The Exeter Advocate, 1897-4-8, Page 6•
MIGRATION.
R TION.
Through the autumn woods the shadows grow
And wider and deeper the streamlets flow;
i,Io sound but the rippling waters heard,
Dr the faint low twitter of some lone bird,
Belated, forgotten and wondering why
$in mate bad deserted him—be must fly,
For ludo winds are tossing the trees o'erhead
And scattering the leaves oe golden red
That tiling as they fan to fern pale grown,
Cream tinted, like old lace some queen bad
worn.
(So Away from this scene ro a cheerier one
rhe lone bird Kies with the setting sun
And rests midst the boughs of old oak trees,
Where Spanish moss swings in the soft, warm
breeze.
Where in dreams be forgets his snow bound
nest
Till spring comes again—then home is best.
And with wings outspread he wanders hence
Till he finds the maple tree close by the fence,
Where year after year his mate and he
Have reared their brood in the same old tree.
—B. P. M. in Boston Commercial.
ON THE LATA BEDS.
In about the year 1542 there was
born in one of the most desolate regions
of the Union—the lava beds that ex-
tend :from northern California into
southern Oregon—au Indian girl. Her
father was Se Cot, an intractable Modoc
subchief, who lost his life in an attack
on a party of whites emigrating to the
Pacific coast in 1850. Along about.
1857, when adventurous white men,
seeking gold, began to penetrate the
Modoo lava bed region by the several
hundreds every year, there came that
way a certain young Kentuckian, who
had peen an army sergeant stationed at
the Presidio, in San Francisco. He was
Frank Riddle. He bad refreshments at
the miserable home of the squaw widow,
Se Cot, and soon took a fancy to her
daughter, Wi-ne-ma, then 15 years old,
and famous in that region as the best
looking and most agreeable Indian girl
in California. Riddle got money in gold.
mining in southern Oregon and soon
married the handsome Modoc girl. The
couple took up their abode near the
gold diggings, and the young wife be-
gan to learn her husband's language.
While she visited her savage brothers
and sisters occasionally and bore them
gifts she became weaned to the life and
thought of white people. But she never
dared, on pain of assassination or poison-
ing, to reveal her change of faith or to
allow that she really loved a white man.
In 1860, when gold was discovered in
large quantities in the Klamath region
and thousands of venturesome Ameri-
cans rushed through northern California
and across the lava beds, the anger of
the Modocs was roused to fullest pitch
by the lawlessness of the invading
whites. In June, 1860, the Modocs tared
14 gold miners into a narrow canyon,
and there, after unspeakable cruelties,
extending over two days, let the white
men die. The news of the murders by
the Modocs got abroad a month later
and set on fire the whole white popula-
tion of northern California and southern
Oregon.
In August a band of 75 whites left
Yreka, Ctt1., to punish the Modoo sav-
ages for the act. The avengers were led
by Benjamin Wright, an old mountain-
eer, who bad hunted and fought Indians
with Kit Carson, Jim Beckwith, John
Scott and Jim Bridger. After a long
chase through the rough country, which
was not productive of good results, the
chiefs were invited to meet the whites
and make a treaty. This they agreed tc
do, and the warring parties went intc
camp near each other on Lost river, the
Indians outnumbering the whitemen by
three to one. Early on the morning of
the conference a young Modoc squaw,
breathless, her clothing torn and hex
feet bleeding, came into the Wristlet
camp and asked to see the leader. She
had run' and walked some nine miles
across the ragged mountain trail. Her
errand was to warn the invaders against
treachery. The night before she learned
at the council fire that her people in-
tended to surround the white men dur-
ing the conference and put them to
death. Wright and his men met cunning
with cunning. They went into ambush
near the place of conference, and when
the unsuspecting Modocs fell into the
trap but two escaped from the slaughter
that ensued. This affair is known in the
history of northern California as the
Ben Wright massacre. The squaw who
conveyed the timely warning to her
white friends was Wi-ne-ma, the wife
of Frank Riddle. This fact was never
found out by her people, else her life
would have been forfeited.
