Rensselaer Semi-Weekly Republican, Volume 34, Number 26, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 November 1901 — Page 2

NORA'S TEST

BY MARY CECIL HAY

' CHAPTER V.—(Continued.) “I think,” put in Mrs. Pennington, with • deprecating glance at Miss Foster, as if begging pardon for continuing a rather derogatory subject of discussion, “that, Mta censuring Nora St. George's unconventional demeanor and behavior, we must make a little allowance for her, own utter ignorance, both as to her past and her probable future." “Mamma always thinks there’s some mystery attached to Nora,” smiled Celia, glancing up at Mr. Poynz as he came to ask her for a song. At last the music and the chat ceased. The evening was over, and even the vicar had closed his bedroom door upon the outer world. It was Celia's bedroom which had been given up to Mr. Poynz, yet Mark barely glanced at its attractions. Slowly and thoughtfully he paced backward and forward, seeing nothing of the rose-covered drugget at which he gazed, and hearing nothing of his own measured steps. When the moon shone from behind its veil of drifting clouds, the light roused him and took him to the window, to stand looking out upon the chill brown bog, with its glistening strips of water, and upon the .silvered laurels below him; but when the jealous clouds shut in the moon's light again, he turned and renewed his walk, •till deep in harassed thought. Presently he paused, listening in astonishment, for the silence of the night was broken by a step upon the gravel under bls window —a light, running step. Thoroughly aware that the scene without was all in darkness, Mark extinguished his candles with the cool promptitude of a man of action, and then he pulled aside his curtains, and opened the window. The sound of the step had ceased; but just then the hall bell was rung in a swift, unsteady manner. “What is it?” called Mark, without a moment's hesitation. But, just as he •poke, a little rift in the passing cloudbank gave the full moon a moment's time to light the scene, and then he needed no reply to his question. He knew the girlish form he saw leaning against the door, bare-headed, and panting a little; he knew the beautiful face, raised eagerly and piteously at the sound of his voice; and a minute afterward he had opened the vicarage door upon Nora St. George.

CHAPTER VI. “It is help we want, Mr. Poynz,” panted Nora, her face full of fear, as she spoke fast and quietly, “at home, please. The house has fallen. Qh, Mr. Poynz, it is grandpa’s room, and— Do come!” Mark smiled a little on hearing how low and wistful the pretty Irish voice could be, even in ail its alarm. “I will harness Mr. Pennington's pony,” he said; “and he or I will drive you back. We shall be at Traveere in a few minutes.” “You will come —you will really help us?” she questioned, with one piteous glance into his face; and reading there his answer, without a word she turned to run back to Traveere, swiftly as a frightened child. Mark looked after her for a moment and then looked up at the window, where the vicar's head appeared, with a query as to what was the matter. “Something has happened at Traveere; Miss St. George has been here for help. May I harness your pony and .drive after her? or may I harness it for you, Mr. Pennington?” The vicar’s prompt response was to throw the stable keys at Mark’s feet. “I will dress at once,” he said, “but don’t wait for me. I will tell Will, if he is aroused. Pray drive on as fast as you can, and pick up Nora—poor little girl. We will follow.” There was little need to tell Mark to drive fast. Just as quickly as he had drawn the phaeton from the little coachhouse and just as quickly as he had harnessed the stout gray pony, he took him now through the garden gate and y.it into the bog-road. Mark, bending fi.s head against the wind as it came .sweeping down the bog, allowed no pause; for he knew that at any moment the clouds might once more imprison the friendly moon, and hide from him that slight, durk figure hurrying far in advance. lie called to her again and again, loudly in the night silence, but she made no pause until at her very side Mark drew up the panting pony. Then she stopped, her right hand pressed upon her heart, and her breath coming quickly and irregularly. She moved to the side of the carriage and grasped it with one hand; and Mr. Poynz, without reminding her that ■he would have lost no time by waiting for him to drive her, lifted her in, and left her quietly to rest. Onee or twice Nora looked up into her companion’s face, her lips parting as if she would have spoken had her breath been less hurried; but she never did, and Mark never turned at all to her until they had passed through the gate at Traveere—left wide open—and entered the ■bort, neglected" avenue. Then he turned, and for an instant closed his hand upon hers. “The old house stands where it did, my child,” he said, letting the pony walk up that rough, grasvgrown road. “Take heart, and tell m« what has happened.” “It was grandpa's room,” whispered) Nora, breathlessly. “There was a terrible crash; and—l r.tn to grandpa, and—his room was full of bricks nud mortar and duat. And the bed was beyond, and even at the door I could scarcely breathe, and —oh, poor grandpa! And then I wanted —some one to help us, and—l came.” The moon shone from behind a young ash straight before them, and made a wondrous picture of the moving leaves ■nd boughs. Mark’s eyes were fixed upon jt, still with a great perplexity within tholr* depths. “I didn't atop to think whether it was wrong to run away,” she went on presently. felt all in a moment how helplags we were; and Kitty was asleep, and I knew yon were all kind at the vicarage; •o I ran. I never stopped, never once, till you saw me; and I should have run back, only—you took me up. I wish I eould have helped leaving—grandpa.” "You did the very wisest thing you

