Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 6, 1898, Page 2

CHAPTER IX. (Continued.) Oscar Deane was certainly the sort of man most girls would be proud to claim as a lover. Well over six feet in height, in the very prime of manhood, and one of the handsomest officers in the service, he had that in his manner, of gentle courtesy yet suggestive of lat- ent strength, which true women rey- erence above all things in one of the opposite sex. He had hitherto schooled himself in- to the belief that love and love-making were not for him, since he had not means to keep a wife, ang he had been content to do his devoir honorably as an uns ched knight in the great so- cial tournament. But Fate and Love are irresistible. Before he had met Clare Danvers three times he had fallen hopelessly, irre- trievably in love with her. With her beau Scarcely that; because, apart ; jes from a wealth of brown hair and honest-looking brown eyes, she scarcely any pretensions to beauty. With her money? He did not know she was rich until he had lost his heart. With what, then? With her- self, for herself. Ask ank hundred lovers you please why they love their sweethearts. Ask yourself, good reader, what you saw, or see, in yours—that perhaps other people cannot see. And then rest con- tented with the fact that Oscar fell in | love with Clare Danvers, because she | was Clare Danvers and he Oscar Deane. It proved a very heart-breaking bu ness for them both. Before the season | was over, Oscar had betrayed his se-} cret, and he knew that he was loved in return Then the trouble began. She | was only eighteen, and would not be! her own mistress for three years to come. Her parents would, to 4 tainty, object to Oscar as a son-in-! either presumptive or prospective. What was to be done? Now, had Oscar been Stephen, he Deanshutst. thing which I am very anxious, indeed, that you should know—and believe?” “Why not?’ she made answer, a little nervously. “Let us walk, please.” Siae by side they strolled onward, pre- ceded by the dog. “A few day 0,” he continued, “as you are, perhaps, already aware, I was tried at Winchester for the man- slaughter of my cousin Derek, and found guilty.” “Oh, yes! trial in the Times, and I fairly cried with joy over the clever snub the judge ve to the jury for their shameful rdict. It was splendid!” “Then you didn’t believe me guilty?” The large, honest eyes met his eager glance unflinchingly. “I believe you capable of such a crime!” she ex- claimed, indignantly. “Are you mad, Captain Deane, or is this some ill-timed “Neither,” he made answer, drawing a deep breath. Pray, forgive me. You ean have no idea how the sting of that verdict rankles in my heart—” “Then pluck it out. as you would any ether sting,” she broke in, eagerly. “And now tell me what it is you want ine ‘to know and believe.’ ” “It was that—my innocence,” he ex- ained, somewhat lamely. Yh!.... Was that all?” “You see, I could not bear the thought of quitting England without solemnly assuring you that I am guilt- less of my cousin’s death.” “Yes; after what has occurred, I see nothing but to bury myself and my fortunes in some remote colony.” Saptain Deane (or Major, is it not, vardice?” queried Miss Danvers, af- brief pause. ot since my last fight at school,” j he answered, smiling, faintly, at the question. “Why “Because, to be eandid with you, I would have exerted his influence in fa- vor of a special license and a honey- ; moon trip to Paris, and possibly Clare | would have consented to this summary solution of the difficulty. But being a | plain, straight-going soldier, he elected | to take what he deemed the only hon- | erable course open to him. He called | upon Mr, Danvers, and in-plain, manly | terms told him exactly the position of ! affairs. The effect of this communication up- on the father was to convert him, for the time, into a very fair counterpart of a raving lunatic. It is unnecessary | to repeat the language in which he held Oscar and his “beggarly commission” up to scorn, sneered at his mercenary | motives and swore at his presumption. He would “rather see his daughter in | her coflin,” he vowed, “than the wife | of a penniless fortune-hunter;” with | very much more to the same effect. He finally bade his visitor to leave the | house and never darken his door again. This mandate Oscar obeyed while he } had still, fortunately, some shreds of | patience left; and then he de up his mind as to his course of action. He | would exchange into a regiment on for- eign service, and leave the rest to time ; and fate. He would not seek to fetter ) Clare by any form of engagement. She was very young, and had seen so little of the world, and of other men, that | she might, later on, be glad of her, freedom. If, when she came of age, ' she was still minded to marry hi then naught could or should stand be- tween them. He could not bring himself, could not | trust himself, to tell her this, and, | therefore, he wrote instead. Yet that was the very time when her consent to ! an elopement might most readily have been obtained. Her reply was short, and, to a keen- eyed, less-scrupulous lover, might have appeared suggestive. “IT am convinced,” it ran, “that you j are obeying what you deem the high- est dictates of duty and honor; and I admire you the more for it, because I am sure that, were I a man, I should not have the strength of mind to imi- } tate you under similar circumstanc I shall respect your wishes with regard to considering myself as ‘free,’ and I shall know how to make even papa re- spect my own wishes in the same mat- ter.