Elven and a half years passed. The
Modocs hurl Leen confined by the gov-
ern:rcnt to a defined reservation, and
treaties were made with them, which
were rep atcsiee iroken. The tribe was
the prey of. ec-t traders, contractors and
of almost every white man who Dame
in contact with it. The only one of the
hated whites in wham the Indians had
confidence was the late Judge Elijah
Steele. To this man they went for coun-
sel and advice, but in the lapse of time
they even contemplated taking his life,
as in the Indian mode of reasoning the.
death of a single wbite man erases the
wrongs perpetrated by many. •
Sullen at first ander their injuries, the
Modocs were awakened to fury and de-
clared vengeance on their oppressors.
The memory of any detail of the Wright
affair was never allowed to fade. At
every council Captain Jack or Scar
Faced Charley called upon the vengeful
Modocs to remember the August day
'when the palefaces had killed their fa-
thers and brothers. At last, in January,
1878, the whites in northern California
knew that another Indian war was at
hand.
Shortly after hostilities began the
government appointed a peace commis-
eioner to confer with the rebellious red-
skins and endeavor to make peace. In
the meantime Riddl and other squaw
men on the reservation used their influ-
ence toward a settlement of the diffi-
culty, but to no effect. The turbulent
warriors led by Capt in Jack were bent
on a slaughter. When the peace com-
missioner arrived o the ground, the
Indians refused to treat with him. They
did, however, finally agree to sal -rendez
to Judge Steele and two other men of
that region and arranged to give up
theirir arms the following day. When
Steele and his companions•ent v to the
agreed place of o surrender, not an
Indian was in sight, and they returned
to the military camp. Steele then agreed
to go alone and interview the war chief,
That flight Steele went through an ex-
perience few men have endured. While
talking to him in pacific terms in the
Chinook jargon they 'were discussing iu
their own, tongue the advisability of
murdering their visitor. Steele under-
stood sufficiently their language to com-
prehend his danger, but did not betray
his knowledge. The chiefs finally: decid-
ed to spare his life on conditi en of his
bringing the commissioners and com-
4ianding officers of the troops to confer
with them.
But for the efforts of the brave squaw,
Wi-ne-ma, war would have broken out
tong before, Many times she took the
weapons from the hands of warriors
bent on the destruction of settlers in the
region, and it was she who warned the
officers of the army of the trouble brew-
ing. Her influence with her people be-
gan to wane as their rage against the
whites increased. Then, too, the war-
riors began to mistrust her husband.
Her food was poisoned by Modocs, and
she was compelled to sleep in secret
places for fear of death from her own
brothers and relatives for her suspected
undue liking for wbite people.
Colonel A. B. Meacham, who was' in
command of the military post, was a
humane man and did all in his power
to right the wrongs of his dusky wards.
This man Wi-ne-ma revered, and when
the second peace commissioner was ap-
pointed she did all in her power to pre-
vent him from attending the council
with the chiefs. She grasped his horse
by the bridle, begging Meacham and
Canby not to meet Jack and his band.
When she found entreaty was in vain,
the devoted woman mounted her pony
and rode with the ill fated party to the
place of meeting.
The story of that meeting has been
told many times. When Meacham was
attacked by the bloodthirsty Sconehin,
Wi-ue-ma threw herself on the savage
and begged biro to spare the life of her
white friend. Others coming up, Wi-ne-
ma ran from warrior to warrior, turn-
ing aside their weapons. At last one of
many bullets struck Meacham senseless,
and the quick witted squaw• turned
aside the weapon aimed to finish his
life, with the words, "Him dead; nc
use shoot." Sconehin tried to scalp
Meacham, when Wi-ne-ma grasped the
knife, The enraged buck struck her a
terrible blow, almost !stocking hex
senseless. Again the wit of the woman
came into play. "The soldiers are cora-
tug upl" she cried, and the next mo-
ment a detachment of troops did appear.
Amid curses from the enraged troopers,
a dozen weapons were leveled at the
breast of the brave squaw. Looking the
mounted men straight in the face, she
cried: "No shoot mel I tried to save
them!" Then came from the ranks the
words of an enlisted man, "The man
who harms her I'll kill."
The same day Wi-ne-ma's husband,
Riddle, was riding horseback and was
shot dead from ambush by a Modoc.
The body was dragged many miles over
the trail by the frightened horse. When
the horse stopped, the bead and shoul-
ders of the coprse were so horribly mu-
tilated that tbe body was unrecogniza-
ble. Then the three little children of
Wi-ne-ma and Riddle were murdered as
they slept and their bodies burned in
the rude family dwelling. Wi-ne-ma,
under the cover of darkness and eluding
the hostile members of her race and
family, made her way across the deso-
late lava beds to the government post.
