The Advocate, 1887-10-27, Page 2New Verde to Auld Paqg gYnel
eoine..briug the soul filled breaker now,
We'll drink to other years,
To friendships hallowed by .4 lang PYnei"
And loves embalmed iu tear.
To loveli embalmed in tears, ny friend.
Where only pinqoa once shone.
We'll drink the loves of other days
And ()anthem "still our owu."
We'll think upon the grass hid mounds
The silent, sacred. spots
Where o'er the heads of cherished ones
Bloom hlue " for-get-nie-nots,"
We'll drink to the dead and absent piles
To friends we used to know;
To many a hand that clasped our own
Beloved of long ago.
We know, not which shall fall asleep
The first, whose call the first shall be,
'Whether my tears for you shall fall.
Or you bend over me.
We only know that each can say
Hero sleeps a heart truth called its own,
God keep it pure and happy still,
In sight of His white throne.
--Lizzie .1"etit Metier in Rome Journal.
SIR HUGH'S LOVES
Somehow Nes went home not quite so
happily that day; a dim consciousness that
things were different, that it never rested
papa to play with her, oppressed her
chibpsh lapin; and that evening Nea
moped in her splendid nursery, and would
not be consoled by her toys or even her
birds and kitten. Presently it came out
with floods of tears that Nea wanted her
father—wanted hint very badly indeed.
"You must not be naughty, Miss Nea,"
returned nurse, Beverly, for she was rather
out of patience with the child's pettishness;
"Mr. Huntingdon has a lot of grand people
to dine with him to -night. The carriages
Will be driving up by and by, and if you are
good you shall go into one of the best
bedrooms and leek at them." But Nea was
notto be pacified by this ; the tears ended in a
fit of perverse sulking that lasted until
bedtime. Nea would neither look at the
carriages nor the people; the ice and fruit
that had been provided as a treat were
pushed angrily away; Nea would not look at
the dainties, she turned her flushed face aside
and buried it in her pillow. I want papa,"
she sobbed, as nurse pulled down the blind
and left her.
That night-, as Mr. Huntingdon crossed
the corridor that led to his bedroom, he
was startled by seeing what looked like a
snass of blue and white draperies flung
across his door, but as he lowered his
candlestick he saw it was Nea lying fast
asleep, with her head pillowed on her arms,
and her dark hair half hiding her face.
1' Good beavenal what can nurse be
about 1" he exclaimed in a shocked voice,
s he lifted the Wind, and carried her back
to her bed. Nes stirred drowsily as he
moved her, and said, "Dear papa," and
one warrn arm crept about his neck, but
she was soon fast asleep again. Somehow
that childish caress haunted Mr. Hunting-
don, and he thought once or twice how
pretty she had looked. Nurse had assured
him that .the child must have crept out of
bed in her sleep, but Mr. Huntingdon did
not feel satisfied, and the next morning, as
he was eating his breakfast, he sent for
Nea.
She came to him willingly enough, and
stood beside him.
" What were you doing, ray dear, last
night?" he asked kindly as he kissed her.
Did nurse tell you that I found you lying
by ray bedroom door, and that I carried
you back to bed ?"
"Yes, papa; but why did you not wake
me ? I tried not to go to sleep until you
came, but I suppose I could not help it."
"But what were you doing ?" he asked,
in a puzzled tone; "don't you know. Nea,
that it was very wrong for a little girl to be
out of her bed at that time of night ?" But
as Mr. Huntingdon spoke he remembered
again how sweet the childish face had
looked, pillowed on the round dimpled arm.
"1 was waiting to see you, papa,"
replied Nea with perfect frankness; "you.
are always too busy or too tired to come
and see me, you know, and nurse is so cross,
and so is Miss Sanderson; they will never
let me come and find you; so when nurse
came to take away the lamp I pretended to
be asleep and then I crept out of bed and
went to your door and tried tokeep awake."
"Why did you want to see me, Nea?"
asked her father, more and more puzzled ;
it never entered his head that hisonly child
wanted hina and longed for him.
