St. Joseph County Independent, Volume 23, Number 13, Walkerton, St. Joseph County, 16 October 1897 — Page 2

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CHAPTER XXVIII. Mrs. Carew shook her head. “Truth is often stranger than fiction,” •he said. “You will not be surprised to hear that my husband and 1 did not agree for one hour. Before the sun had set on my wedding day, I felt sure that I had made myself miserable for life. We could not agree—we could not understand each other. He seemed to me a grim, stern guardian; I appeared to him a foolish, undisciplined child; and, after a time, the usual result was attained —the very intensity of his love changed into dislike. “Our first violent quarrel took place about the time my father died. I had wept as one who could never be comforted. It seemed, however, to my childish mind, a source of some comfort to reflect that my father should have one of the finest monuments in Lima. My husband refused to listen to my request; it was all nonsense, sentimental rubbish —a plain headstone would do just as well as a marble monument. One hard word led to another. We had the most violent quarrel of our lives. It all seems very childish to me now, and very foolish; but then it was a terrible tragedy. We did not speak at my father's funeral, but when it was over he came to comfort me. I was lying, sick at heart, on a couch, and he tried to kiss me. ‘Do not cry so bitterly, Grace,’ he said; ‘I will try to be very kind to you.’ ‘Do not touch me—l hate you,’ I cried. ‘Do you mean that. Grace?’ he asked. ‘Yes, I mean it. lam sorry that I ever saw you—l am sorry that I marvied you. I wish that I could be freed from you, and never see you again—l wish that I lay dead by my father's side!’ He stood quite still while the torrent of my wrath rolled over him. When he turned to me again his face was as the face of the dead. Had he acted wisely, he would have borne with me until my humor had changed; as it was, he invested childish passion with the dignity of a woman's anger. He repeated, ‘Do you mean that, Grace?’ T mean ten thoueand times more,' I replied; and he bowed and left me. “After that we rarely spoke; when we did, it was to quarrel most violently—and —I never faile4-+o-toll him how intensely I hated him. ‘I believe you hate me, poor child,’ he said to me once; “and it is a hard belief, too. I married you because I loved you so dearly.’ I cried out that I had never wanted his love. ‘I believe that, too,’ he said; ‘but why did you let me marry you if you knew how little you j cared for me?’ ‘Because I was a child, i and a foolish one,’ I cried; ‘and I am so miserable now that I wish a thousand times over that I were dead.’ He looked I so strangely at me that I was frightened; | there was a terrible expression on his ! face; his eyes seemed to flame. I saw the । fingers of his hand clinch.

“ ‘Are you going to kill me, Peter?’ I asked; ‘I do not know,’ be replied. ‘At times I think that the wisest thing I can do is to kill you first and myself afterward —anything would be better than this terrible pain which you make me suffer.’ And from that moment I felt sure that he would murder me. I resolved upon running away. All the stories that I had ever read of jealous, angry husbands slaying their wives, all the horrible tragedies ever perpetrated, came back to me, and I felt quite sure that some such story would one day be told about me. I am no coward, but this idea took a morbid hold of me. 1 packed a small bag, collected the little sums of money that from time to time he had given me, and went away, hoping never in this world to see his face again. It was a strange coincidence, but on that very day a favorite and confidential clerk of my husband’s ran away; and from the advertisements that I saw, I had a strong conviction that my husband thought we fetid gone away together. “From that day that 1 left the house of Peter Lennox, a frightened, terrible child, hi fear and trembling, I have never held any communication with him. I was even coward enough to be pleased that he should have a completely bad opinion of me. I left Lima, and, with the few pounds that I had, came over to England.