She was sick and broken hearted at the
horrible fate of all her family, but she
nevertheless became the constant and
devoted nurse of Colonel Meacham as
he lay in the hospital recovering from
his six gunshot wounds. It was 11
weeks before the colonel was able tc
leave his bed. By that time Wi-ne-ma
was almost a helpless invalid. She was
an important witness for the govern-
ment in the trial of Captain Jack and
his subordinate chiefs for the murder of
General Canby and other officers, and
for this she berself was shot through the
chest as she sat one evening by a win-
dow at ber lonely home. Colonel Meach-
am gave the little woman chief liberally
from his means, and the soldiers at the
post saw that she never lacked medical
attendance and nursing.—Philadelphia
Times.
The Big Hat In Church.
This is what happens to the man be-
hind the hat. The preacher disappears
until nothing remains but a voice. And
with the hat standing against the spot
where the voice is, and the modulated
sentences breaking against it, how is
attention to be fixed upon the sermon
The mind grows lax, the quiet and
sweetness of the sanctuary tend to dis-
traction, the hat fills the whole visi-
ble universe, and involuntarily one's
thoughts center upon it. It is awonder-
ful construction. There is a yellow rose
trembling on a long stem with every
movement of the wearer's bead, and one
begins to calculate the extent of its aro.
There are bunches of feathers disposed,
apparently, with view to preventing
anything from being seen between thera.
whichever way the hat is turned. And
there are stalactites of ribbon, upright
and immovable, which still•further ob-
scure the horizon. Occasionally one gets
a momentary glimpse of the hand of
the preacher as it is stretched out in
gesticulation, but it seems a mere de-
tached fragment uselessly beating the
air. The preacher himself has disap-
peared as if he had never been. The
only thing visible when the hat is turned
for a moment is another hat of the same
kind farther on.—New York Observer.
E ME DIC N
THE ' N A iS
We are ae mendicants who wait
* the roadside Along d o r in
the sun.
'Tatters of yesterday and shreds
Of morrow clothe us every one.
And some are dotards, who believe
And glory in the days of old,
While some are dreamers, harping; still
Upon an unknown age of gold.
Hopeless or witless! Not one heeds
As lavish time comes down the way
And tosses in the suppliant hat
One great new minted gold today.
But there be others, happier far,
Tho vagabondish sons of God,
Who know the players and the flowers
And care not how the world niay plod.
They idle in the traffio lands
And loiter through the woods with
spring.
To them the glory of the earth
Is but to hear a blackbirdsin`.'
They. too, receive each one his day,
But their wise hearts know many things
Beyond the sating of desire,
Above the dignity -of kings.
One, I remember, kept his coin,
And laughing flip1ed it in the air,.
But when two strolling pipe players
Came by he tossed it to the pair.
Spendthrift of joy, his childish heart
Danced to their wild, outlandish bars.
Then supperless he laid him down
That night and slept beneath the stars.
-Bliss Carmen in London Sun.
HIS FIRST WIFE.
Madison Janeway was always pointed
out as a "self made man" and was ap-
parently well satisfied with his own
handiwork, for content radiated from
his full face and from his figure, which
had lost its youthful muscle under
creeping waves of flesh. Mr. Janeway
bad satisfied his ambitions as far as it
is possible for a man to do it. Fortu-
nately for his content these aspirations
were of the kind that are most often re-
alized. He had a handsome wife and
three bright children; he was president
of the state bank, an institution known
to be Colluded on the rock of sound
finance; he had been mayor of Shewanee
and was a member of the legislature.
So much of earthly glory had fallen to
his share.
When he read the obituary of another
self made man, he always nodded' hie
head sagely, as much as to say, "I know
how it goes; I started with nothing
myself." In fact, Mr. Janeway's elec-
tion to the legislature came of the ad-
miration the electors bad for a man of
the people. When his constituents hired
a band and went to congratulate him,
they found him ready with a speech.
