Evening Republican, Volume 19, Number 223, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 20 September 1915 — Page 3

TOOLS THE TEAM, AND TOE MAN DETERMINE GOOD OR BAD PLOWING

By S. M. CLINTON

LTHOUGH the plow is the first implement used by man in field n\i Iff M farming, real progress in its development has come only within the last fifty years. First mention of the plow in the Old Testament is by Job where he says: “The ' oxen plowing and the asses feedV y ing beside them.” In Job’s time Vs the plow was probably a crooked stick drawn by oxen, with a straight stick bound to their horns to which a grass rope was attached. This kind of implement was in use for thousands of years afterward, and even now in Old Mexico, within a hundred miles of the borderland of America, the crooked stick is still used. About a hundred and fifty years ago a plow with a wooden mold board was devised, and this held sway for fifty years, when some genius of a blacksmith put an iron edge on it, and it was then thought that the perfection of plow making had been reached. Then came the plow with the iron mold board and wooden frame. This was followed by the all-steel plow, which now reigns supreme. The aristocratic offspring of the all-steel plow Vi the disk, and this implement, in connection With the plow itself, is doing such good work that ft does not seem possible that we shall see any decided improvement In this instrument for some time. Good plowing depends as much upon the kind of plow used as upon the man who directs it. A great many farmers have yet to learn that one plow will not do satisfactory work in all kinds of soil and under all conditions. Perhaps the best plow to use is the one with the chilled sh#re and point. I think it is a mistake to use a plow point, that has to be constantly renewed; for every time a blacksmith takers with it he turns out a different kind of plow, and this is one reason why there is so much poor plowing done in this country. When a man gets a plow which does the work to his entire satisfaction -he should stick to it, and never permit its shape to be changed, if possible. With a soft point that has to be constantly renewed this is not possible, and that is why I prefer the chilled point.

Daniel Webster once, essayed to be a plowmaker. After years of deep thinking and experimenting, he turned out a most wonderful implement. It was over twelve feet long, built of wood, with an iron point, and required four yokefc of oxen to pull it. It turned a furrow eighteen inches wide, twelve inches deep, which resembled the irrigation ditches of tcday. This did not last long, however, and was never used outside of Massachusetts. To do good work the plow must Bcour well;

CHATS WITH THE AMBITIOUS FOLK

By ORISON SWETT MARDEN.

NEVER TOO LATE FOR SELF-IM-PROVEMENT. A New York millionaire —a prince among merchants—took me over his palatial residence on Fifth avenue, every room of which was a triumph of the architect’s, of the decorator’s, and of the upholsterer’s art. I was told that the decorations of a single sleeping, room had cost SIO,OOO. On the walls were paintings which cost fabulous prices, and about the rooms were pieces of massive and costly furniture and draperies representing a small fortune, and covering the-floors were carpets on which it seemed almost sacrilege to tread. He had expjnded a fortune for physical pleasure, comfort, luxury and display, but there was scarcely a book in the house. It was pitiful to think of the physical surfeit and mental starvation of the children of such a home as that. He told me that he came to the city a poor boy, with all his worldly possessions done up In a little red bandana. “I am a millionaire,” be said, “but I want to tell you that I would give half I have today for a decent education.’*

y One of the sad things about the neglected opportunities for self-im-provement is that they put people of great natural ability at a disadvantage among those who are their mental inferiors. I know a pitiable case of a born naturalist whose education was so neglected in youth that later, when he came to know more about natural history than almost any man of his day, he could not write a grammatical sentence, and could never make his ideas live in words, perpetuate them in books, because of his ignorance of even the rudiments of an education. Think of the suffering of this splendid man, who was conscious..of possessing colossal scientific knowledge, and yet was absolutely unable to express himself grammatically* It is difficult to conceive of a greater misfortune than always to be embarrassed and handicapped Just because of the neglect of early years. Many a girt of good natural ability spends her most productive years as a -cheap clerk or in a mediocre position because she never thought it worth

that is, the soil must slip from the mold board evenly, leaving the surface bright and clean. Poor scouring is due to many causes. The mold board may be too soft to take a good polish, or it may be imperfectly ground, or slight imperfections may have been left in the surface. To test a good mold board is an easy matter. By running the fingers over the surface from the bottom to the top one can easily tell whether the plow has the right shape, and whether its surface is perfect. A plow should have a hardened edge and point—the harder the better —because upon the wearing qualities of the plow depend success or failure to a very large degree. For breaking new sod, a plow with a long, sloping share and mold board should be used, but for stubble or well-tilled ground the plow with short, steep mold board is better. The breaking plow turns the sod over evenly, and covers all growth so that it rots and forms humus in the soil. Upon the shape of the plow also depends the draft. A plow unsulted to the soil on which it is used will cause a much greater draft than is necessary, wearing out the strength of the team