Then something occurred that altered my j whole life. Five months after I left my ■ husband's house my dear son Beltran was i born.” Lady Ailsa uttered a low cry of snr- I prise; and for the first time during th<- ’ telling of her story, Mrs. Carew's volet trembled and faltered. ‘‘l did wrong, then.” she said “you will find it hard to forgive me. Mind, when I i left Peter Lennox, I was but a foolish, ignorant child. Still I did wrong to conceal from my husband the fact that be had a son. I ought to have writ ten to him at once, and told him, even hail I hidden the child from his sight forever. I loved my little Beltran so dearly; he was a line, handsome child, and in my passionate love for him I swore that he should be my own forever and that no one should ever share in his love. Before that time I had called myself Mrs. Lennox; now I resolved upon calling myself by my maiden name of Carew. I took all precautions, though, about my son —the registration of his birth, the certificate, go to prove the truth of what 1 say. Though 1 swore that Peter Lennox should never know even of his birth, still I arranged everything so that at any moment I could prove my boy s claims. ’ ‘‘lt is a wonderful story,” said Beatrix. in a low voice. “I have but little more to add,” contin«ed Mrs. Carew. “When, after being in society for many years. I heard at last of Peter Lennox of Erc^rtean, the great millionaire, it did not occur to me that it was my husband of twenty-four years before. I thought the name was a strange coincidence —that was all. The reality did

not occur to me until I saw Beatrix, and then I recognized the Lennox face. Then for the first time I knew that I had done wrong to my son to keep from him the fact that he was Peter Lennox’s heir. Dear i Beatrix, I felt rather impatient when I heard you called heiress of Erceldean —after all, Erceldean belonged to Beltran and not to you. I never once thought of making myself known, not even for my son's sake, though at times it was a sore temptation. I should never have told the truth or owned my story but for Beltran and his love. Beltran used to tell me that when he met Mr. Lennox the rich man was very kind to him, that he took an interest in him, and my boy's heart was touched bj his kindness. Once I trembled with fear, for it seemed to me that my secret must be discovered. One evening Beltran came home and told me that Mr. Lennox was always troubled by a shadowy likeness that he saw in his face, and a familiar sound that he detected in his voice. I grew fearful then. 1 could easily have sohed the mystery for him, Lady Ailsa. For I have strong reason to believe that my son resembles your deceased husband, ‘Prince Charlie,’ and not his own father.” Lady Ailsa looked up quickly. “You are quite right,” she said. “1 was struck by the same thing in your son—a shadowy resemblance. Now I see i it.” “Then I was startled,” continued Mrs. j Carew, “on finding that my boy had fallen in love with the millionaire's niece. At ! first 1 was vexed, and I tried hard to peri suade him to forget her; 1 knew that if i ever a mairiage took place I must tell the I truth. But my boy was so wretched that i my conscience reproached me, and I have yielded at last. I did test their love. 1 wanted to see whether Beatrix would be constant to Beltran through all fortunes, or whether she would prefer the wealth of Peter Lennox to the love of my son. She has come nobly out of the ordeal, and now nothing remains for me but to send for my husband and tell him the truth. Imagine —it is twenty-four years since I have seen him! What will he say to me?" Beatrix rose and clasped her arms round Mrs. Caß’w's neck. “You pear it very bravely,' she said; “DuT Didio w that you have suffer si? aunt. Only imagine—I have ai aunt after all! Aunt Grace, kiss me, and t< ” me that you love me for your son’s sake.” “For his and your own.” she replied, warmly. “My dear Beatrix, all the time that I was painting your portrait, I was longing to tell you that the uncle you spoke so much about was my husband, and that Beltran was your cousin." Beatrix laughed a low, happy laugh of perfect content. “You see, after all. mamma," she said, “I was a most wise and prudent girl.”