He said: "Fellow citizens, I will not
try to hide from you my deep gratifica-
tion at the result of the election. 1
wanted to be elected. I have wanted a
good many things, and I've generally
got them, but not without working. I.
started with nothing; I did chores for
my keep; I went to school when I could,
picked up a penny here and a penny
there; I did any boxiest work that I
could find. And where am I now? Pres-
ident of a bank, ex -mayor and a mem-
ber of the legislature. I thank yop,,
friends, for your votes, yet I feel that I
have won my own way; that I am one,
a private perhaps, in the great army of
self made men." He bowed and retired
amid loud applause. In another this
speech would have provoked criticism,
but one of the privileges of the self
made man is to praise bis maker with-
out stint.
Mr. and Mrs. Janeway had but just
come from a visit to their own house,
which their architect assured them was
in the purest style of the Gothic renais-
sance. But they were sure, too, which
seemed to them of far more importance,
that it was the finest house in town and
quite eclipsed Mrs. Morgan's red brick
mansion.
They were to move into it at once,
and Mrs. Janeway went about the old
house planning what should be left be-
hind, as not coming up to the artistic
standard of the new place. "Come here
a minute, Madison," she called from
an obscure entry back of the dining
)(Knights' Chargers.
During the middle ages so heavily
burdened were the horses of the knights
with their own armor and that of their
riders that only the largest and strongest
animals could be employed. Froissart
says that between 600 and 700 pomade
weight was carried by a knight',',
charger.
plain with an
honest,
ugly face
anti a short, thick figure.
"Who are you?"
Mr. Janeway asked,
frowning at her intrusion.
"Don't you know me, Maddy?" she
tettuned.
He was startled when she called him
Maddy—it was more thaw 20 years since
he had been called that. "Are—you—
are—you—but you can't be Sarah, " be
stammered. ''She has been dead these
many years,"
"I am Sarah," she answered: "You
have changed, Maddy."
"Yes—yes. We are apt to, he re-
plied uneasily. "But you look just the
same." He said this to see if she would
account for her presence.
"The living can only see the dead as
they were in life," she returned. "You
sold the farm, didn't you?"
Mr. Janeway felt as if a reproach lay
in the observation. "Yes, I sold the
farm," he said. "I needed the money
to put in other investments,"
"I worked bard on that place," she
said, crossing her hands—very rough,
worn hands. t 'I worked hard there those
years. I tried to save all I could, Maddy. "
"You were a good wife, Sarah," he
replied, "and both of us bad our bur-
dens, I guess.'"
"And it was my money that bought
the farm. You had nothing when you
came courting me, did you, Maddy?
And you said that my being 80 years
old and you being just of age made no
difference."
"Yes, I suppose I said that, and 1;'m
sure I always tried to be good to you,"
he said in answer to that unspoken re-
proach that seemed to lie behind her
unspoken words. "I tried to treat you
well."
"The money that came to me just be-
fore I died fronn. Uncle John must helm
been a help. I left it and the farm to
you, Maddy." Her dull eyes seemed to
force him to acknowledge his debt.
"Yes—yes, Sarah. I know that I owe
much to you. Without your help and
money I should have had a much harder
time getting on my feet. Yet I think I
should have succeeded in any case."
Mr. Janeway could not forbear • offering
this tribute to his self esteem. "How-
ever, I gratefully acknowledge your
aid, Sarah."
"You have another wife now, Mad
dy, and children," she said, "but I was
first. I believed in you, and I worked for
you, oh, so willingly. I knew that you
were different from me. I knew that
you had hopes that stupid Sarah could
never understand. I knew that I was
your companion in your work, but not
'in your hopes. I knew that we were
growing farther apart every year that
we lived together. I knew that while I
was getting to be worked out and mid-
dle aged you were only coming to
your prime, I knew that it was best
that I died when I did—before I came
to be a drag on you. Yet, Maddy, be-
fore her and your children I think you
ought not to shamo me, for I was your
faithful wife, the wife of your youth,
and I gave you all I had to give—my
money, my love, my toil."
Before Mr. Janeway could answer
she was gone, and he sat alone.
The next day, however, he took the
old photograph down town and ordered
for it a gorgeous frame. When it was
returned, he hung it in his library
where it looked strangely alien between
a St. Cecilia and the Arabian Falconer,
bought at the instigation of the archi-
tect.
Florry, with a child's quickness, no-
ticed the fine gilt frame that surrounded
the ugly, good face. "What have yon
done to the lady?" she asked. "Aren't
you going to pack her away, like mam-
ma said?"