"Oh," she said, looking up at him with
innocent eyes that reminded him of her
mother, "1 always want you, papa, though
not so badly as yesterday ; Colonel Ham-
bleton was playing with Nora and Janie,
and Nora said her papa was never too busy
to play with them, and that,made inc cry
a little, for you never play With me, do you,
papa? and you never look up when I am
waving front the balcony, and nurse says
you don't want to be worried with me, but
that is not true, is it, papa?"
" No, no 1" but his conscience pricked
him as he patted her head and pioked out
a crimson peach for her. "There, run
away, Nea, for I am really in a hurry; if
you are a good girl you shall come down
and sit with me while I have dinner, for I
shall be, alone to -night ;" and Nea tripped
away happily.
From that day people noticed a change
in Mr. Huntingdon; he began to take
interest in his child, without being demon-
strative, for to his cold nature demonstration
was impossible ; he soon evinced a decided
partiality for his daughter's society; and
no wonder, as people said, for she was a
most engaging little creature.
By and by she grew absolutely nedessary
to hire, and they were never long apart.
Strangers would pause to admire the pretty
child op her cream -colored pony cantering
beside the dark, hendsome man. Nea
always presided now atthe breakfast -table ;
the dimpled hends would carry the cup of
coffee round to her father's( ch'
air and lay
flowers beside his inate. Whenhe Vas
alone she sat beside bine as he ate his din-
ner; and heard about the ships that were
coming acmes the ocean laden with goodly
freights. Nea greW into a beautiful girl
presently, and thena new embition awoke
in Mr, Huntingdon,s breast. Nea was his
only child—'with such beauty, talents and
wealth, she would be a math for an earl's
son ; his heart swelled witli pride as he
looked at her ; be began to cherish dreams
of her futile° that would have amazed Nea.
A certain young nobleman had imely junior clerk 1 Nea flaeliecl an indignant
Maxle their acquaintsns°, hand -look an NV neon spoke. What if he *ore the
some simple yeeing fellow, with a Very oity.thessenget ; her fa
thee should Make
moderate allowance of brains; indeed, inhit fortuee, and she would g6 and thank
hi h.eatt Mt. ttentingdon knew that Lord him Bet there wasno time for this, fOr
Berge Gower was Merely a feather -brained nee game geeeee.eaking eater who had
boy With a weak, vacillating will that had
already broneht him into trouble.
Mr. Hentingdon wasthinking about or
Bartle Gower as he rode away elutt spring
morning, While Nee Waved to him from the
balcony ; he had 104ea up •at her and
smiled, but as he •turned away his thoughts
were very busy, Yes, Lord liertie was a
fool, he knew that—perhaps he would not
own as much to any one else, certainly not
if Lord Bertie became his son-in.law-ebut
he was well-bred and had plenty of good -
nature, and—. Well, young men were all
alike, they would have their fling, and he
wits hardly the an to oast a stone at
them. Then he was a good-looking fellow,
and girls liked him.; and if Nes laughed at
him, and said that he WU stupid, he could
soon convince her that there was no need
Lor her husband to be clever—she was
clever enough for both; he would
like to see the man with the
exception of himself, who could bend
Nea's will. The girl took after him in that
she had not inherited her mother's soft
yielding nature—poor Susan, who had loved
him so well.
Lord Bertie needed a strong hand; as
his son-in-law, Mr. Huntingdon thought
that he could keep him in order. The boy
was certainly in love with Nea. He must
come to an understanding with him. True,
he was only a second son; but his brother,
Lord Leveson,was still a bachelor, an
id
rather shaky n his health. The family
were not as a rule long-lived; they were
constitutionally and morally weak; and
the old Earl had already had a touch of
paralysis. Yes, Mr. Huntingdon thought
it would do; and there was Groombridge
Hall for sale, he thought he would buy that;
it should be his wedding gift—part of the
rich dowry that she would bring to her
husband.
Mr. Huntingdon planned it all as he
rode down to the city that morning, and
it never entered his mind what Nea
would say to his choice. His child belonged
to him. She was part of himself. Hitherto
his will had been hers. True, he had denied
her nothing; he had never demanded even
a trifling saorifice from her; there was no
fear that she would oross his will if he told
her seriously that he had set his heart on
this marriage ; and he felt no pity for the
motherless young creature, who in her
beauty and innocence appealed so strongly
to his protection. In his strange nature
love was only another form of pride his
egotism made him incapable of unselfish
tenderness
Nes little knew of the thoughts that filled
her father's mind as ,,she watched him
fondly until both horse 'and rider had dis-
appeared.
