Evening Star Newspaper, October 28, 1923, Page 68

Stirring Incident From the Drama of Business Life in Which There TIs a Lesson for the Master Mind. E was ruined. knew it yet. He knew it. His business had been to take “gick pups’ among small in- dustrial plants and with his tralning as an engineer and his genius for ac- counting and his judgment of men, he had set one company after another on its feet. As things went in the world, he had made himself rich. At fitty he belleved e had proved himself able to evade any failure, any trap, any exception to the long list of successes which had made the securitles issued by him sell merely because his name was behind them. Well, that was what had done for him—that reputation. He had told his friends he could take over this Polar Forge Metallurgical Company and carry it until it would be able to supply an eager demand of the Detroit automo- bile manufacturers. He remembered talking to Alice as they had come home from the Os- bornes through a spring night full of the scents of hedges and sleeping gar- dens. “I've got a prize, my girl,” he had told her. A prize? Everything had gone Wrons. Polar Forge had been like a huge ugly mouth, ever hungry, -ever calling for more. He shoveled wealth into it. He borrowed on his own paper. Six months more would have seen the company on its feet. Now he held a little piece of crumpled paper in his hand—an example of arithmetle. His creditors had asked In peremptory fashion for the answer to that prob- lem, and the answer was that he was ruined! Nasty conventional zoes running through a man's head in melodramatic repetitions: “I am ruined! I am rulned!” No use to think much now of beginning life all over again. Success sfipped away at the approach of old age when there is no real rebullding of those houses of cards blown down. His name & by- word among the houses dealing in his kind of securities! Gossip at the club! Derision or pity—disgusting pity! He must go home. This was Satur- day night. No dining out— thank heaven! But the family. The grave faces—concealed grief, terror, disap- pointment, disitlusionment. There was Alice—dear Alice, with whom he had loved and laughed and quarreled all these years. She would “Don’t worry, John.” She had always said that in the pinches. She would pull her tiny handkerchief through her fingers, now slightly wrinkled, and try to laugh. But when she knew that the house had gone too —what then? And her place—her place fn a comfortable social life. She had been so fine. What would she say now—at ruin? He had failed her at the last. In reality she would smile and say: YDon't worry, John. the vision he saw of her stricken face represented, he knew, what would have to be in her heart. * x % % E could hear his stenographer taintly. She knew. She was telephoning some one there in the sound-proof booth. He had seen her eyes reddened. other job. Cold woman! Touched by secing him sink. But.a quick recov- ery!_ Depend upon it. He laughed aloud. He had thought of Cynthia, his oldest daughter— somehow the dearest. He had known that he would have to let her go at last. She was twenty-one now. Some good, untarnished boy would take her, and he had steeled himself against that day, picturing all the compensations of losing her and con- juring up, in advance, the days he Would spend occasionally with the new family with their children com- ing on like a new cycle of his own self-expression. He had comforted hiinself by think- ing that blue-eved Cynthia could marry a poor man it she wished. But now! She might want to, but she was used to luxuries—to having whatever material things she desired. Ruin! Ted alone would testify to that. He'd go to college again for his second year in spite of all—but under what conditions? Ted would have to live with the grinds. And he'd have to knuckle down to help in paying his own way: tutoring and all that kind of thing. A fine piece of business’ for Bertillon's boy! And Alice, the youngest. Seven- teen! . She would learn through the vears -just how costly it is to have a father who has cracked—who at fifty- two 1s sunk. He thought of a revolver in his bureau drawer at home, and he laughed at the thought. He was no quitter. Life must go on. Life must go on. Monday came the reckoning! But now just time to go home to dinner—to one more happy dinner. They would all be there, and once more, they in their ignorance and he with a brave front, could laugh and chaff each other. They would be gay. He would not destroy this last feast of the family. Suddenly he recalled How little he had done to squeeze the best out of life with his beloved four. Had not his wife and Cynthia and young Allce and Ted drifted away from