while to develop her mental faculties or to take advantage of opportunities within reach to flit herself for a superior position. Thousands of girls unexpectedly thrown on their own resources have been held down all their lives because of neglected tasks in youth, which at the time were dismissed with a careless "I don’t think it worth while.” They did not think it would pay to go to the bottom of any study at school, to learn to keep accounts accurately, or fit themselves to do anything in such a way as to be able to make a living by it. They expected to marry, and never prepared for being dependentent on themselves —a contingency against which marriage, in many Instances, is no safeguard.

The number of perpetual clerks is constantly being recruited by those who did not think it worth while as boys to learn to write a good hand or to master the fundamental branches of knowledge requisite in a business career. The ignorance common among young men and young women in factories, stores and offices, everywhere, in fact, in this land of opportunity where youth should be

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THE EVENING REPUBLICAN, RENSSELAER. INP.

well educated, is a pitiable thing. How often stenographers are mortified by the use of some unfamiliar word or term, or quotation, because of the shallowness of their preparation! It is not enough to be able to {take dictation when ordinary letters are given, not enough to do the, ordinary routine of office work. Thp ambitious stenographer must be prepared for the unusual word or expression, must have good reserves of knowledge to draw from in case of emergency. If she is constantly slipping up on her grammar, or is all at 6ea the moment she steps out of her ordinary routine, her employer knows that her preparation is shallow, that her education is limited, and her prospects will be limited, also. Everywhere we go we see men and women, especially from twenty-five to forty years of age, who' are cramped and seriously handicapped by the lack of early training. I often receive letters from such people, asking if it is possible for them to educate themselves so late in life. Of course it is. There are so many good correspondence schools today, and institutions like Chautauqua, so many evening

and the patience of the plowman. The more abrupt the curvature of the mold board the more pulverizing the action upon the furrow slice. The use of a colter reduces the draft materially, particularly on tough soils, clover sod and the like. Some farmers claim that the only first-class plowing that can be done is with the walking plow, but I have, seen some of the best plowing done with a sulky plow. There is not much difference in the draft. A sulky plow carrying a man will be about as easy on a team as walking, because the friction of the mold board of the walking plow is eliminated to. some extent. The draft of the walking plow depends largely upon the way in which it is set. If properly adjusted with a steady pull so that the heel or wing does not press too heavily against the soil, the plow will run easily, smoothly, and with very little attention from the plowman. I have seen the men follow the plow round after round without even touching the handle, except at the turning point

Another important thing in plowing is to have the width of the furrow just right. If the plow is set to take a larger land than it can turn over properly, it will leave much vegetation uncovered, and the field will be ridgy. The plow should be set to exactly cut and coyer all that it enters, and no more. When a plow run* properly it should set exactly level. No man is a good farmer unless he is first of all a good plowman. Upon the skill with which he plows his fields depends to a considerable extent the facility with which he can cultivate his crop, and, in fact, its yield. The question of deep or shallow plowing is one which must be studied by every man, and adapted to the needs of his soil and his crop. Deeply, plowed soil .contains moisture longer, affords better home for fertilizer and all kinds of plant food, is more easily cultivated, and is always to be desired.

schools, lectures, books, libraries and periodicals, that men and women who are determined to improve themselves have abundant opportunities to do so. One trouble with people who are smarting under the consciousness of deficient education is that they do not realize the immense value of utilizing spare minutes. Like many boys who will not save their pennies and small change because they cannot see how a fortune could ever grow by the saving, they cannot see how a little studying here and there each day will ever amount to a good substitute for a college education.

People who feel their lack of education, and who can afford the outlay, can make wonderful strides in a year by putting themselves under good tutors, who will direct their reading and study along different lines. There is one special advantage in self-education —you can adapt the studies .to your own particular needs better than you could in school or college. Everyone who reaches middle life without an education should first read and study along the line of his own vocation, and then broaden himself as much as possible by reading on other lines.

Every well-ordered household ought to protect the time of those who desire to study at home. At a fixed hour etrery evening during the long winter there should be by common consent a quiet period for mental concentration. for what is worth while In mental discipline, a quiet hour uninterrupted by the thief callers. There is a divine hunger in every normal being for self-expansion, a yearning for growth or enlargement Beware of selling this craving of nature for self-unfoldment. There is untold wealth locked up in the long winter evenings and odd moments ahead of you. A great opportunity confronts you. What will you do with It? (Copyright. 1315, by the McClure Newspa per Syndicate.)