It was one of those days in the early year
when the spring seems to rush upon the
world as though suddenly new born, when
there is all at once a delicious whisper and
rustle of leaves, and the,sunshine permeates
everything; when the earth wakes up fresh,
green, and laden with dews; and soft
breezes, fragrant with the promise of
summer, come stealing into the open
windows. Nea looked like the embodiment
of spring as she stood there in her white
gown. Below her was the cool green garden
of the square where she had played as a
child, with the long morning -shadows lying
on the grass ; around her werethe twitter-
ings of the house -martins and the cheeping
of sparrows under the eaves; from the
distance came the perfumy breath of
violets.
Such days make the blood course
tumultuously through the veins of youth,
when with the birds and all the live young
things that sport in the sunshine, they feel
that mere existence is a joy and a source of
endless gratitude.
" Who so happy as I ?" thought Nea, as
she tripped through the great empty rooms
of Belgrave House, with her hands full of
golden primroses ; "how delicious it is only
to be alive on such a morning."
Alas for that happy spring -tide, for the
joyousness and glory of her youth. Little
did Nes guess as she flitted, like a white
butterfly, from one flower vase to another,
that her spring -tide was already over, and
that the cloud that was to obscure her life
was dawning slowly in the east.
CHAPTER VIII.
MAURICE T513.PFORD.
I have no reason than a woman's reason;
I think him so, because I think him so.
Snakspeare.
Before noon there was terror and con-
fusion in Belgrave House. Net, flitting
like a humming -bird from flower to flower,
was suddenly startled by the sound of
heavy jolting foot -steps on the stairs, and,
coming out on the corridor, she saw etrange
men carrying the insensible figure of her
father to his room. She uttered a shrill
cry and sprang towards them, but a gentle-
man who was following them put her
gently aside, and telling her that he was a
doctor, and that he would come to her
presently, quietly closed the door.
Nea, sitting on the stairs and weeping
passionately, heard from a sympathising
bystander the little there was to tell.
Mr. Huntingdon had met with an accident
in one of the crowded city lanes. His horse
had shied at some passing object and had
thrown him—here Nes, uttered a low cry—
but that was not all.
His horse had flung him at the feet of a
very Juggernaut, a mighty waggon piled
with wool bales nearly as high as 0 house.
One of the leaders had backed on his
haunches at the unexpected obstacle; but
the other, a foolish young horse, reared,
and in another moment would certainly
have trodden out the brains of the insensible
man had not a youth—a mere boy—
suddenly rushed from the crowded footpath
and threw himself full against the terrified
animal, so for one brief Instant retarding
the movement of the huge waggon while
Mr. Huntingdon was dragged aside.
It had all happened in a moment; the
next moment the hones were plunging and
rearing, with the driver swearing at them,
and the young man had sunk on a truck
white as death, and faint from the pain of
his sprained arm and shoulder.
" Who is he ?" cried Nea, impetuously,
"what have they done with him ?"
11e was in the library, the butler informed
her. The doctor h8d promised to dress
his shoulder after he had attended to Mr.
Huntingdon, No, hie anstreee need not go
•
down, Wilton went en 1 it was only Mr.
Trafford, one Of the junior clerks, Only a
closed her father's door against her wes
elm standing on the threeheld ; and Nea
forgot everything in lier gratitude and joy
as he told iter that, tbou..0 Severely injured,
Mi. guntingdon tVes in n9 danger, end
with quiet and rest, and geod nursing, he
would seen bo himeelf agent. I Would all
depend on her, he added, leeiting at the
agitated girl in e fatherly menner .; and he
bade her dry her eyes and look as cheerful
as she could, that phe might not disturb Mr.
Huntingdon, Nea obeyed hinl; she elloked
down her sobs resolutely, and witha strange
paleness on her young face, stole into the
darkened room and stood. besidehim.
" Well,Nea " observed her father, huskily,
as fthe took 'ills hand and kissed it; 1' I
have had a narrow escape; °moth(); instant
and it would have been all over with me.