his heart? What had Polar Forge done to him—it and the other companies? They had taken him away from those he loved and now had thrown him out onto the junk heap of beaten men. The stenographer had come out of the telephone booth. Through the thick-lensed glasses her pale eyes now stared at him as if he were a kind of curlosity. She knew. It was strange that she, in her cold detachment, should know what Alice did not know, what his intimate friends and the world still must learn. He was Tulned! ‘Anything else, Mr. Bertillon?” she asked. “No. I'm golng home mnow.” He could hear his own voice as if it were the intonations of a third person. *“Monday,” she said doubtfully. *Oh, yes—Monday.” he sald. “Thank gou. See you Monday." * K ok X *H* did mot buy the evening papers. A curious, dull inertis. overcame him. He nearly passed his own subway station. It was ridiculous to rush out like & man who had never gone home before—like an old, old man at the end of lite, dulled to errors, to mistakes, to absent-mindedness. It was curious to take no note of the balm of the spring air and of the spring dusk—to be anesthetized by ruin, defeat and failure, like a creature drugged yet not quite drugged; not drugged or stunned enough to lack consciousness of the mockery of & universe singing of spring and the blithe tunes of some hurdy- gurdy around the corner, joyful in its thr{lla, but ‘in some mischievous and’ A phrase which | deep upholstered chair, behind a book, | der the desk lamp. She would get an-| No one elsemalevolent mood flooding him with de- risfon. He reached home. He was like a ghost standing before a house where 28 a living man he once had dwelt and, like a fool, had taken petty pride in its appearance. He drew a long breath and walked up the steps. He could see his reflection in the glass between the iron grilling of the heavy doors—a portrait of a mediocre, average man. An average respectable face, growing a little old and. worn, yet a satisfactory facp. Not weak. Well preserved, the face of.a good American type. Something about the square gaze of the eyes and the lines of the lips suggested strength, integrity, and, a suggestion of one who ‘surmounts obstacles and refuses defeat. 1t was his own face which suddenly summoned his spirit to battle. He clenched his hands. He would see this through. In the hall the butler, stony-faced, Impersonal, took his hat and coat while he breathed deep the warm odor of home andgcomfort, the familiar at- mosphere which now he could expect would soon be memory. He looked about as he climbed the soft-carpeted stairs, saying good-bye then and there to it all. . His wife's door opened. “You, John? What's the news, dear? “Nothing." “You can't come In,” she explained. “My maid is hooking me up. Nothing Interesting?” She appeared anxious. “Nothing. “You'd better hurry: we're dining at elght.” She withdrew her head. Her hair was almost white—an absurd contrast to the youth in her clear skin and the lines of forehead, nose and chin. Bertillon did not ring for his man; he dressed himself. He would do it particularly, just as a man condemned to die would do it. He dressed him- | self carefully, perfectly. There would be one more dinner together in hap- piness. They were all there in the library. There was. Alice, his wife, her face warmed by the firelight, looking down into the flames. And Cynthia, In the her blue eyes raised toward him. Ted stood in the window, looking down into the gathering darkness of the street. His youngest daughter sat un- | The lamplight fell | upon her golden hair. * ok o* % THERE Wwas a pause before any one of them greeted him. For a moment he wondered if they could know the blow which had fallen on them. Impossible. No one knew, ex- cept himself, the truth. “Hello, dad,” his son sald. goes 1t?” “Pretty well,” he replied. He did not like the boy's greeting. It wi not more than a cheerful salutation of a stranger—and an independent equal. He recalled, suddenly, that singe the boy had gone to college a curious indefinable barrier had come up between them. He wondsred if Polar Forge had been responsible for that too. “Everybody's a gloom,” said his son in a whining voice quite un- natural. “Little sis, there, has a secret sorrow.” - 5 “Let her alone,” their mother said sharply to Ted. “Well, I'm not a gloom,” Cynthia asserted, slapping together the pa; of her book and jumping up. “I'm the happy young woman, the sun- shine of the upper East Side!” She laughed nervously. “I don't know what has got Into Cynthia,” Mrs. Bertillon said. “She is positively queer. “I think I know,” Ted said. “Know what?" asked Cynthia. “You've been smoking hashish.” The younger Alice began to cough, and