Prof. Scott Nearing says the motto, “there is plenty of room at the top” is no longer true in this country on account of the fact that in every great industry only three of every one thousand employees have a chance to rise to the top. The professor’s statement is no doubt literally correct, but he will probably not deny that the motto still applies to those spheres of activity which cannot be considered under the head of industry.—Washlngton Herald.

No Longer Room at the Top.

FATE'S OTHER FACE

Sylvia Discovered When She Saw It That It Was Joy. , By JEAN DICKERSON. (Copyright. 1915, by the McClure Newspaper Syndicate.) Sylvia Lawton pinned on her straw hat and counting the rapidly diminishing contents of her little beaded purse, she left the dingy hall bedroom and sought the nearest dairy lunch.

Elver since she had lost her position as bookkeeper with the large importing house which had crashed to ruin with many other business, failures of the season, Sylvia had sought in vain for another position. There was no one at home to whom she might appeal for help; Aunt Susan, her only relative, had her stout heart and hands full bringing up a family of healthy boys and girls. Sylvia could not add to their burdens —and yet, what could she do? All morning Sylvia had personally answered advertisements culled from first editions of the newspapers. She was tired and disheartened. When her meager lunch was over ■he left the restaurant and walked toward the brilliant avenue which threads the duller cross streets. At the corner hung the sign of a well known art gallery. There was an exhibtion going on and Sylvia’s beauty-loving soul, craving something beyond the sordidness of her workaday life, prompted her to push open the plate glaBS doors and enter. There were few visitors at this hour and the girl gowned in shabby blue serge had the rooms to herself, save for the watchful presence of scattered attendants.

For an hour Sylvia reveled in the beauty that was spread on the walls. A catalogue gave bits of information concerning many of the paintings. There was one by an old master, whose history was world-renowned. It’s presence in the gallery was a nine day’s wonder.

Beyond this picture was another t>mt held the girl entranced by its suggestion of mystery. It was called “Fate’s Face,” and depicted the shrouded form of a woman with two faces. One face, turned away, was closely veiled; the other, darkly beautiful, looked out with sorrowful, tragic eyes.

“I wonder what is beneath the other veil?” thought Sylvia. “I would like to see Fate’s other face! This one oppresses me with its woe —as if it predicted what might happen to me.” Overcome with sudden dread of the uncertain future, Sylvia sank down on a cushioned bench and covered her eyes’ with her fingers.

So absobrbed was she in the harrowing cares that beset her that she did not hear quiet footsteps on the polished floor. Steps that hesitated as they neared her seat and then went forward to look at the picture of “Fate’s Face.’’ Presently a man’s cultivated voice, filled with concern, fell upon her ear. “Pardon me, I am afraid you are iIL” ' - Sylvia’s hands dropped and recovering herself with a great effort, she smiled through the mist of tears in her blue eyes. “Thank you, lam quite well —I was only thinking.” She arose and would have moved away, but he put out a hand to stay her. “Do not let me disturb you,” he said courteously. “I am going now. Have you seen this picture by Ruffen—The Old Peddler?” Sylvia nodded toward the masterpiece. "Oh, yes; but this one, Fate’s Face, attracted me—l was wondering what Fate’s other face looked like — the veiled countenance, you know.”

"It is rather tantalizing not to know,” he murmured. “I have heard that the artist could not And a model who embodied his ideal of Fate’s other face, and so he veiled it. Sort of a surrender to Fate* eh?” He laughed pleasantly. Sylvia glanced at her catalogue for the name of the artist. "August Everett Palmer,” she read. “Why,” she added with a delighted laugh, "he painted a Salon picture last year— Love’s Cowardice!”

“You know his work, then," remarked her new acquaintance, with a quick look from his dark, bright eyes. “I am not a patron of the arts, blushed Sylvia with her own mirthful laugh. “I love good pictures and the Sunday newspaper supplements are a great boon to poor art lovers.” At the moment an attendant approached Sylvia’s companion. "Mr. Chisholm would like to see you before you go, Mr. Palmer,” said the man. “Very well,” said Palmer turning back to Sylvia. He surprised a mingled look of fright and awe on her lovely face. , "You —you are August Everett Palmer?” gasped Sylvia. "Yes,” he smiled down at her. "Then, you should hnow Fate’s other face— tell me, please, do tell me what was your ideal?” Palmer’s strong face grew dreamyeyed and abstracted. He was looking at the veiled face of the picture as if he would paint in its features with glowing words. “My ideal? Tt was the opposite of that tragic face. How often do we believe that Fate is turning a harsh, forbidding countenance toward us when, after all, she turns her other tac* and we : discover it to be the face of love and happiness—realised l^oyia—mingled tears and laughter and hope always hope shinning through the tears That was my