10 Wilson there ?"
" Yes, papa," ansveered Nee, still holding
his hand to her cheek, as she knelt beside
hint; and the gray-haired butler stepped
up to the bed.
"Wilson, let Stephenson know that he is
to get rid of Gypsy at once. She has been
a bad bargain to me, and this trick of hers
might have cost me ray life',
'You are notgoing to sell Gypsy, papa,"
exclaimed the girl, forgetting the doctor's
injunctions in her dismay ; not your own
beautiful Gypsy ?"
" I never allow people or animals to
offend nee twice, Nea. It is not the first
time Gypsy has played this trick on nae.
Let Stephenson eee to it at onoe. I will
not keep her. Tell him to lot Uxbridge
see her, he admired her last week ; he likes
spirit and will not mind 5 high figure, and
he knows her pedigree."
" Yes, sir," replied Wilson.
"By the by," continuedMr. Huntingdon,
feebly, "some one told inc just now about
a youth who had done nee a good turn in
the matter. Did you hear his name,
Wilson ?"
"Yes, papa' " interrupted Nea, eagerly;
"it was Mr. Trafford, one of the junior
clerks, and he is downstairs in the library,
waiting for the doctor to dress his
shoulder."
Nea would have said more, for her heart
was full of gratitude to the heroic young
stranger ; but her father held up his hand
deprecatingly, and she noticed that his face
was very pale.
"That will do, any dear. Yon speak too
fast, and my poor head is still painful and
confused ;" and as Nes looked distressed
at her thoughtlessness, he continued,
kindly, "Never mind, Dr. Ainslie says I
shall be all right soon—he is going to send
me a nurse. Trafford, you.say. ; that must
belllaurice Trafford, 'a raere Fenner. Let
me see, what did Dobson say about hiin ?",
and Mr. Huntingdon lay and pondered with
that hard set face of his, until he had
mastered the facts that had escaped his
memory.
"Ah, yes, the youngest- clerk but one in
the office ; a curate's son from Birmingham,
an orphan—no mother—and drawing a
salary of seventy pounds a year. Dobson
told me about hint; a nice, gentlemanly
lad ; works well—he seems to have taken a
fancy to him. He is an old fool is Dobson,
and full of vagaries, but a thoroughly good
man of business. He said Trafford was a
fellow to be trusted, and would make a
good clerk by and by. Humph, a rise will
not hurt him. One cannot give a diamond
ring to a boy like that. I will tell Dobson
to -morrow to raise Trafford's salary to a
hundred a yeai."
" Papa," burst from Nea's lips as she
overheard this muttered soliloquy, but, as
she remembered the doctor's advice, she
prudently remained quiet; but if any one
could have read her thoughts at that
moment, could have known the oppression
of gratitude in the heart of the agitated
girl toward the stranger who had just saved
her father from a horrible death, and whose
presence of mind and self -forgetfulness
were to be repaid by the paltry sum of
thirty pounds a year 1 "Papa," she
exclaimed, and then in her forbearance
kept quiet.
AhnNee,, are youthere still ?" observed
her father in some surprise; "1 do not
want to keep you a prisoner, my child.
Wilson can sit by me while 1 sleep, for I
must not be disturbed after I have taken
the composing draught Dr. Ainslie ordered.
Go out for a drive and amuse yourself;
and, wait a moment, Nea, perhaps youhad
better say a civil word or two to young
Trafford, and see if Mrs. Thorpe has
attended to him. He shall hear from me
officially to -morrow ; yes," muttered Mr.
Huntingdon as his daughter left the room,
"a hundred a year is an ample allowance
for a junior, more than that would be
ill-advised and lead to presumption."
Maurice Trafford was in the library
trying to forget the pain of his injured arm,
which was beginning to revenge itself for
that moment's terrible strain.
The afternoon's shadows lay on the
garden of the square, the children were
playing under the acacia trees, the house -
martins still circled and wavered in the
sunlight.
Through the open window came the soft
spying breezes and the distantlaurn of young
voices; within was warrath, silence, and
the perfume of violets.