CHAPTER XXIX. Perhaps there was not a more miserable man in England than Peter Lennox, the great millionaire. He had told the detectives all the story of his marriage, and the utmost that they could discover for him in Lima was that his wife had gone away quite alone that j there had been no such thing as an elopei meat with the suspected clerk, and that i she was quite free from that imputation, i Then came intelligence that startled him. i His wife had been traced to London, and I there she had had a son; but from the time the boy had reached his fifth year all clew to her was lost again. His emotion had been great at the I thought of a son having been born to him I —a son who, if he could find him, would be I heir to his estates, his vast wealth, and i his name, who might add honor to honor | and be the very salvation of his race, lie I wondered if it were possible to find him. ■ He made almost superhuman exertions; but it was all in vain, he could glean no intelligence of his wife or son, the son whom even only to see he would have laid down his life. Disheartened, and almost despairing, he sat one morning alone in his great London drawing room—he had returned to town so as to be nearer the detectives—he | could rest no longer at Ereeldean. Presently a note was brought in to him from Mrs. Carew, saying that she wished to see him upon important business, if he would be kind enough to call upon her as soon as he could make it convenient. Ue drove direct to the little house in Mayfair, and asked for Mrs. Carew. “My mistress is expecting you, sir,” ; said the servant, when ho had told her i his name. “Sho is in her painting room.” He followed the servant, wondering at the beauty of the apartments, at the wealth of ornaments, pictures and statues. Then he reached the painting room, and the servant, after opening (he door for him, retired. At first his eyes were disturbed by the dim, uncertain light. He saw a tall, wem- ; anly figure standing waiting for him- lie | could sec folds of rich velvet that swept j the ground; but in his confusion he did | not plainly discern the face that was j turned toward him. The lady bowed; he returned the bow; | then Mrs. Carew placed a chair for him, i ami Peter Lennox sat down. Presently Mrs. Carew spoke. At, the first sound of her voice, something in it struck him as familiar. lie told himself that it was her son's voice of which he was reminded — the young barrister whom he had liked before he declared himself the lover of Beatrix. “I am sorry to have troubled you.” said Mrs. Carew; “but I wanted to ask you is there no way by which we can come to terms?'’ “To terms over what?” he inquired. “Over the marriage of your niece to my son,” she answered.

“No, madam. It is a subject we will not discuss.” , “Then yon refuse to listen to anjthing that I can suggest?” she said, proutWand the ring of passionate scorn m her voice struck him as being someuha; ,amiliar. .. . “You can suggest nothing prae -eal ho replied. “Such a marriage would be most advantageous to you and jour son; but it can never take place—of that you, may rest assured.” Hitherto she had been standing where her face was in the shade and half hidden from him. She went now to the window and touched the blinds; they spuing apart and admitted a flood of sunshine. She turned and confronted him, her black velvet dress trailing on the ground, hei hands raised half in denunciation, her keen, hrdlimit, passionate face flushing, het lips curling half scornfully. ( “Peter Lennox,” she said slowly, .ook at me; do you know who I am? He looked at her quite indifferently. “Yes,” he replied, “you are the scheming mother of a scheming son. “Lopk again,” she said —“not at the ceiling over my head, not at the wall behind me, but at my face -look, Peter Lennox, and tell me who I am.”

He looked indifferently nt first, stand iug just opposite to the graceful, brilliant woman whose face had such strange re-j pressed passion in it. Then gradually,. slowly, surely, the indifference died away. Something of wonder, of incredulity, of surprise, of fear, came in its place; his lips grew white ami trembled, the dawr of new and great emotion came into hit eyes, the calmness of his face departed —he tried to speak, but the sound uic| away on his lips. “Who am I?” she repeated. I

lie raised his trembling hands as though to ward off a blow; all power of speech J had gone from him. “I will tell you," she said, “I am Grace! Carew—Grace Lennox, your wife; and! you have disinherited your niece because! you were hard, stern, cold of heart, cruel-J ly unkind; because you did not know , haU human love meant; because yon trampb 1 my girlish heart under your feet; because! you could not and would not understamf what a sensitive, warm-hearted, loving’ nature required; because you wanted t 4 reduce me into a mere machine for regu* lating your house and saving your money! I M hat was it to you?" she continued, in a passion of scorn, “that I had a quick 4 changing, sensitive soul, that 1 had a warm, tender nature, that I was blitl/*of Iftnirt and gay bj- nature? Loss than nothing!” He held up his hands in deprecation. ‘A on did not understand me,” he said. “I loved you all the time." A slight, scornful laugh was her answer, and then her face flushed.

‘Ami loved me, yet you suspected that I had run away with a clerk in your office. 1 was but a child when I ran awa/, but understand me clearly, Peter Les nox—l ran away because I did not lorn you. and because yon made my life mserable. Understand that, since I left yoe, my life has been filled with hard wore; but it has been spotless, and you tmy trace every movement of it. There is another thing, Peter Lennox. My son B‘l tran is your son, the lawful heir of En^ldean, lie was born five months after 1 left yon. I have every necessary pT ts to place in your hands. Mind rdiat I I did wrong in keeping him from ye ' should have given you your I loved him^io well; I* could no ‘ him. lie is like your brother, e V--.J-.irJ the Lennox who was called ’prince Char lie,’ and not like you." lio made no answer, but a strange gray pallor came over his face which touched her as words could tiof have dine. “I am very sorry for the past," she said, quietly; “1 have been sorry ever since 1 tied from my home. 1 was very young and thoughtless.” But Peter Lennox made no answer. The tall, stern figure swayed to and fro, and then he fell with a low cry at his wife’s feet. She bent over him. “I am truly sorry, Peter, she said, but he was unconscious, ami, seeing tin* gray tint deepen on his face, she began to fear that be was dead.