From Darkness To Light

could have done,” said Mark. “A man’s strength will be wanted —perhaps the strength of many men—and you and your servant could have done nothing alone.” “Alone!” repeated Nora, absently. “We were not alone. Dr. Armstrong is at Travebre.” “Is he?” questioned Mark. “Did you forget that wljen you ran to us?” “At first—at the very first I did,” she answered, slowly. “He does not often stay with us. and I had forgotten. I soon remembered, though—quite soon — but I did net turn back; I went on.” The disjointed door stood, open, and in a further corner 1 of the dismal; hall Bran stood howling drearily. “Why djd you start, Miss St. George?” inquired Mark, as they entered the house. “You surely understand enough about dogs to know that they make that hideous sound very often on a»' moonlight night?” (i “No,” said the girl, gravely, her eyes fixed ’ straight before her in the gloom, “not that sound, Mr. Poynz; I have never heard Bran wail like that. There, where he stands, is grandpa’s door.” It was opened as she spoke, and they saw that a light burned within; but Nuel Armstrong, who had come from it, pulled to ths door behind him, and only the moonlight showed them to each other. “What does this mean?” asked Dr. Armstrong, roughly addressing Mark. “What right have you in this house at this hour?”

“I have come to offer help,” Mark answered, speaking very quietly as he looked down into Nora’s white face. "I think that gives me right to enter where the help is needed.” “Who told you help was needed?” “I did,” said Nora, steadily. “I went to the vicarage, Nuel, and asked Mr. Poynz to come and help us. Oh, Nuel, let me pass to grandpa!” “You shall go where you will when this interloper has left the house,” returned Nuel, making a futile effort to regain his usual tone and manner. “So it will be wise of you to say good-night to him and let him go.” “Miss St. George has not attempted yet to detain me,” observed Mark, coolly, “so your advice, to her is superfluous. I hope she will bid us both good-night, for you and I can do all there is to do. Allow me to pass.” “Oh, certainly!” replied Dr. Armstrong, hissing the words suavely. “I shall be most happy. I only wait just to hear—a mere formula, of course, by what right you intrude here.” “Stand back, sir, if you please,” said Mark, with dangerous quietness. “I will waste no minutes in words with you—even in Miss St. George’s presence. I am as near a connection of Col. St. George’s as you are—nearer —and you shall keep no one from that room where the old man needs help.” Perhaps because he saw he had to deal with a strong and resolute man, and perhaps it was because Nora herself seemed shrinking from him while he stood in her way, Nuel Armstrong moved aside. “You shall repent this unauthorized intrusion,” he said to Mark; and Mr. Poynz answered that it was very possible, and pushed open the door with a gentle hand to look into the ruined chamber. Before them where they stood a bank of bricks and mortar, and fragments of wood and stone, was piled so high that nothing but the bare, curtainless upper frame of the bed beyond was visible. Mark's keen, quick eyes took in all the scene. The fragments of the chimney were heaped so high against the wall upon the hearth that only the top of Col. St. George's iron safe was left to mark his favorite corner; and on the hearth itself the mass reached nearly to a hole in the ceiling, which revealed an other opening in the room above, and let in the moonlight from the sky itself. “Does he live?” asked Mark, in low, quick tones, as he turned to Dr. Armstrong. “You have been in. Does he live?”