"No; the picture is to stay here. Do
you remember who I said it was?"
"Yes; it was your first wife."
Mr. Janeway took her on his knee.
"Florry," he began soberly, "when I
was a little boy, I was very poor, as
poor as the Galts"—a family celebrated
in the town for ill luck and poverty.
"I went to school when I could, but
that was mighty little, for I had to
work most of the time. Sometimes I'd
get most discouraged, but I bad to work
just the same. One year I worked for a
man named Deering.' He bad a daughter,
and wheu she found how much I wanted
to go to school she lent me some money
—money she had saved by pinching and
scraping. After awhile her father died,
and she married me. I had nothing,
and she owned a good farm, but she
married me. In six years she died and
left everything to me. She gave me my
start. She was a good woman and be-
lieved in me when nobody else did. The
other night papa dreamed that he saw
her and talked to her, and itimade him
feel ashamed that he had seemed to for-
get her."
Mr. Janeway felt that he was making
a handsome reparation, but he was a
man who aimed to do right. It was
necessary to his self esteem.
The child wriggled from his arms
and walked away, with an awed glance
at the picture.
Mr. Janeway stared at it musingly.
"Are you satisfied now, Sarah?" he
caught himself saying. "Pshaw! That
dream holds to me still," he exclaimed,
"but anyhow I've done her justice."
And though the architect declared
that the photograph quite spoiled the
effect of the library and begged that it
might be banished to some back room
Mr. Janeway was firm, and the dull,
good face of his first wife kept its place
between the St. Cecilia and the Arabian
Falconer. -Chicago News.
room.
Mr. Janeway laid down his paper and
went to her, followed by Florry, their
youngest child. "What is it, my dear?"
he asked.
"Hadn't I better pack this away—the
frame's so shabby that it isn't fit for
the new house?" She pointed to a faded
photograph hanging in a dark corner.
It was the likeness of a plain woman,
with a broad mouth and eyes widely
separated; the hair was parted and
drawn back from the forehead like two
curtains; a watch chain picked out in
gilt encircled her neck, and her lips and
cheeks were touched by carmine, giving
the face a ghastly pretense of life.
Mr. Janeway stared at it meditative-
ly. "I hadn't noticed it for a long
time," he said.
"Who is that lady, papa?" Florry
asked, looking at the picture as if she
saw it for the first time.
"Why, Florry, that was my first
wife," he answered, surprised that she
had not known it before.
"Was she my mamma too?"
"No, no," he replied hastily. "She
was Sarah Deering." •
"Wasn't she any relation to me?" the
child persisted. She was but 8 years
old, and the ramifications of kinship
were yet a mystery to her.
"Of course not," her mother said
rather sharply. "Your papa was married
to her when he was very young—long
before he lived here or knew me, 'I
thought you had heard this before."
She turned to her husband. "Madison,
shall I lay this picture away?"
Mr. Janeway looked at her attentive-
ly. Was it zeal or an artistic ensemble,
or was there a lurking jealousy of the
woman who had come before? "Pack it
away if you like," he said turning
away. "It is shabby."
Long after his children and wife
were sleeping Mr. Janeway sat smoking
and thinking complacently of his suo-
cess. He, Madison Janeway, had begun
with nothing, and at 50 he had won the
things he bad longed for at 29. The
opening and closing of the door attract-
ed his attention. He looked up.
A woman walked across the room—a,
p Ric , r V
BUTTER MAKER'S MEDAL.
The National Association Treats Its Prize
%Vlnuere Well,
There is something very agreeable to
the true American citizen in the con-
templation of the gold medal which the
National Butter Makers' association pre-
sented to the two persons furnishing the
best samples of their products. There
The New Ribbons.
The new ribbons are very delicate in
texture like silken gauze, and the Tari-
tty in grass linen effects has multiplied
sunny times since last season. There are
Scotch plaids, lights tinted grounds
plaided off with some strong color and.
scattered over with polka dots or sprays
of flowers, and plain colors, with fancy
edgfas of hair line stripes in various col-
ors and checked borders, which are very
effective. Taffeta seems to have the lead
among the plain ribbons, and some of
these are satin faced. Moire ribbona
with corded edges are also seen..