CHAPTER XXX. A few hours later Peter Lennox opened his eyes and found himself lying in a charming room. At first he was puzzled to know where he was, and what had happened to him; there was a dull singing in his ears, a strange confusion in his brain; a queer uncertainty troubled him as to his whereabouts, a heavy kind of wonder ami pain. i He looked about him; it was an artistic room. In all his superb mansion there was nothing like it. Tlmn his eyes fell upon the figure of a woman kneeling by his side. Gradually all returned to hini, and he knew that he was looking in the face of his wife Grace; ho knew also that he had had. a narrow escape from death. “Grace," he said feebly ami his voice seemed to come from a distance—it had a faint, feeble kind of sound—“tell me all about it again. I cannot imagine that it is really true.” She repeated the story to him. and he listened with new wonder, “So I have a son,” he said “the hairisome, noble boy whom Beatrix love,? He is my son —my own son? Oh. Grace how shall I learn to believe it? Can n j t > true —my own son?” A He repeated the words over and ov*r again to himself—his own son, and hov should he believe it? 'Then after a find he turned to her. “Crace,” be said, “I should like to my son.” “So you shall,” she replied. “I have a surprise in store for you, if yon are better this < a citing.” “Will you will yon kiss me, Grace''” he asked in a low, trembling voice ns, though he were half afraid of making’q lt . request. She bent over him. “Yes, I will, Peter,” she replied, earn-estly—-“I will indeed. lam sorry dm things went so wrong between ns. J w -|] say now what I have never said before ’ that I wish with all my heart matters had been different- that. I had been older ami better, you wiser ami kinder.” She kissed him, ami a great calm ]jg] lt came over his face the stern, grim f> . that had known so little brightness \ contented smile played round the lips th" 1 ’ had smiled so little, and presently p,'^' 1 . Lennox feli into sm h a sleep as lj ( . i, ', not had for years. ai It was nearly evening when he awrl again, refreshed, invigorated and aln !< well. His valet stood ready to rrtton,]"? 1 him, having been summoned by order r his wife. He went downstairs. Hi s . • f met him in the hall. She opened the door of the drawiip room and led him in. There he saw R P ” trix, Lady Ailsa and Beltran. A nii\ swam before his eyes. He trembled iIH , leaf in a strong wind. Then Rcatr'' went up to him and clasped her arm*

f — —l .! : r »«» » Beltran's * »« s iOte u4 ;. le | „„ . mßa n *.' ^’Ued marvelous to Beltr* 3rulu tlie ^ rßt J '“V * * , nbau UOfjg at Erceldean was talked a seg -dl^ , ‘ >t had taken place. Such a H ^l^in I 1101 ^ ee n witnessed for many M St '”Haml. From miles ’ drtiu 1 \ "Ih-ince Whairtakl ' - dor married and "the king T 9 > r " ^'>ll-” S ?/ tof u / 11Mox lavished wealth on the • J -sed for?- 1 110 was Sl) b l "' l ' l ’ be purjj L n ,, 111,1 “'io of the finest mansions i M b for Beltran would not abanM mi* P^^onal career. Whenever “’C’Hioned such a thing to him r 1™„ 1™„ ‘i S,,y: “ Wc I!ave 11:1,1 h’reat warM statesmen amongst, our 1 dl . u’ Relieve me that a great lawyer 'J ROud to the honor of the Lennoxes. I ? 0 s L’ive for the woolsack, you know.”