"The dust was suffocating,” was the answer, uttered unwillingly. “It drove mo back whenever I tried to reach him.” “It is suffocating now,” Mark said, impatiently. “Miss St. George, go quickly to your own room and rest. We will send to call you—presently. Go—it is stifling here.” He spoke in a tone of authority which seemed natural to him; but she only saw that his glance was very kind and anxious, and that he was in haste to do something which her presence hindered; so she turned at once, like a child, at his bidding, and left the room. Bran was still whining dismally in the shadow; but when Nora went up to him, and, kneeling beside him, whispered to him coaxing, tender, pitiful, wasted words, he grew quiet; catching his breath just once, as if in a sob, and then standing quite still, with panting breast, and wide, hollow eyes fixed upon the moonlight through the open outer hall door. Kitty finally camo and led Nora out of the chill and gloom up to the freshly lighted fire in the kitchen, and something in its broad, frank blaze made the girl shiver even in its warmth. “Oh, Kitty," she cried, with a frightened sob, "is grandpa safe? Will they be in time?” Kitty, standing beside the table to pour out the cup of tea, glanced sideways at her young mistress, startled by her cry. Was it possible that Miss Nora could be anything but glad to be released from the hard and grinding tyranny which had given her such a childhood and girlhood as only her, own bright, unsuspicious nature had rendered endurable? “It’s about yer grandpa we’ll be seein’ afthcr a wee,” she said, soothingly. “Now, it’s the cup o' tay yer to be drinkin'.” Only a few minutes passed after Kitty's departure, but Nora felt As if she had been an hour alone, when Dr. Armstrong came in to her. “Nora, my dear,” he said, ns he took her hand and placed it on his arm, “I felt you would be anxious, and I am come to relieve you. We have carried your grandfather to the empty room on the other side of the hall. He is rescued from all that wreck and dust; but we

have not complained of the labor. Will yoa go in?” She had taken her hand from his directly, and now her fingers touched for a moment the .head of the old dog, who was following her from the kitchen. Bran understood the sign, and walked back to the hearth, with one low, long howl, which made Dr. Armstrong mutter an imprecation on his head. “Will he know me?” asked Nora, turning to addresa Nuel for the first time. “Know yon!” echoed Dr. Armstrong, astonished. “Didn’t yop understand me, my love? He was dead when I went in this morning—at the first alarm. He must have lieen smothered in a minute.” “Oh, grandpa!” cried the girl, as she fell on her knees beside the improvised bed on which he lay. “Oh, poor, poor grandpa!” It was all that it seemed possible to her to say, in her great awe and bewilderment; in this her first experience of death—and a death which brought no anguish, even no great distress. So she knelt, whispering in this strange compassion, while Nuel Armstrong, with low, endearing words, tried to tempt her from the spot. She took no heed at all of his presence. She was thinking of the jjwful suddenness of her grandfather’s death, find tendering, wondering—while her eyes were dry and miserable, and her heart felt like a stone in her bosom. “Oh, grandpa, not to have known that this was coming. Only to feel it when it was too late to escape! Oh, poor, poor grandpa!” -»■- “Come away, my darling,” whispered Nuel, taking her hand to lift her to her feet. But she quietly drew her hand away, and laid it caressingly upon th« shriveled fingers before her. “Grandpa,” she whispered, tenderly, “no one shall take me away.” “I shall feel it my duty to take you away, Nora,” said Dr. Armstrong, in his cold, smooth tones. “I will not have your health injured through any false sentiment. What did that old man ever do for you, that you should forfeit even one single hour’s rest or happiness for him? Those who really love you are left to you; and while I live you never shall be lonely or sorrowful, my darling.” He saw that she had her hands pressed tightly to her ears while he spoke, and an angry, passionate light came into his eyes. “Nora,” he said, lifting her to her feet, “if only as your physician and your—present guardian, I forbid this motiveless conduct. Come away with me. I want you safe away. I want you safe in your own room, before they all come to —to disturb you.” “You will leave me here, Nuel, please,” she said, as she brought a broken chair from one corner of the room and took her seat on it beside the bed. He saw that, gentle as the words were, they were firm, and that she was not to be tempted. So, when he had lingered in vain for another word or a glance, he left the room, that he might, if possible, prevent anyone else entering. But apparently he could not do so. Both Mr. Pennington and Mr. Foster came in very soon, to urge Nora to go with them at once to the vicarage, as Traveere was not a fit home for her just then, they said.