this cough irritated her father; he turned, stared at her as a man sud- denly called from sleep. “Colds which hang on like that need a doctor,” he said to his wife. “It was over two weeks ago I said she ought to see Carmichael.” “I know it,” his wife replied. “But you never have mentioned-it since. You go about like a man in a dream, and I can't tell what you want.” The golden-haired daughter was bending over the desk. Bertillon thought he saw her body shaken by a gust of terror. The doors leading to the dining room were rolled apart, and the but- ler's low voice came into the family circle with “Madame est servie. “Go ahead, the rest of you,” Ber- tillon sald. “I want to ask Alice something. Go ahead, Ted, Cynthia, and you, dear.” He touched his wife's arm and fan- cled that she drew wway from him nervously. They went; the curtains fell again across the doorway: “Alice.” “Yes, dad.” She did not look up. He went to her and put his hands upon the young shoulders. A great fear crept coldly into him. She was =0 thin, so frail His little Alice! “I want you to go and see Dr. Car- michael.” “I've been.” The low words were like a judge's sentence. “He sald to tell you andimnother—-" Bertillon’s hands 'trembled. He looked into her young, terrorized face. “The miserable scoundrel,” he #ald. “He shouldn’t have told you.| He should have told m« “Sh-sh,” she cautioned.. *“Don't let mother know, not yet. Come on.” She pulled him forward. . “Laugh, dad! Laagh!” He laughed. It was pain. He laughed, and passed with her into the more brilliant light of their din- ing room. He had forgotten for the moment the Polar Forge Company. This girl of his—this girl of seven- teen, of flushed cheeks, of golden hair. How had he been so blind? “How | Little Alice—so slender, so colorful, 80 beautiful, with her strange spirit- uality, so ln-r.kn’l l‘or‘mhmflonl E found himself cutting a filet of sole In senseless pleces. The drumming, whirring wings of ruin ‘were beating on his ears. He talked blithely with his wife, with Ted, with Cynthia, He did not know just what he said, He:had conversed as one who is at the top of success™ And yet he had forgotten business, he had stared covertly at the thinness of his youngest daughter and wondered at the bright color in her cheeks. Ted was talking now. Bertillon noticed a‘ourious, offensive tone in his son’s voice. Ted was talking of Cynthia and Cynthia was glaring ‘at him, hate in her eyes Defense—and hatey . .THE SUNDAY. STAR, WASHINGTON, D. U, OCTOBER 28, 1923—PART 5.’ “WELL,” ALICE RO! Her brother had said: “Cynthla is | enthused about Millspaugh.” It had, as Cynthia had shown, de- served no answer, or else a great deal of answer. i Millspaugh! Great Scott! -Mills-| paugh! Suddenly Bertillon realized that Cynthia was over twenty-one.| ‘There had never been any talk of| her marriage. She—his dearest, some- how—still appeared to him as the little girl he had known so long. He could not conceive of her as having any Intimacy with Millspaugh. Mills- | paugh! An old beau, from whom the bloom had all gone—a master of fiirtations. Suddenly Bertillon remembered a passing remark at the club. It came back to him like an echo. He could hear Newbold saying as Millspaugh passed: “There goes the old boy: He says he has come to real love at last. Found his renewed youth ‘In a young untouched soul —debutante! My stars!” And Bertillon, like & man coming out of a stupor, remembered that his wife had sald one morning three months ago: “John, do you think it is right for Cynthia to allow Everett Millspaugh to come in for calls?” He had not done more than raise his| eyebrows then. Then he had heard little Alice saying that Millspaugh had overtaken Cynthia on the avenue and something about a walk in the park. He felt like a man who had falled to sense any of the life going | on about him. Millspaugh with his arts and crafts. Cynthia! His own Cynthia! Out came his voice; he heard him- self: “Cynthia!” “Yes, dad.” “I won't have it. I won't have that man, that—" She turned her head slowly toward him. It was terrible to see in the light—the merciless too bright light of candles and electric glare above the table—the hardness in Cynthia's face. ‘It had slmost a snarling, leopard look. Her skin grew crim- son. Then he thought he saw the tears of rage gathering in the cor- ners of her eyes. She rose from her ohair. Ted said unpleasantly: “We ought to have done something about it be- fore the man got his work in. As for me, I think they are engaged!" Bertillon’s wife stared at her hus- band. “Well,” said he, o “I have nothing to say now,” sald Alice. The rage of an animal instinct whirled down on him. He pointed a finger at Cynthia. He was a