in after years he won it. while Beatrix < fiiox remained a <iueen of society, lovsadmiied and revered. One event gave •r great pleasure. 'llnee years after •r own mnrrlnge Lady Itayiu i- married C l>uke of Heathland. Lord Rayner lied himself by drinking and dissipation. Id Lady Rayner, after her year of lutrning had expired, married the handme duke, who had l<>ved her friend so arljr. Beatrix was delighted, and the ^bess of Heathland always remained r devoted friend. There was no httppier woman in Eng- » nd than beautiful Beatrix Lennox. She was rich, honored, esteemed, beloved—she -'■hd one of the kindest of husbands, children who were most devoted; but sho nevLr forgot what had been the cost of her love.

k (The end.) A Nagging ifainbow Trout. A distinguishing characteristic of the rainbow Hout is its fondm's S for sera i> ping. There was an illustration of its ways in this particular the other dayfit the Aquarium. A number of rainbow trout weighing from one half to three-quarters of a pound each, which had been received from the State fish hatchery at (‘old Spring Harbor, were placed at the Aquarium in a display tank, in wbirh there was already a rainbow weighing about half a pound, whhdi had been there for some time. The new trout were received in good condition, but they were tired after traveling, as tisb always are, and they wanted a ehniuv torest. The old trout, however, immediately began to hustle them about the tank. H would dart up to one of the new fishes, which was swimming slowly along, and bite at it. The startled fish would start up and hurry oil to the other side of the tank. As likely as not the old fish would not pursue it. but would wait for the next one to come along, .and thin bite at

that one. and start it up. Sometimes the old fish would follow up its attack by dashing after the other around the tank, ;>nd kept this up unceasingly, nagging nnd nipping the others until they *nore tired put than ever. If. when they were put into the tank they ’Mid been as fresh and vigorous as their pursuer, they would have turned upon it very probably and made short work of it. As it was. tin* single trout bossed all the rest, including fish half as big again as its. If, ami hustled th-m about unmercifully. In half a day it would have worn them out and weari -d them to deatli. But the scrappy little rainbow didn't get that opportunity. It was scooped out with a dipnet and put into another tank, a resenve tank. There was a rainbow trout in this tank, too, but this one was not tired with travel. It was frosh and vigorous. And it was also big enough to eat the scrappy one if it tri -d to cut up any capers there. New York Sun.

How He Was Complimented. “John," said Mrs. Harkins, “I heard a nice compliment for you the other day.” Mr. Harkins put his paper down, twisted up the ends of iiis moustache and said: “Well, that's nothing so remarkable. I receive compliments nearly every day.” Mrs. Harkins went on sipping her tea, and her husband wait -d for her to resume. Finally he said: "Well, why don't you tell me what it was? Who was it that complimented me?” “Oh, you couldn’t guess in a week.” “Mrs. Deering?” he ventured. “Xo. ’ “Not Bessie Fullington?” he rather eagerly suggested. “Xo.” “Oh. v.-oii. of course, if (here's any secret about it 1 don’t care to hear what it was or who said it.” “There isn't any secret about it,” Mrs. Harkins sweetly replied. “Mr. Hannaford told me that every time he and I met he became thoroughly convinced that you were a man of excellent taste.” John Harkins then shoved his hands into his pockets and walked out on the veranda to ruminate. A Mean Advantage on a Dentist. To work on the sympathies of a dentist who was at first hard-hearted, a tramp at St. Joseph, Mo., asked him to pull out two of his teeth which were filled will’ gold: for. h’e asked, of what use were gold-filled teeth if one had nothing on which Io use them? This appealed so to the dentist that he gave him some money instead ol di awing the teeth. Five courses of brick will lay one foot in height on a chimney. Sixteen bricks In a course will make a fine four niches wide and twelve inches long, and eight bricks in a course will make a flue eight inches wide and sixteen inches long. A little turpentine and oil applied to furniture with a flannel cloth, the furniture then thoroughly rubbed, will give It a bright, clean appearance.