“As long as grandpa stays,” she said, quite simply and quietly, “I shall stay. It is our home.” They pleaded long and earnestly; using every argument they could think of, but all to no purpose. She and Kitty would keep on this side of the house. The fallen chimney and broken roof were quite far enough away. Kitty would not go away, and she and Kitty were, used to being together. The vicar acceded to Mark's suggestion that he should send his daughter to Traveere with Will at once, and the two drove away. Nuel Armstrong hod taken up his own station in the room where Nora sat, in that wondering regret of hers, hardly comprehending what bewildered her, or for what she mourned. But Mark had not started yet. Passing through the kitchen, because he knew that from the back of the house he copld strike across the hog more directly for Fintona, he bethought him to question Kitty and old Breen, as they stood together talking at the fire, turning their backs-upon the weak and chilly light of dawn creeping into the house. It would be wise for him, before he sought the Fintona attorney, to be, if possible, quite sure that he was the man who would, if anyone, understand the affairs of Col. St. George. Kitty could give Mr. Poynz little information beyond the fact that though Mr. Doyle had come occasionally to Traveere, he “iver an’ alwis refused the bit and sup.” But Breen remembered hearing "him an’ th’ ould masther talkin' wan day behint him an’ Borak ’bout signin’ a paper.” That was enough for Mark to hear; and after a little chat .with the old servants he went out into the faint, gray dawn.' He need not have turned a corner of the house at all on his direct way to Fintona, and at the moment it would have puzzled him to give a motive for doing so. But afterward he knew that, slight as the sound had been, his quick cars had detected it even before he was conscious of doing so. The first window round the corner of the house was that of the room where Cal. St. George had slept, and to this window Mark went at once. Half way up it was blocked by the fallen bricks; but it had been opened as wide as it would go, and Mark saw that a man could, if he were very cautious, enter the rpom that way. But he saw more. Kneeling on the debris, and engrossed in his labors, a young man—whose figure even thus Mark recognized in a moment —was clearing with his hands, quickly and cautiously, the rubbish from before the iron safe; and though perhaps It was done as quietly as possible, it was still done with an inevitable clatter. Between his teeth Mark saw that he held a key, as he worked on swiftly and eagerly. It took Mr. Poynz but a few seconds to regain tlie hall and turn the key which was in the outer lock of the door of the destroyed room; and then, before Shan Corr had time to do more than look round from his height to recognize the English gentleman, that English gentleman had his fingers firin in the Irishman's collar, and had quietly swung him around, to find his feet, if he could, upon a lower level: The sound of Shan's raised voice brought Dr. Armstrong out into the hall, and just then Mark found himself watching the physician’s face very curiously. Could it be that he was so familiar with this Irishman’s rascality that no new phase of it could surprise him? Or was

he too self-contained a man to betray any feeling at all, except when jealousy was aroused? “As temporary guardian of Miss St. George's interests —you styled yourself so to me an hour ago, Dr. Armstrong— let me recommend you to guard Col. St. George's effects from thieves and vagabonds. Is this Col. St. George’s key? That scoundrel dropped it from his mouth in his fear.” “Yes, that is Col. St. George’s key,” replied Dr. Armstrong, without looking beyond the key. (To be continued.)