tyrant, and yet he could not speak, for she now was only sneering at him. His daughter! They had become strangers in a second of time. “1 shan't stay here,” she sald pas- sionately. ‘Talk about family loyal- ty. Haven't I a right—hasn’t any girl & right to the dictates of her own heart?” o “Heart!” whispered Bertillon. “Oh, you need not think I care’” his daughter said. “It appears that my happiness is nothing—nothing to any of you!” She stalked- out, and only at the door, putting both her hands up to her face, did she show the tumult of emotion which affiicted her. “I°told you, John,” sald hls wife. “I warned you. Only today did I know.” * ¥ ¥ % HE stopped suddenly because the butler, on catlike feet, had come to glide plates away and thrust a new course in with his unfriendly, trained surreptitiousness. Bertillon stared at his own fingers on the edge of the white damask. “Things were a lot different when I was a boy,” Ted was saying, half flippantly. “I come home, but I'd never knew the old place. We were more liké human beings when we lived in that rotten little house in Evanston.” “Ted!” exclalmed his mother. “Well, I won't. come baci into this kind of mess—not on my next vaca- tion!” +“You're in a mess yourself,” his younger sister sald, springing to the defense. Y “How do you know?” “You sald you were.” Ted glowered at her. . Ted? In a mess! : Bortillon remem- bered-that he had received.a letter from his son, postmarked from the college town. He had slipped it into mm‘s.mz.. ‘week * before “IF IT'S AN\" COMFORT TO YOU TO KNOW IT, JOHN, OF MEN WHO DO JUST AS YOU HAVE BEEN DO! just as he was leaving the office. had intended to read it on the way uptown. His son sat with lowered head. “Well, what is it, Ted. my boy?" his father asked. “Mother knows.” The volce trembling. Ted loved his mother; bent his head lower. Bertilon turned toward his wife. How white her face had suddenly grown! What pain was in her eyes returning blankly his stare of silent inquiry! “It is as bad as it can be.” she said. Then, realizing that their youngest daughter was still present, she said: “Alice.” “What is it. mother?" “You took no dessert. hungry?” “No.” She was cdughing again—a paroxysm. She bent over in distress. Bertillon, frightened, confused, stared at her. He had visions of some dreadful climax. “Well, if you are not hungry, Alice, was he 1 wish you would find Cynthia and | comfort her,” Mrs. Bertillon begged. “Really, I never knew such chaos.” The girl seemed tired and listless as she disappeared. Bertillon was still looking into the eyes of his wife. They were hard and reproachful—a look he had never seen before. “Well, Ted, you're not ill, are you?" asked his father. Go.” rouble with the college?” “That wouldn’t be anything!" mother explained. Bertillon .could not suppress an ex- clamation of dsepair. “A matter of honor?” * Ted turned his face toward his “Did you read my letter?” the thought not.” “I could have .saved boy ?—" ; His son gave forth a cry of injury almost animal in its fierceness. He flung his napkin down, upsetting his glass of water. “Well, I won't come to you again. For the sake of my sisters I'll go away. I'll change my name. They can't force me into doing what I don't want to do. And what do I care for the newspapers? I'm through!" He rushed blindly toward the por- tieres and was gone. Ted had gone you, my Aren't you | | of father—and husband—you've bee! THERE ARE THOU He | the way of the self-indulgent coward. | Something to live down? Ted must | He was so busy these days— | be made to face it. | these days which had led to ruin. Bertillon jumped up. “Don’t make fools of ail of us!" his | wife cautioned in a cold, merciless voice. “Have some regard for the servants. Ted won't leave tonight. “Am I always to be the one who| has to stand the brunt of everys| thing?" | “No, no—of course not!"” He sat down again; he was con- fused. “Well,” said she harshly, "I suppose you've some complaint of your own.” “No—no" he answered. tell now.” “Well, this is the first time in months you haven't had some com- plaint or criticism, or—" He winced. “Business—" he be- gan. “Oh, business! Business! So that's the trouble again. As if business was an excuse for your being the kind “Nothing Ioi Business. 