Maurice closed his drowsy eyes with a
delicious sense of luxurious forgetfulnese,
and then opened them with a start; for
some one had gently called him by his
narne, and for a moment he thoudht it was
still his dream, for standing at the foot of
the couch was a girl as beautiful as any
vision, who held out her hand to him, and
said in the sweetest voice he had ever
heard:
"Mr. Trafford, you have saved my
father's life. I shall be grateful to .you all
my life."
Maurice was almost dizzy as he stood up
and looked at the girl's earnest face and
eyes brimming over with teare, and the
sunlight and the violets and the children's
voices seemed all confused; and as he took
her offered hand a strange shyness kept
4131"]havesilent. hoard all about it," she went mi.
" I know, while others stood by too
terrified to move, you risked your own life
to protect any father—that you stood
between him and death while they dragged
him out from the horses' feet. It was
noble—heroic '." and here Nea claimed het
hands, and thetears ran clown her cheeks.
Poor impotuoue child; these wore hardly
the cold words of oivility that her pompone
father had dictated, and were to supplement
the thirty pounds tierannum, " officially
delivered." Strely, as she looked at the
young man in his shabby coat, she must
have remembered that it was only Maurice
,
Trafford, the junior clerk—the drudge pf
mercantile Inellae• e
;gee Owned afterwards that she ha
forgotten ,everything ; in after years she
confessed that Maurice's grave yoting.,feei
pilule upon her like it revelation.
She had admirer4 by the seere-tle
handsome weak-minded I.,ord Bartle amon
them --hut neVer lied she seen such a lac
as Maurice Trafford's, the poor curate'
son.
Maprioete pale face flushed up Meddti
girl's enthusiastic praise., but he answer°
very quietly :
"1 did very little'Aise lanntingdell
any one could have done Is much. How
could I stand IV and see your fathee'
danger, and not go to his help ?" and then
as the intolerable pain in his arm brough
back the faintness, he asked her permissio
to reseat himself. "He would go home,'
he said, wearily, "and then he need troubl
no one."
Nea's heart was full of pity for him
She could not boar the thought of his goin
back to his lonely lodgings, with no one t
take care of him, but there was no help fo
it. So Mrs. Thorpe was summoned with
her remedies, and the carriage was ordered
When it came round Maurice looked up in
his young hostess's face with *his hones
grey eyes and frank smile and said good
bye. And the smile and the grey eyes
and the touch of the thin boyish hand
were never to pass out of Nea's memory
from that day.
* * *
The shadows grew longer and longer in
the gardens of the square, the house -martins
twitted merrily about their nests, the
flower girls sat on the area steps with their
baskets of roses and jonquils, when Mr.
Huntingdon laid aside his invalid habits
and took up his old life again far too soon
as the doctors said who attended him. His
system had received a severer shock than
they had first imagined, and they recom-
mended Baden-Baden and perfect rest for
some months.
But as well might they have spoken to
the summer leaves that were swirling down
the garden paths, as move Mr. Huntingdon
from his usual routine. He only smiled
incredulously, said that he felt perfectly
well, and rode off every morning eastward
on the new grey mare that had. replaced
Gypsy.
And Nea flitted about the room among
her birds and flowers, and wondered some-
times if she should ever see Maurice
Trafford again. While Maurice, on his
side, drudged patiently on, very happy and
satisfied with his sudden rise, and dreaming
foolish youthful dreams, and both of them
were ignorant, poor children, that the wheel
of destiny was revolving a second time to
bring them nearer together.
(To be continued.)
Heavy Damages for Slander.
A peculiar slander case has .just been
tried at Platen, N.S. The plaintiff, Mrs.
Jas. Brown, of New Glasgow, claimed
$10,000 damages from R. S. McCurdy, of
the same town, for words imPuting to her
looseness of character, spoken by the de-
fendant under the following circumstances:
One Leindberg, an artist, some months ago
requested permission of the defendant to
place a picture of Mrs. Brown on exhibi-
tion in his store window. Shortly after a
fellow•citizen, Fraser, informed the defend-
ant that the picture was that of a woman
of sullied reputation. McCurdy at once re-
moved the picture and when the artist
called for an explanation expressed his
opinion of the plaintiff's character in vig-
orous terms. For using this language the
action was brought. The plaintiff is a de-
icidedly pretty blonde, and her manner and
'appearance as she detailed the history of
her happy married life were calculated to
make a favorable impression on the jury.