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1tIhV�
I1,17;c1.
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:fir✓ J
BEST BUTTER MAKER'S MEDAL.
were two medals exactly alike, one fox
the best creamery butter, the other fox
the best dairy, which was quite right
and exactly as it should be.
The feature which will please the
American spirit is the national flag
draped ,above the tub of best butter. It
is not near enough the tub to touch it
and thus give a suggestion of getting
any grease upon its sacred folds, but it
is placed above and around the tub as
if to protect the product of American
industry. The wreath work is in Ro-
man gold chasing. The flag is enamel-
ed in the beautiful red, white and blue
of our national emblem. The two gold
medals cost $50 each, but each is worth
100 times that to its happy and fortu-
nate possessor.
Wash Cows' Udders. •
My opinion is that in the most per-
fectly arranged stable, with the best
kind of bedding and where the cows are
cleaned every day just like race horses,
the washing of the udder before milk-
ing is most necessary. Cleanliness,
cloanliuess, cleanliness, is the principal
thing in every dairy, and where there
is a lack of cleanliness in the stable, on
the cow or in the milk pail or can there
will surely be trouble some day. The
health departments of many cities of
the United States and Europe de-
mand of the dairy farmer that he keep
his cows clean and also demand that
the udders of the cows be washed before
milking. Even with the best kind of
bedding there will adhere some dust or
dirt on the teats during the night in
the stable or in the yard during day-
time, and every dairyman should make
it a strict rule to wash the udders of
the cows before milking. In the best
dairies in Denmark and Germany the
washing is done in this way: In the
stable are a wash dish and towel. The
man or woman who has to milk first
washes his or her hands, then takes a
pail with clean but not too cold water
and a towel. and washes off the udder of
each cow and dries it immediately.
After all the udders are cleaned—each
man has to attend to 18 to 20 cows—the
milking commences. I never heard of
any loss on milk if the washing is done
that way, and I surely would have
heard it, because in all the dairies where
I have been we tested each cow every
week and kept a milking account. But
only washing the udders and not drying
them off is the greatest mistake a dairy-
man can make. Bad teats, even inflam-
mation of the udder, may be the result.
—A. G. Veith in Hoard's Dairyman.
CO-OPERATIVE FACTORY.
Manager of a Successful Creamery Asses
dation Tells Ills Experience.
e l exlencc.
Mr. Clark H. Dills manages a thor-
oughly successful co-operative creamery
in Minnesota. At a meeting of the State
Dairyman's association he told how he
does it:
Tho large number of petrous and
stockholders, all having an interest
and all of different opinions, that must
be dealt with so as to give satisfaction,
makes it ono of the most difficult and
exacting of business enterprises. The.
management of the co-operative cream-
ery calls for an abundance of patience
and tact and requires a scientific knowl-
edge often fax beyond the expectations,
and I might say sometimes beyond the
realizations, of those who endeavor to
conduct the sante. It should be vested
in a board of directors, one of whom it
selected as manager, and whenever pos.
sible the same person should act as sec-
retary of the company.
Put good men in office, hold them ac-
countable and then let them conduct the
business untrammeled.
The management should be done
openly and above board. The stock-
holder has a right to have everything
made plain to him. It should be as au
open book before him, then he will be
able to see the reason why he does not
get as much for his milk as his neigh-
bors; also ho will lie able to decide
whether or not to use his influence in
the re-election of old officers.
One of the most essential qualifica-
tions required of a manager is ability
to conduct the business in a thorough
and businesslike manner. I do not mean
simply the ability to write a good hand
or aptness in figures, although these are
very necessary requirements. Nor do
mean the ability to gain personal wealth,
but rattler the ability to merit and gain
and hold the confidence of the patrons.
The effort of all trying to manage a
creamery is, no doubt, the greatest hin-
drance in tbe way of success. Let the
men, chosen for the work, define some
method of conducting the business and
then stick to it. And with each year's
experience these officers become more
capable and they should on no account be
changed. A continual change of officers
or butter makers creates dissension
among the patrons, and is a very poor
method of doing business.
Iu selling the goods, it will soon be
found that no one likes to do business
with all the patrons of a creamery, and
I am confident that the make of a cream-
ery, managed ou good business princi-
ples, will iu a year's time outsell that
made by a company with unstable man-
agement. For this reason the sale of the
goods should be steadily in the hands of
ono person, other officers acting as ad-
visers only.