GOOD POPULAR SONGS SCARCE.

Great Hit* Few Nowadays, Altheugrh Music Publishers Are Hustling. “It is singular, but true,” said a music publisher, “that there are very few’ big hits in popular songs nowadays—that is, songs that reached the million mark in sales, such as ‘After the Ball,’ ‘Annie Rooney,’ ‘Daisy Bell,* ‘Down Went McGinty,’ ‘Two Little Girls, in Blue’ and ‘Comrades.’ Many songs published since then have been very popular, to be sure, but they cannot be compared with the old-timers. “Many dealers have asked me the cause of this, but thus far I have been unable to explain it satisfactorily. It iu all the stranger when you take Into consideration the fact that there are more singers and better facilities for pushing songs than in former years. “Years ago a good song would force itself upon the public. At present a publisher has to humor the singers and do a lot of hustling. Some of the topliners require pay to sing songs. In the old days they were only too glad to get a good ballad. To cater to the whims of the singers a publisher must have at least three pianos in his establishment, employ expert players and vocalists to teach the songs; print professional cards and do a thousand other things. You see the competition Is keen, and if you should hurt the feelings of any singer, especially a man or woman of reputation, you will have considerable trouble in making your songs popular. “Publishers have to take a lot of chances too. For instance, to popularize a song you must have slides made for stereopticon view’s. This costs quite a sum. One publisher spent S4OO to take pictures for a set of slides for the song ‘Sing Again That Sw’eet Refrain.’ He had to employ a troupe of colored minstrels, a band and a hall. Fortunately, the song made money and he did not lose anything. There are other things to contend with, too, such as lawsuits, etc. There was a dispute over the ownership of one song, for Instance. After fighting in the courts for some time one of the firms connected compromised by paying the other $2,000 in cash and the costs of the suit.”—New York Sun.

England’s Sea Gypsies.

A strange and almost unknown part of the population (if they can be called that) of the British isles are the queer semi-wild folk known as sea gypsies. Real gypsies they are, differing from their fellow gypsies in the fact that they always live on the sea and that, never having mingled with landsmen, their type is much purer and more nearly resembles the original. There are about 500 sea gypsies in Britain. They cruise along the coast, seldom touching the land, but always close to it, in old and weatherbeaten craft that may have carried their grandfathers. When the tide is out the old craft will often drop anchor by a sandbank Island far out at sea, and her crew will grub for cockles with their hands, filling a score of baskets, but saying nothing to each other, for they are almost out of the habit of speech. They find fifty shellfish where the ordinary fisherman finds one, but they rarely do the same thing two days running, and in the next hour they may be snaring rabbits on a headland miles away. The sea gypsies are wild-eyed and thick set. Their hair is always either jet black or golden. They are still of almost pure Norse or Danish descent, never having used the land and mixed with the shore folk to any extent. Their hands seems to be all thumbs instead of fingers, so powerful and stubby are the digltg, because they have done nothing but haul ropes aud dig in the wet sand.—New York Press.

Knew His Duties.

A young clerk in a wholesale house has been spending a large portion of his salary for the last few days buying cigars for friends who are “on” to a joke that was perpetrated on him. His employer engaged a new boy, and as soon as the boy came to the establishment he was Instructed in his duties by our friend, who had been promoted to the position of assistant bookkeeper and given • small office by himself. About an hour after the boy started in, the boss c?me around, and seeing him working, asked: “Has the assistant bookkeeper to*d you what to do?” “Yes, sir,” was the prompt reply, “he told me tn wake up when I saw you coming around."

An Experienced Parson.

Groom—How much do I owe you? Clergyman—Um—er—whatever yot think your wife is worth. Groom—Oh, that’s so many I would have to go on owing It to you. Clergyman—Well, call around agajo in a few years. Perhaps the estlmaje will then be within your reach.—Ne v York Weekly.