1 wish you'd never had & business.” * ¥ * % HE was stunned. He had never re- alized. He wondered how much any hard-pressed man, driving along headlong with ambition’s runaw: horses, ever realizes. Yes, this was ruin. This was ruin, indeed! “Allcer” He stretched his hands toward her. He felt the desperate need of her. It was that need which calls to a woman to be friend and sister, mother and mate, all in one. Baffled and defeated, his whole being yearned for her, for the touch of her hand, for a word from her lips. “Alice!” he cried again desperately. That dead, cold look in her eyes had not changed. “What is 1t?” she asked wearily. “You're not going to be sentimental, I hope.” She had never spoken to him like @t before. Why, she was the one who had been with him through all the happy struggle. He had never come to her in vain. He had always been willing to lay every bit of his effort and qf himself at her feet. It was impossible that she did not love him. It was impossible that—even after those long months (was it years?) when, to be sure, he had not remembered often how much he loved her and seldom showed it—love could suddenly disappear like this. Could its wells have dried and its fires have gone out when his back had too often ARMICHAEL”. “IVE BEEN, J_UDGE‘S SENTENCE. been turned upon it? Now he hun- gered and thirsted for it. But there was no love in her eyes; it had gone. “None of this would have happened, my dear, if you had pald the slightest attention to us,” she said. “The trouble with the fam- ily is that you went your own sep- arate way.” She shrugged her shoul- ders. “And we followed suit, I sup- pose” She paused. “At least I have. I'm rather ashamed of my selfishness. But, after all, we have had the money to enter into this self-indulgent life. A woman has to express herself some- how, my dear. “My heavens!” he exclaimed. “Well, what do you expect, John?" she inquired as casually as a stranger- During dinner I admit I was touched. There seemed 50 much tragedy and ruin. But we're no worse off than other smart people, are we? Don't look so dumpy, John. Why should you complain? You've had your success!” He growled from the back of his throat—§a thing at bay. “Enodgh of this” she commanded, “It’s fearfully unsophisticated of you to treat it so serlously. It was com- ing to you. It has been coming to you for years." “I wonder how many men are mak- ing the same mistake.” “Thousands,” she answered, playing with her necklace, “Oh, thousands.” He stopped a sentence on his tongue and tried to think. All he could say at last was this: “If you knew where 1 have ended— He would tell her. It would be a splendld eatire. They were ruined. Everything must go. He could reach her by this truth. She had become, without his ever awakening to it, the kind of woman—— No! She—his Alice —it was impossible! He said: “Our love: and paused. . ‘Our what?" she inquired cynically. “You don’t mean that you don't love e “Of course, I love you, John, dear.” She laughed mirthlessly. “What dif- ference did it make to you whether I loved you/or didn't? It's strange it has suddenly become so interesting and vital to you. Men are so blind! 1 suppose you really believe that I like to hear you drumming all over the house with your finger tips.” “Finger tips?” “Of course. You think of your busi- ness, 1 suppose, and drum with your finger tips. You drum at breakfast on the chair arm. And when you're read- ing in the evening you drum on your shirt front, and you drum and twiddle your fingers on every table you pase. You may be amused, but I believe drumming with finger nails ought to be a legal defense to a charge of murder.” * %k ok K HE cast a glance toward the ceil- ing as if asking heaven to give her patience. “And then, my dear, you say at the end of every sentence: 'If you know what I mean? with a rising, inflection which is enough to infuriate a saint.” He was aghast. “These are things we almost never see in those we love. Love is a kind of anesthetic, my dear. It would im- mensely soften a thousand irritations which make & person want to fly. When we reach our ages——" She cleared her throat and finished: “But especially when the thing you call ‘our love’ has meant. nothing to you, and you have let it die—well, really, what is there to say? It is better for us to face the truth, isn’t it?"” Bertillon sensed the bitter fact. He had come to the well thirsting. The well was dry. This was ruin. It had not come when Polar Forge crashed. It had not come from the outside. It had come from himself. He himself was ruin! He raised his eyes slowly. His wife was looking straight at him. Was there anxiety now in her eyes? “What —what can I do now?" he asked feebly. “It's rather late for me to tell yo she said. “Rather late, isn't it? There's Cynthia and there's Ted.” “And little Alice,” he added with a trembling volce. “There’s ‘nothing the matter with her,” his wife asserted. She did not know. “Well, you see that-it's impossible,” she concluded. He was trying to remember last he had sought and found try into his wite's in confidence, into her frie: 1p. ,Heavensl Was it 8o long ago? Had when n en- her