 21,508 officers
and 702,048 men. But of these near-
ly 250,000 were the Paris garrison,
who were only nominally prison-
ers, and over 90,000 represented the
French troops disarmed and intern-
ed in neutral Switzerland. Still,
with these deductions, more than
380,000 officers and mein were actu-
ally imprisoned in. Germany, and
were released only when peace was
declared,
Method In It.
Ile --Why did you say no the first
three times I Asked you to . be
mine 2
Slhe—Because" I wished ptsg uard
against marrying a man with no
grit Or perseverance.
Against the
sun s rays-7–
—and under
wear and tear,,
-this paint lasts, and lasts, and Roasts
Rarrisay's Paints are Honest goods—made of honest materials by honest
painstaking methods. Each finish will honestly meet the re5uirements for which it
• is designed. Yea may be sire when you buy them for your own use that they will
give you the service you know you ought to get.
Courteous service from local agent, Write for in!yeresting paint literature. (5),
RAIVISAY & SON (Established x842)
MONTREAL, Que.'
Oii the Fang
'1"1'eai;illg: C<tl tlo for torn. Files.
The horn fly has so many peau
liaribies that he is scientifically' in
ter'esting. In: the matter of cola
he is a stickler, for ;dark' shades
Bence, his attacks are' cht.eflyy mad
ori darrit. ea'tAtle, 'writes Mr. Wird.' 13
Unders ootl, •
Cases ;have been noted in whirl
two cows, .one white and the othe
dark, standing sire ib- side, wer
enveloped.in ,a .swarm ` of horn flee
which attacked only the dark cow
loaving the other entfre'ly tin
molested.
It •is claimed. t11at the flies ea
even gauge the thickness of th
skinand make discrimination, giv
ing preiferenee`to the'"•titian-skinner
animals. . .
The flies suck blood from the cat
tae producing irritation andworr
to such an extent as to 'cause a de
crease in the milk flow from en
third to one -half:
Many -remedies have, of course
been dervised which have been mor
or less effective and no doubt ther
are plenty of newly disoovere
aures on the market, but new re
medies are not always the best.
The following is a rather old
fashioned remedy, but it has stow
the test of time, than which no bet
ter reeom u pdation could b
Crude cottonseed oil or fish, 0
and pil<ae tar mixed about
parts of the former to one of th
latter. The two mix readily an.
are very easily applied to the .an
mals at milking time by .means <
a large paint brush. Applied- i
this manner it takes but about ha
a minulte to a cow, making the cos
of the application 'but a small mai
ter.
As many as 350 head at a tim
have been treated with crude cod
tonseed oil and tar in this manned
using four gallons of the oil an
less than two gallons of the fin
tar, the cattle being rendered a
most immune from the flies.
The late Professor 3'. B. Smit
reported success from the use .t
fine tobacco dust in the hair of t
back and wherever it would lodg
He claimed that tobacco dust
fatal to the horn fly if this inse
stay's long 'enough to bite the b.
of an animal where the dust h
been scattered. It is also claim
for tobacco durst that it is a god
repellant for the stable fly.
Horn• flies get their .name on
count of their :habit of clustering
the base of the horns of cattll
They in no way injure this orga
but choose it as a safe :esti:
place when not engaged in bitin
Thee flies lay their eggs in mann'
freshly dropped 'by the animals til
attad.. Moist weather, by co
serving the moisture of the dro
pings, is conducive to the increa.'
of this pest; 'hence, a wet summ'
will probably produce more fli
than a very dry summer,
Eilleieney on the Farm.
One of 'the most frequent soured
of loss on the farm is an insu
ficient return from work horses. '.
Have you 'satisfied yourself d
the follorvin,g points'i
It costs $100 annually to keep t!
average horse, but this 'horse wor
only a little more than three 'hon
each working„day. This makes wi
horse labor east approximately t
cel its an hour.
Do, you handle .the horse labor
your farm So that the annual c
of keeping your 'horses is less th
the average, or so that the num
of hours worked is greater l BK
methods 'will reduce the rosin
horse labor, but the Clatter offers,
far the greatest opportunity.
Can you revise your Cropp
system so that fewer work holt
will Be needed, or so that the w
will be more equally distribli
and thus • make it possible to '
ploy them more hours.each yea
Can you raise colts and thus
duce the ' cost of keeping y
horsesI •
Car you arrarnge to use
work horses for. outside work w
not busy on the farm?
Can you reduce the cost of k
ing each horse by feeding les
or ch:e.aper feed and still giv
proper ration l
Farm work done with f
horses means a saving of $1
year ~for, each' horse not neede
Teacher --What is meant by
seat of trouble ? Tommy ---T lc
After ,a spanking.
I adge •••' `Don't Yon think a
should marry„ an economical m
TJolly "I. suppose so; but it'
fall being en-; to one !"
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