She related the insults to which she had
been subjected after the reports got abroad
through the newspapers. Pointed at and
laughed at on the streets of New Glasgow,
made the victim of unsought and offensive
attentions on the train and the recipient of
tickets to the theatres from unknown ad-
mirers, it was evident she had snffered in
consequence. The defence was denial, and
that the communication was made in good
faith and privileged. 'After being out a
short time the jury brought in a verdict
giving the plaintiff $4,000 damages.
The Reporters' Revenge.
The public do not know how much pub-
lic speeches are "touched up" by the
reporters. Even the most accoraplished
speaker, through excitement or want of
words, or because of interruptions, occa-
sionally loses the sequence of his argument,
and repeats himself or breaks off before his
sentence is completed. When the reporter
writes out his report he is expected to
" make sense" of it. One of our local
aldermen got out of favor with the reporters
by complaining that he had 'never said the
things placed to his credit or 'discredit. We
had no right, he maintained,- to comment
on his speeches when we only gave garbled
instead of verbatim reports of them. So
the reporters, who had put themselves to
some trouble to translate his disjointed
remarks into intelligible English,elgreed to
report him verbatim next time. He never
wanted another verbatim report, and it can-
not be pleasant to him to know that many
of his friends preserve that One.--SE.Jaines'
Gazette.
A Man Shoots Ills Wife.
David Robb, of No. 63 Pearl street,
Toronto, was drinking hard on Saturday,
and being jealously inclined began to abuse
hie wife. He picked up a 32 -calibre re-
volver and threatened to shoot, and his wife
fled through the back door to the woodshed.
Ho kept his word and took a flying shot at
hor, sending a bullet crashing' through her
right forearm. He then sought the tefin- 1
ing influences of a saloon close by to drown ,
hie murderous passions in the flowing bowl. '
Dr. Cook was celled anctextracted the bullet
from Mre. Robb's arm. The would-be
murderer was arrested.
1301310 Of Tiffin s sweetest girls Weed taking
a tour through the new Court Hots°, with
Celle Ferbieg, 4 Kenton belle, in tow: just
like one of those dating Itenteil giritti CeIia
stepped tqi to the inettiage record and
bluffed any piling Man present to take out
the peptet itha neeke her his're Ed.flonitue
Wellted up and accepted the challenge. r
NOtiee 6f it was published in the papers, ,
and it te said the young couple drove over,
to Feetretia to get spliced in the Ovetiliig.
Maribn (0.) Mirror.
Shad liaNie iear1y tOtEiakeu the COilneetie
Out Meer.
EARN AND GARDEN.
,
Seasonable Hints for lieadees in the
Country.
It is now ()encoded that ensilage is the
CheaPest Sat* feed that can be Predneed
on the ferm.
Freit growers see, that raspberries grown
for evaporating can he much more easily
gathered by lthoekhtg the frnit off•
A great many weeds can be used, when
Just coming ep, as greens, such as poke,
lanileg quarter and dandelion; hut it is
better to grow mustard and hale instead!
and plough under all weeds.
Experiments in the west show that ono
of the best crosses of horses is the Perch-
eron stallion and. thoroughbred mare, the
produce combining the large size of the
sire with the activity and endurance of the
dam
If the fruit coining to market were first
assorted in some manner the prices ob-
tained would be larger. It is better not to
pick the small fruit than to mix the -berries.
Quantity does not pay as well as quality
and attractive appearance.
Pick out your breeders, says the Farm
Journal, the pigs with long bodies, broad
backs and deep, round hams, Select a
breed which has hair on it. A good coat of
hair counts on a hog as well as any animal.
It is a protection in summer and in winter.
In twenty days the eggs of one hen would
exceed the weight of her body. So of any
bird. Yet the whole of that mass of albu-
men is drawn directly from her blood. If
stinted in food, of course, it would limit
the number as wellas the size of the eggs.
Good butter cows will make a pounnf
butter to every 14 to 18 pounds of milk.