The management of a successful
creamery must fall largely into the
hands of one person. Tho purchasing of
supplies and a general oversight of the
creamery should be left to him, and to
him all help should bo answerable. The
patron's complaints should be made to
him and he should be trusted to keep
things going smoothly. His power should
be so complete that every solicitor can
place confidence in his word and do busi-
ness with him lromestly and decisively.
At all times he should be in close touch
with the rest of the board of directors,
and thea, if he has the required tact, dis-
cretion and ability, together with long
continued authority, the business will
prosper. He must be apt and ever on
his guard, never allowing the unexpect-
ed to delay business or cause a shut
down for a day.
His compensation should bo such as
to enable him to perform the duties
thoroughly, that he may be able to de-
vote the necessary amount of time re-
quired to look after it every day.
He should educate himself to the bus-
iness. He should make a study of all its
branches in detail. He must be posted
in regard to prices, not only the butter
market, but the prices of all machinery
required, of extras and supplies in gen-
eral. He must know the value of the
machinery in operation as well as its
cost price in dollars.
I would have him educated so that he
may understand the component parts of
milk and butter. He should be able to
take samples and test milk properly.
Then I would have him visit the patrons
and become so well interested in their
welfare that it would be a pleasure for
them 1 have him call and advise for
their interests. He should be a - good
physiognomist, that he may be able to
approach any patron and advise him
without giving offense. His knowledge
of these things may be as complete as
can be learned at the dairy schools. He
may think himself competent, but iu
nine cases out of ten he will Bud he has
much yet to learn when given the re-
sponsibility of manager.
He must attend the conventions and
note the -improved methods and the nec-
essary requirements. He must learn
from the experience of others. He must
subscribe liberally to the dairy journals
and read them, too, for this is a day of
advancement and ever changing meth-
ods, and the manager that is alive to
the interests of his creamery will not
fail in any of these particulars.
Above all things let there be har-
mony, and the key to harmony is confi-
dence. To gain confidence there must
be no secrets either from officer or pa '
tron.. Explain to them your method of
bookkeeping, show them that it is open
for criticism, show them that you are
willing to meet them half way in every-
thing, and in most oases you will have
secured a friend. I would suggest—never:
lose your independence or subject your-
self to ridicule, but let your independ-
ence be such that you may have perfect
Control of it at all times. The manager
must not expect his creamery to march
near the head of the procession unless
he himself is iu the lead.
.A. Mysterious Disease.
As to that mysterious cow disease
which ruins dairy animals, here are its
symptoms: First a blister coarses at the
tip of the teat. Then the inflammation
extends upward through the udder.
Nothing stops it till the udder is de-
stroyed, and though your cow is one
that makes four pounds of butter a day
she will never be any good again. No
remedy has been found for the disease.
But now read, mark and inwardly di-
gest, and digest well, what an authority
says concerning the cause of the inflam-
mation. There is no remedy after the
ailment has started, but you can remove
the cause. According to the authority
mentioned, the cause is the following:
The continuous stabling of cows through
the winter without a breath of air
blowing on them and fed with the rich-
est food, with no outlet for the prod-
ucts except through the udder, not even
a brisk breeze on a sunny clay to carry
off the excess of internal heat engen-
dered by the rich and full feeding, can
only result in the loss of cows by dis-
ease.
The Soja Bean.
At the North Carolina station soja
beans yielded per acre 4,415 pounds of
air dried material, and cowpeas only
1,895 pounds. The yield of the beans
will probably average between 80 and
40 bushels per acre. In a season with
ordinary moisture the crop on good land
will grow from 4 to 6 feet high, and it
branches widely. Such a crop would
produce from three to five tons of dry
fodder per acre. All kinds of stock are
fond of the fodder, and though it does
not look inviting will leave even clover
hay to get it. It is most valuable to mix
with corn in the silo, as it makes a bet-
ter balanced ration than corn alone.
From every point of view the soja bean
crop is a valuable one, and its growth
should be encouraged. —Southern Plant-
er.
Sterilize thoroughly your milk pails
and other utensils, your hands, clothing
and the stable, and therewill be no
need to sterilize milk. This is an in-
spiration right down from the kingdom
of common sense.
Fl
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