The woman who has on a pair of lotj, -show and pretty silk stockings ncjei gets the bottom edge of her skirt sollud. AU is fair in love and war—or, In ot> er words, during courtship and aftav marriage. Death is the only thing Coming to ui that we aU know we will get.

FARM AND GARDEN

W Indian for Lifting Hog*. A correspondent of the American Agriculturist gives an illustration, of an apparatus which will lighten the work of lifting on butchering day. Make it so. that it will be strong enough, he advises, and that Is all that is necessary. The bearing of the arm of the derrick at a Is arranged to allow the arm not only to move up and down, but to revolve round the center post In a circle. The windlass can be attached to the post with a stationary bearing or with

HOG-LIFTING WINDLASS.

one like that used for the arm so that it also can revolve round the post. The diameter of post can be four inches or six inches or whatever is thought strong enough for the work it is Intended for. The bearings of the arm and windlass are one and a half Inches or two inches less in diameter. Any good blacksmith can make them, as well as the other iron fittings needed. The entire cost of the derrick is very small. Storing Vegetables Out Doors. When one has a comparatively small quantity of vegetables to store during the winter, or for a portion of the winter, the old pit method will work very nicely. First, select a portion of the farm where water will not stand and where the natural drainage is good. If such a position can not be had, then heap up the soil a foot high and pile the vegetables on this bed, not digging a pit. If the drained grounfPis used, make a pit a foot deep, line with straw and pile the vegetables in the pit in a pyramid, being careful not to make the pile too high. In the center of the pit, before the vegetables are put in, erect a ventilator of wood tall enough to come out at the top for a foot or more, lugur holes should be bored at frequent intervals in this ventilator, and a board placed over the top to keep out rain and snow. Cover the pile of vegetables lightly with straw until they are well coooled off, add more straw as the weather gets colder, and as severe weather comes on, throw dirt on the straw every few days, until, in the coldest weather, the vegetables are amply protected. Only the perfect vegetables should be used.

The Beit Barn Bloor. The best and cheapest floor for barns is earth. The only exception to this is for dairy cattle, when the only suitable floor is one of cement. This is for sanitary reasons, and for no other, because animals are not only liable to slip, but to become sore in standing on cement floors. Good cement (loors will cost in the neighborhood of 18 cents a square foot. The idea of earth floors will be met by the objection that animals will tread them full of holes. The answer to this objection is that the proper treatment of earth floors, or any other for that matter, is to use a comparatively large amount of bedding. As with all precautions some holes will be worn in the floor, the proper way to mend these Is to clean them thoroughly of all filth and ram down some slightly moistened elay. This plan will succeed in securing a good grafting of the new earth with the old and make a complete repair. All earth floors should have a top flresslng of cinders, sand or gravel, though it need not be a heavy one.— E. Davenport, in National Rural. Building Poultry- Houses. The modern poultry-house is a low atructure and especially is it built in this manner if in a section where the winters are severe. In building the poultry-house, use lumber of fair quality, planed on one side, and see that it |s nailed on so as to leave few cracks. The inside should be lined with newspapers or with building paper, putting |t on thick especially over any cracks there may be in the structure. Make some provlsiop for plenty of light, but if possible, furnish this by having an addition to the house in the shape of a abed open on one side to the south—a scratching shed. If this is done, less light will be needed In the house proper, which will be used mainly for roosting. The scratching shed need not be large, though it should be large enough so that the birds will have plenty of room for exercise. Diseases of the Apple. There nre four principal diseases In this State—apple scab, skin blotch, root lot and bitter rot Ths two former are paslly controlled by spraying with the