", General purpose cows" want from 22 to
31 pounds, and some cows would require
50 pounds of milk to make a pound of
butter. Average dairies require somewhere
about 25 pounds of milk to make a pound
of butter.
After shearing ticks will emigrate from
the shorn sheep to the lamb; then is the
time to drive tho ticks out of the flocks.
Watch the lambs, says Farm and Home, arid
when the ticks have colonized them dip in
tobacco water. Twelve to fifteen pounds
refuse tobacco boiled in a gallon or two of
water, then diluted to make one barrel, will
do for 100 lambs.
Josiah Hooper thinks that if farmers
were aware of the value of the cutting back
process on their newly set trees we should
hear of fewer failures and seebetter-ehaped
specimens. Peach trees a year from the
bud should have the side branches headed
back to short spurs and the leader severely
shortened; there would then be a fine
growth of young wood, and also a good root
development.
If we wish to form in our cow the habit
of quantity and continuity in milking we
raust between the first and second calvings
exercise the utmost care to see that she is
not only provided with the food to give the
largest flow of best milk but that the milk-
ing tendency is at this period fostered and
encouraged by every reasonably available
means. At this time in the life of the cow
is this tendency fixed.—Bural Canadian.
To cure diarrhoea in fowls, take new
milk, say half a cup for each fowl, heat an
iron poker, or any suitable piece of iron,
red hot and scorch the milk with it; give
as warm as the fowl can stand it. It is a
sure cure for looseness in calves, colts or
humans, and will check looseness in fowls.
Give it to fowls with a spoon ; let it run
down the roof of the mouth, so that it will
not get in the windpipe.
It is stated by the North British Agricul-
turist that in a gallon of skim milk there is
nearly a pound of solid food, almost chemi-
cally similar to the lean of meat. This is
the flesh of the milk, and there is no reason
why it should not be eaten as a food, juet
as meat is eaten, with the addition of any
kind of pure foreign fat; but, being mingled
with a liquid, the people are unable to
appreciate it, and rarely perceive the fact
that it is a food at all.
Give the breed sows the run of a clover
field all through the summer if possible!
It is less stimulating than any dry winter
food, and will keep them in health with
far less fever than any other food we have
ever tried. The pigs, moreover, will soon
learn to pick at it and eventually make it
their staple food, giving them growth,
health, frame and size, and fit them for
the purposes of life, be that breeding or
fattening, better than anything else.—
Rural World
If tho field be heavily covered with tall
weeds, and there be no other crop growing
thereon, broadcast ten bushels of lime over
the weeds and plow them under, before
they seed, as a green manurial crop. Allow
them to remain a month, then harrow in
two bushels of rye per acre, and plow the
rye under when it is three feet high, turn-
ing it down with a chain, and next spring
the land will be excellent for corn.
In their native hills it is said that the
Cheviot sheep are excelled by none. They
are as large as the Cotswolds, while the
mutton is considered better and the fleece
finer and closer. On good pasture the
fleece grows finer and sells for a higher
price than when the animals are fed on
coarse grass. Of course the mutton is
Etffeoted to a considerable extent by the
quality of the food, but if they can get the
same sort of feed as in their native home
their meat will be equally excellent.
A writer in the American Rural Home
thus describes how he avoided potato bugs:
"In planting potatoes I drooped a handful
of unleached ashes upon each hill after
spatting the ground with the hoe, believing
it would be (disagreeable to the bugswhen
they made their first appearance, which is
the best tithe to fight them as the first
ones that come do not feed upon the vines,
the slugs from the eggs being the real
depredators. As a result I have foundand
killed five beetles, when before I numbered
thousands upon the same ground."
M. Mount has submitted to official in-
vestigation his system of heating bu Ida ge,
by which ho is enabled to transport heat,
witk hardly any less, to distances up to 300
or 400 yards. The inventor completely
isolates his pipes by meane of air jackets.
Tho pipee cen be laid undergrOund or aver:
head. At the entrance of the contial pipe
a jet of steam le placed, Which, acting as
an injector, forces in air, and heats tho
latter at tho same time. The eir drawn he
is obtained from the first jacket, and thuEi
is eleVated in temperature before it cemee
in contact veith the steam By this moans(
great edOnorny in fuel is obtained.
5.