ideal- -and i could nob And a nodal Who would fill that part. So 1 veiled the face and decided that 1 must wait.” "How strange l” murmured Sylvia thoughtfully. "And have you never yet found a model for Fate’s other face?" "Not until this morning." "Ah, and when it is painted I shall come here and see It,” said the girt, "Oh, 1 hope you will hurry!” she added impulsively. The painter laughed rather ly"l have found the ideal face for my picture but I am afraid that the young lady would not consent to pose for me—you see, I saw her quite by chance in the gallery here, and it would be presumptous of me to inquire of her.” There was no mistaking his meaning. Sylvia blushed hotly, but her tone was quite cool. "Do you mean me, Mr. Palmer?'’ “Yes," he said frankly. “You really believe that I could come near your—your ideal for Fate’s other face?” asked Sylvia incredulously “Yes, if you would be so condescending,” he said eagerly. “It would be an inspiration, you know. If you would pose for me, my sister, Mrs. Packard, will call upon you and make arrangements." “I will come,” decided Sylvia, and August Everett Palmer noted ner namervtfd address in a little book. Then he lifted his hat and went away. Sylvia spent another hour in the gallery, then she returned to the hall bedroom to freshen her best blouse in order to meet her expected caller. Mrs. Packard came the next morning. Sylvia, receiving her In the chilly boarding house parlor, thought she bloomed like some great pink full blown rose in that shabby exterior. Mr. Palmer’s sister was very plump, well gowned, and of charming manners. Sylvia liked her at once and when she had told her simple story Mrs. Parkard’s brown eyes filled with tears and she patted the girl’s slender hand. “It’s a happy coincidence,’’ she said, her round pink face aglow with sympathy. "Here Is poor August moping because he can’t find a suitable model to whom he can pay two dollars an hour and here you are! Now, can you come to-morrow morning at ten?” I Sylvia could and would, and she peeped through the parlor blinds and saw Mr. Packard enter a handsome limousine and vanish. At supper that night the gorgoneyed landlady passed the baked beans twice to Sylvia and the plated silver basket of ginger cookies came her way three times instead of the customary once. “Gee, I wish I had autermobile company!” giggled Miss Nefus, the little German milliner.

Sylvia blushed and forgot to eat her cake. She was quite happy at the prospect of the morrow. It was like being in a romance — a story book heroine might have had such an adventure as hers. She was afraid that she would awake in the morning and find it a dream. But there was proof with the sight of Mrs, Packard’s card on her bureau. Promptly at ten o’clock a smartly attired maid ushered Sylvia into Mrs. Packard’s drawing-room. That goodnatured matron panted up three long flights of stairs and admitted Sylvia to August Palmer's studio, a luxurious room on the roof of the uptown mansion. "Here is Fate’s other face!” laughed Mrs. Packard, as she sank into a comfortable chair.

Then began one of the most delightful periods of Sylvia’s existence. To stand and watch, starry-eyed, Palmer’s deft fingers as they transferred her face to canvas was a pleasure. To feel once more independent as she went home each day with four dollars in her pocket. The little bead purse grew plethorically fat In those days; the landlady forgot to frown upon her; and there was the vision of a new cloth suit that she coveted. At last the sittings were over, and Mrs. Packard found a secretarial position for Sylvia with a society friend who was overburdened with correspondence and kindred cares. She went to live in the home of her new employer, and here she occasionally saw Mrs. Packard as well as August Palmer.

Perhaps Mrs. Packard recognized that her brother had fallen in love with the lovely model for Fate’s other face, for she spared no pains to bring the young people together, and when August had put the Important question to Sylvia, and had received Sylvia’s shy, happy answer. It was Mrs. Packard who enfolded both of them in a generous sisterly embrace. Later, when August told Sylvia that the completed picture was to be placed on view the next day, she pressed her glowing face against the lapel of his coat. *1 have really seen Fate’s other face —and it is Joy!” she whispered. “It is love!” corrected August tenderly, "and it comes to all in God’s good time. i

Quite Consistent.

"Dick declared to me that he could not endure frivolous girls, and see how he dangles after any wax doll!” “Well, he professed to like the cereous kind, didn’t he?”

Hard Cash.

Griggs—l understand he married a cool million. Briggs—Yes, b£t he’s complaining now because be hasn t been able to thaw any of it oat ♦