THE FARM AND HOME MATTERS OF INTEREST TO FARMER AND HOUSEWIFE. There Is Too MnHl Waste of Lands, and Crops — Proper Way to Water Horses Help lor the Tlircsiiing Sca-soa-Have Harues* Hint Fit. Too Large Farms. Our farms are 100 large. They avc? not tilled thoroughly enough. There-is too much waste-both of hinds and crops. A man may not be able to become rich in a few years upon a few acres, but by care and thoroughness he I can make n comfortable living for his family', and also save something for old age's support. In Scotland, according to a recent government, report, there arc 9,227 agricultural holdings of one acre ami under, 20.150 of from one to five acres. 33,921 of from live to fifty acres, 25.5G8 of above fifty acres, and seventy-six of more than 1,000 acres. There are in this country abundant opportunities for the “small farmer"; growing cities are consuming more ami more of Hie products of Molitor Earth yHleh no one can produce so well as the ‘small iarm man, who Kivc them the infinite pains necessary to their best development, and is willing to take care to get them to market in proper condition. This is the secret of the “small farmer's" success. Farm News. Watering Horses. In no other way do farm horses suffer so much as from being inadequately watered. Thev are compelled to work steadily for five full hours each half day in the broiling sun with no water. The farmer is very careful when ho goes to the field to see that his jug of drinking waler is not left behind. and he drinks often if the day is hot. But it never enters his head that Ills horse is a sweating animal, and in proportion to his body has a smaller stomach than a man. and needs as large a supply 4 of water and at as frequent Intervals. Not only is it humane to provide water for (he horse, but it pays. The sweating process is a cooling one. Ths is nature’s way of counteracting the heat, and when ■water is given in sutlicieni quantity to sustain the sweat the Imrse can do more work witii safety. It is but little trouble to given team a drink two or three t ; m<s> each half day, and any man wiio will try the experiment will never abandon it. By providing a barrel on a log boat, ! or even on a wagon, enough water can I be taken to the field io last two or three days, and if the barrel is a clean one the water will keep in good condition. With a pail t’ae horses may be given a drink a couple of times each half day. No time m ed be lost, for It will take no longer to give them a sip of water than to sit on the plow handle while they are resting. There is another very great advantage in this occasional watering. When so watered the team on coming to ‘lie stable may be allowed to drink all they want without fear of bad results, apd the grain may be given so as to giTe them plenty of time to eat it. When not watered from morning until noon it is not safe to give drink until they hate stood ami cooled off, and every one should know that it is not the best way to feed a horse before he has drank. Germantown Telegraph.

Help for Threshing. When threshing is done by steam power, it is the constant effort of those who run those threshers to have the work of threshing in each neighborhood hurried through in as short a season as possible. 'Their own expenses are quite heavy, and the threshing business will not pay unless they can get steady work while the season lasts. It is the farmer's interest, on the other hand, to postpone grain threshing until fail work is well out of the way. The grain is in better condition for threshing then, and. what is quite as important, it is not so difficult to secure the help needed. To keep a steady flow of grain in the straw mow or stack to the machine requires three, four or five men. according to the distance the bundles have to be pitched. Ail are needed that can work without being in each other's way. It is the hardest work that is now left to be done on the farm, and is also the dirtiest. There is always some heating in the mow or stack, and this means some dust from the partial decay of si raw or chaff. The men who go with threshing machines get bigger wagos than they can at :my othcr farm work, ;:n i they fully earn what they receive. I’ew people can go through a job of threshing without taking cold .and having throat and lungs and nostrils greatly irritated for several days after. It is under such conditions that tubercular consumption is most apt to begin—American Cultivator. Burning a Clover Field. I am decidedly in favor of burning over my fields once in three or four years, writes At aldo F. Brown, in National Stockman, as by so doing we kill myriads of insects as well as the spores of fungi, and there can usually be enough stubble left on a Mammoth clover field to do this. 'There is no crop better to burn over than clover, be- ■ cause nitrogen is the only thing lost. ■ as tiie phosphoric acid and potash are made more quickly available by burning, and as the larger part of the nitrogen generated or developed—by the clover is stored in the roots there is usually enough of this important element of plant food left after burning, and as the atmosphere is a great storehouse of nitrogen, upon which we can draw whenever wo grow clover, I do not mind burning a little of it. My first experience in burning over a field was more than forty years ago, and the result was so satisfactory that I have watched and experimented with it ever since, and am convinced that it is “good