bordeaux mixture. Spray early hi spring. Continued spraying Is better than spasmodic efforts. Bitter rot *• noa so easily controlled. The bordeaux mlxJ ture Is good for this, but hardly satis-* factory. Root rot is a very subtle disease, with as yet no known remedy.— J. G. Whitten, Missouri Experiment Station. Decline in British Agriculture. The aggregate area of corn which comprise wheat, barley, oatsJ rye, beans and peas, amounts to 8,476,2 892 acres, which represents a decline! on the year of 230,710 acres. This contraction of the corn acreage followsmoreover, a similar decline of 96,2081 acres last year, and 13,157 acres In! 1899. A generation ago, say in 1871the United Kingdom returned 11,833,243 acres as under corn crops; this! year the area is 3,356,351 acres lessIn other words, an area not far short ofi three and one-half million acres han been withdrawn from corn cropping during the last thirty years. The wheat! crop alone has Incurred just over two( million acres of this loss. This area of corn crops is made up of 4,112,365 acres of oats, 2,140,875 acres of barley, 1,746,141 acres of wheat, 254,093! acres of beans, 155,665 acres of peas,, and 67,753 acres of rye. It appears;' then, that nearly one-half of the entire corn area of the British Isles is seeded' to oats, whilst If we eliminate the pulse corn crops, and have regard only to, the cereal corn, the oats acreage represents more than half the total. —Massachusetts Ploughman. 1 Buying Grains for Cattle. In most sections the main trouble lO| feeding this winter will come from the, lack of grain home grown. To those, who must buy more or less grain thej advice is to buy now and In as large; quantities as you can afford, for thej market is rising and grains are more 1 likely to be higher than lower. For the dairy cows, gluten meal should form a' part of the ration, and the roughage' should be utilized to the last degree,!

so as to get the full benefit of the great quantity of digestible food in It. 1 Bran should also form a part of the ra-l tlon, not only because of its food value, but because of its laxative effect on; the system. A good ration for the av-i erage dairy cow is twenty-five poundsi of corn stover, three pounds of gluten! meal, four pounds of bran and four' pounds of corn meal. If the animal fattens too greatly on this, increase the corn stover and reduce the corn meal and bran. —Indianapolis News. i A Rough but Warm Shed. Often there are occasions when it is! necessary to add to the barn-room for* stock, but it must be done at small expense. A shed which will provide com-' fort for stock and which will cost little 1 to construct, is made of rough boards,' the sides and roofs being thatched with' corn stalks, salt hay or any other available material, says the Indianapolis' News. A portion of the front is boarded, leaving openenings about six inches, wide between each board to admit light

ROUGH SHED FOR STOCK.

during the day. A rough door may: be hung if desired, or a curtain made: from burlap or canvas may be lowered; over the entire front of the house at night or during unpleasant days. A wind-break fence erected will materially assist in keeping out the wind, especially if no door is attached to the house. To prevent tearing of the curtain material laths should be laid along the upper edge and the nails driven through them and the burlap into the house. Ropes are attached to the cur-' tain and frame, by which to tie the curtain when it is not in use. Splint* in Hnr»e«. As a usual rule, the only real evil at-' tachlng to splints is the lameness caus- 1 ed during the period of inflammation! and of the building up of the exostosis. In the ordinary course of things, as the osseous growth consolidates, so does the lameness wear off. When a splint is fullydiardened, It can hardly be said, unless of sufficient size as to render It perceptible as a blemish, to be any real detriment. —London Live Stock Jour-I nal. Poultry Notes. With fancy poultry breeding close/ culling is necessary. The turkey pays well when the sur-j roundings are favorable. To cure chicken cholera Is a hardj task; It is easier to prevent. A large number of young cockerels) in the yard are a nuisance. Some hens never make good lncubat-1 ors; the heat is either too high or tool low. All of the best breeds have been built? up by Judicious Inbreedings of selected) fowls. • ' . I A standard variety of poultry well) cared for in every way can be made ofl more value than a dozen kinds neg-< I lected. As a table fowl a good fat duck rank®, among the best, and for this reason] they are never a drug on the majkat,, but sell readily at good prices. Most grain is deficient in lime and! mineral matters, but bran is rich In] nitrogen, carbon and mineral, and ia| good to feed with grain. /■ J