THEY CALL IT RUIN —--i.. there been so long a stretch of ac- cepting life as if life were a kind of dream—as If the children were a kind of lay figures for a father's perfunc- tory assumption of his own love for them, as if his wife were a dress form upon whose waxen forehead and waxen cheeks one occasionally laid down a kiss and mumbled a conven- 7 A tipnal word of greeting or good-by? Bertillon, in all except his business, had become a mechanism. He realized it now. “I say there is nothing more to be said,” his wife repeated. “The in- evitable has come about, and, as for me, I have no more youth to give to any repaire. A woman who has trled to find a life in a family and carnot {find it there must just go on doing her best and piaying bridge when it becomes unpleasant. Asfor Ted and Cynthia, we can talk later. I'm worn out with contentions and complaints and criticism, and—Stop drumming!” He had been drumming—tapping the edge of his empty coffee cup. Empty cup of life, thought he! “Don’t scream,” he stopped.” “Are you going out? sald Bertillon.' “No, Alice.” “Well,” she rose, “if it's any com- fort to you to know it, I will tell you again, John." She spoke with an unpleasant glance over her shoulder at him. “You asked if you were alone in the experience. No, my dear, there are thousands of men who do just as you have been doing.” She was gone. light of this family dinner table, he allowed his head to fall on to his crossed arms. said. “I've He remained in that posture only for a minute. Something everlasting, something partaking of undefeatable courage, seized him. He was the cap- tain ef the ship; he would take the wheel even at the moment of the wreck. He had run them on to the rocks. He would remain on the ship's bridge come what might. * ok ok % E would tell them now. They would face reality together, all of them. He would make them stand together to the end. : He flung open the portieres and pushed the doors apart which opened the wide way into the living room. The family had reassembled there in the softer lights and shadows of these famillar surroundings. Over them all there appeared to be a blanket of ! suppression, of dismay. He closed the doors behind him. He cleared his throat. “I suppose I owe it to you all” he said. They stared at him with curious tense faces. “I owe It to you all to tell you the truth, I thought tomrrow woufd do. But I find theld will be other things to talk over and adjust tomorrow. I have no good or happy news. On the contrary. We have lost everything. It will mean absolute poverty for all of us. Polar Forge has gone into the hands of a receiver, and every cent in the world and all our belongings are wiped out. I am a ruined man. Cynthia covered her face with her handkerchief. “A what?" she said. Her father repeated solemnly: “A ruined man.” His words appeared to pull the trigger of some blunderbuss of mirth, The room suddenly shook with laughter. He could hear his wife's contralto. He could see Ted slapping his own knees, and the younger Alice rippled along in a boarding-school soprano. He stood for a moment, nonplused, gasping. “What's the matter, dad? Are you footled?” roared Ted. “We knew at six all about Polar Forg Your bleary stenographer, Miss Corliss, telephoned mother. She thought mother would be able to put some sense into you. So weall had a talk—" “And thought we would put up a jittle competition to show you what ruin might look like if one really tried,” added Cynthia. He remained stupified. He felt eyes swimming. He could not them all distinctly. “Polar Forge! Polar Forge!" his wife said near his ear. “We are all B0 glad that bogey is dead at last! It was almost crowding us out, John."” < his see And then, under the bright | | fetefeloelodeloetele et She put her arms about his neck. “What do we care?” she asked. Youth. New beginnings. The con- test! Old loyaltles. Old loves! Se- curity! Safety! Health! He reached out to touch life, to take it into his enfolding arms. Copyright, 1923. Goldfish Farmers. (Continued from Fifth Page.) hopes that they will golden out the following summers. Generally, this practice is unprofitable. * * % % HE vicissitudes of gold fish farm- ing are many and feature de- struction and despoliation by snakes, turtles, cranes, chicken hawks, a spe- cles of owl, kingfishers and other de- vouring birds and reptiles. Ground hogs, muskrats and crayfish tunne! and undermine the banks of the ponds and effect small breaks, which in time become so large that the water ma all drain away. To control such dep- redations, many operators locate their ponds close to their dwellings and farm buildings so that those about the house may watch the artificial pools and protect