farmfpg” and s’cientific to do It. Ths heaviest yield of wheat grown in Ohio ©f which I have any ka&wledge, an average of fifty’ bushels per acre on a tenacre field, was on a field of Mammoth clover which was bumed over before plowing, simply because the owner ifound it impossible t© turn under the mass of haulm on tie land. I have proven that burning will destroy the cutworms and save the crop of corn also. 1 would use Judgment in doing this, and would not burn what I could turn under on a soil lacking in humus, but I recommend readers to carefully experiment along this line and note results, and in my judgment they will reach the same conclusions that I have, ■that under some conditions burning is an advantage. Fainting Farm Machinery. The wooden parts of all farm machinery should be painted every three or four years and the iron parts that are worn should have a coat of paint every season, ami the sooner after the season's work is over the better. No matter how well protected, the polished metal portions will draw dampness and corrode. Some grease the mold boards, shares, etc., but this does more harm than good. The proper way I is to paint them.

Let live or six gallons of raw linseed Ei";;; of chrome yellow in paste form and ten to fifteen pounds of Venetian red in powder. For the wooden parts there is nothing better than Venetian red and raw linseed oil. The mixture will make a dark red. If a bright red is preferred mix some chrome yellow with it in the • proportion of fifteen parts of Venetian I red to one part of yellow. This makes i vermillion, the brightest red known, i If blue is wanted mix with white lead, > four parts, with one of Prussian blue, This will give a dark blue, which can be made as light as wanted by adding white. Green is made by mixing yellow and blue. Any of these colors will answer for the wooden portions of the machim ry. Do not use any drier, as the paint will last much longer without it. In winter a much longer time between coats is required for paint to dry than in summer, but when it has become solid it lasts much longer than if it dries rapidly. Do not use white lead to paint metal surfaces of any kind, for the acetic acid it contains will tend to corrode them. For all this kind of work use venetion red and oil or got some of the common black paint sold especially for this purpose. For the portions which are expected to scour, mold boards, plow shares and similar points, etc., use a paint made as follows: Mix yellow ochre with coal tar and thin to a working consistency with turpentine. This will effectually prevent rusting, but it will rub off quite readily wTien the plow is to be used. —Orange Judd Farmer.

Eating reaches. It is somewhat fortunate that the woolly coating on the shin of the peach is so objectionable to most people that they remove it before beginning to eat the fruit. It is almost always the receptacle of germs, which, if taken into the stomach under certain conditions, are extremely injurious. Hence, whenever the peaches are eaten raw the skin should be removed, not alone because its woolly covering is unpleasant, but still more because it is unhealthful. For still stronger reasons peaches should never be dried with their skins on. In such case the number of germs which a pound of dried peaches will carry can hardly be estimated. Still, if the stomach be entirely healthy, any number of germs taken into it will do no injury. Nobody can surely know this of himself or herself. That some can eat the peach, peeling and all, without injury is no proof that others can do so.

Make the Calves Gentle. Much of the value of a cow depends on her being gentle. There is no way to make sure of this except by accustoming the heifer calf from the first to be handled and petted so that she will never fear man's present?! as threatening injury. There is another object in this. By free handling of the heifer's udders, both they and her teats will be enlarged. This will also cause the milk glands to develop, making the cow a better milker all her life. Rye as Hog Feed. On light, sandy soil corn is a very unI certain crop, and many seasons it will not Aim’d so much grain as a crop of rye which usually succeeds well there. We have known some farmers on sandy land to grow rye to feed their hogs. It is excellent for growing pigs, but when fattening time comes some corn should be fed, even though it has to be purchased. I Farm Notes. Do not feed corn to pigs, colts or calves, but use ground oats, bran and middlings, as those foods contain more mineral matter than corn and better promote the formation of bone and tissue. I< is time to put the fat on tihe animal after the framework is completed. Straw may lie added to the barnyard manure because it is plentiful, but it is belter to utilize the straw in some manner before it reaches the heap. It should lie cut with a feed cutter and used for bedding before throwing it away, in which condition it is an excellent absorbent and more quickly decomposes in the heap. We judge of a farmer by his own farm and of a farm by what we see in passing it, says a contemporary. If ail is neat, and tidy, fences and outbuildings, as well as dwelling houses, in good repair; if tools, wagons and machinery are housed and painted and animals sleek and contented, we are satisfied that the owner is a good farmer and is prosperous.