the fish. Where con ditions demand the remote location of pools, watchmen armed with shot guns patrol the banks daily. Thes repair or plug up all holes that an pear in the walls of the ponds and shoot all bird enemies of the fisi and destroy snakes, Bullrushes are obnoxious in fis ponds as they harbor snakes and al obstruct the efficient harvest of th« gold fish. When the water is drained away, the fish often get caught i the dense growth of ‘“cat tails” a die. All other tall and matted growth of vegetation or weeds has to b removed from the fish ponds. There are certain varieties of moss that cause trouble in harvesting the fish and these have to be plowed under or otherwise destroyed when the ponds are dry. The brood fish spawn for from four to eight weeks after they are set our in the spring of the year. The young fish as they hatch and begin to de- velop are very dark colored and it is only as they grow under the mos: favorable conditions that their coats change to the desirable golden shades Four months after incubation, the new hatch of gold fish is ready for market. There are three trade clas- sifications for these fish. The small class includes specimens that range from one to two inches in size, the mediums measure two to three inches. while the large range from three to four inches in length. All the fish over four inches are retained as brood fish if they are satisfactor: for that purpose. In the rough and mountainous sec- tions of Frederick county gold fish farming is jeopardized by another serious hazard — freshets and floods may surge from the crag tops, wash out the arfifictal ponds and carry away the valuapfe fish. In very muddy flood water gold fish become sluggish. This disposition prevents them from volitionally venturing far from their home pools unless they are swept away by strong currents These fish will not thrive in wate: that is very cold or where they are exposed to swift currents. They color best in the rather stagnant, slow- moving waters of the artificial ponds which range from three to three and one-half feet in depth. * ¥ ¥ % HE gold fishes are marketed from Frederick county in express cars Usually 140 to 150 carloads of these curious aquatic treasures are shipped annually to New York, Boston, Phila- delphia, Baltimore, Toledo, Cincin- nati and Burlington, Iowa, which are the most important marketing cen- ters of the industry. Usually the pro- Qucers sell the fish for $15 to $45 a thousand, dependent on their size and coloring. The retail dealers receive from 10 cents to $1 apiece. Brood fishes commonly are sold for 10 to cents a head. Aside from the gold- fish enterprise of Frederick county, there are but half a dozen of these unusual farms in the United States one each in the states of Iowa and Ohio and several in the neighborhood of Grassy Forks, Ind. The ponds are easlly drained and the fish captured during midautumn A small exit, about eight inches square, leads from each pond to = special draw box, whence the captive waters when freed surge to the draw float, a contraption with a wooden bottom and wire mesh top and sides. The water flows through this box, while the fish stick. They are re- moved to special fish cans and car- ried to the fish house. The fish house 18 equipped with & large sorting table covered with checked oflcloth, each of the checks being exactly one inch square. First, the fish are dumped on the sorting table, so that all the tadpoles, lizards and dark-colored specimens might be removed. Then the gold fish are sorted and graded as to size and counted, the brood fishes being removed. The fishes of - the different sizes are placed in spe- cial ten-gallon fish cans partly full of water. About 200 of these cans constitute a carload. Dependent on the size of the gold fish, as a rule, there are anywhere from 125,000 to 200,000 or more fish in the carload lot. About five acres of fish ponds ix Frederick county are devoted to the commercial production of fantails and Japanese fishes—ornamental varieties that are raised and marketed n tus same manner as the gold fish. These are not 8o healthy as the gold fish and as a result the profits from their production are much lower. Calling It Square. From the Chicago Tribue. She had arrived at the little station in Vermont on a cold, stormy night and had hired an old man to drive her to her friend’s farm, up among the hills. The roads were in bad condi- tion from the storm and the ride was altogether an uncomforiable one. “How much do I owe you?' she asked on arriving at her destination. “Well, ma’am,” said the old man, “my reg’lar price is a dollar, but seein’ as it's sech a bad night and the goin’ 8o terrible, I'll call it 76 cents.” |