—C. D.” And so they had been parted for more than two years. Once more Os- car was about to quit England—this time under a cloud which would prob- ably overshadow his whole future life. Most probably she had seen accounts in the newspapers of what had hap- } do not think you are facing this trou- ble as a brave man should,” she pro- tested, firmly. “Nobody, whose opinion is worth having, can possibly agree with the finding of those stupid Win- I saw a full report of the | “Then you are going abroad again?” | Dhave you ever been accused of , the sunshine. He had bound himself in fetters forged by his own morbid imagination, and now he was hugging his chains. —— CHAPTER X. One More Unfortunate. Mrs. Dobbs, of 13 Dorset Terrace, Brixton, was sitting at the receipt of custom. That is to say, she had given her parlors (recently vacated) a thor- | ough cleansing, had affixed a card to the window sash, announcing that they j were “To Let, Furnished,” and was gazing hopefully into the street—hav- ing, apparently, no more interesting oc- cupation on hand—in search of possi- | ble new tenants, Doubtless she derived much satisfac- tien, derived from a sense of owner- ship, in thus utilizing her own ground floor during periods ef vacancy, just as a great landowner may find pleasure in sauntering over an unlet farm, Many persons had passed and re- passed, but on no single one of their countenances had watchful Mrs. | Dobbs discerned that harassed, lost- | my-way look indicative of the lodging- hunter. And she was just about to abandon her post and get upon the track of the maid-of-all-work, when a ; hansom drove up to the very door and | revived her waning hopes, the more so | as upon the roof of the vehicle was a | very solid-looking portmanteau. | Life, however, is made up of disap- pointments. A glance at the well dressed gentleman who emerged from | the cab satisfied her that the card in | the window was not yet due for remoy- | al. | “Bless my soul!” she exclaimed. “If it ain’t that there mysterious Mr. Daw- sop! Won't it be a surprise for that poor young thing up stairs? I'll let | him in myself.” | Mr. Dawson it was, to the best of her knowledge and belief, since it was ‘in that mame that he had, some months before, engaged the first-floor suit for himself and wife. But to the rest of the world he w: krown as | Stephen Deane, barrister-at-law. “How d’ do, Mrs. Dobbs?” was his | greeting. “Mrs. Dawson in?” “Yes, sir, and what’s more, she’s in | bed,” replied the landlady, not over- amiably. “What's the matter with her? She's not ill, is she?” “Depends what you calls ‘ill,’)” was the dry rejoinder. “She ain’t got ty- phoid, nor yet influenza, and she won’t have no doctor called in. She’s just | frettin’ and worritin’ herself to @eath, | that’s what's wrong with her Will you have your luggage brought in, sir?” Yes, I suppose so.... Vl see her first.” Yet, stay. chester jurymen; the judge who tried “yy15° Dobbs led the way up stairs, the case practically ignored it, and all avith- savaral ieonounced ifs of dis. the newspapers I have seen approve of ‘ I ed “SHEES Of ais- In short, no one believes you guilty. Yet, merely because your punctilious sense of honor has been wounded by those yokels, you propose his conduct. to run away and hide yourself! What | more could you do if you were guilty? You are wrong, quite wrong, I am sure you are.” “I wish I could take the same view of the sad affair as you do,” exclaimed Oscar. “But you do not know all, Miss nvers. My cousin’s death places me next in succession to the baronetcy. Can you not see how this accentuates the verdict? How can I remain to benefit by the death of the lad whom I stand convicted of having slain? It not in me to do it I have sworn I shall not.” “Very well,” was the clear-headed re- | joinder, “keep your oath. But how does this compel you to leave England? You are not obliged to assume the title at your uncle's death; and, if your scru- ples debar you from spending the reve- you can very easily assign them, , St. George’s hospital. You will still have your profession, as before.” “No; I have anticipated the decision of the authorities at the war office, ana | baye sent in my papers.” “Then it is useless my remonstrating with you any further,” she said, with a pronounced ring of vexation in her tone. “I can on y express a hope that you will some day take a more reason- able view of your position, and wish you God-speed.” Had Oscar been less morbidly sensi- tive to his own estimate of the world’s opinion, he must surely have divined the reason which prompted his fair companion to dissuade him from his Quixotic intentions. But he was blind to everything except his own wounded sense of honor; it did not even occur to him that she could still care for him after that withering verdict. It was very kind of her to endeavor to cheer hint up by making light of the Gisaster—yes, very kind, indeed. But their ways must henceforth lie apart. She realized this, and, therefore, she bade him God-speed. Fool! Why could he not see that he had opposed his own obstinancy to her common sense until Leve. they say, is blind. Wounded self- esteem is blinder still—if that be possi- ble. “Good-bye, Cl-— Miss Danvers,” pened at Deanshurst and of the recent | he said, taking her outstretched hand trial. Had he any right now to revive the memories of two years ago? No, he told himself, he must be to her as one dead And yet, what weuld he not give to see her once more, assure her with his own lips of his innocence of the crime laid at his door, ere he bade farewell to her and to his native land? The chapter of accidents sclved his doubts, as it solves so many problems. Within two days of his departure from Winchester he met her face to face in one of the narrow pathways which branch off from the Broad Walk in Kensington Gardens. A rough-haired Irish terrier was her only escort. “Oscar!” “Clare!” ‘The two names were ejaculated sim- ultaneously, ere either had time to con- sider the advisability of a more formal greeting, and he had taken her two hands in his, scarce knowing what he did. Then, as though some unseen force were parting them, they both re- coiled a step and looked at one another awkwardly, a8 though in doubt what to say or do next. “Fate has been both kind and cruel reverently in his. “The heaviest part of my punishment is gone since I know from your own lips, that I am innocent in your eyes. The rest I must bear as best I can. Good-bye. ...dear. God bless you always.” “Good-bye, then,” repeated Clare, al- most in a whisper. She turned to go, and then paused. “Once more I tell you, Oscar Deane,” she added, bravely and firmly enough, “that you are wrong. Nobly wrong, it may be; I am not able to judge of that. But wrong to yourself and to those who—who care for you!” If ever a man deserved to lose his sweetheart, surely Oscar deserved to lose Clare Danvers. Her last words should have opened his eyes to the fact that she had been fighting for her own j happiness as well as his, in combatting his resolve to exile himself; that he ‘was, In sooth, very dear to her. But his eyes remained closed to everything save his own fancied dishonor; and he allowed her to go, without uttering one word of the love for which her brave young heart was pining. “God help me!” he murmured. “The last ray of sunshine has gone from my in guiding me across your path to-day,” gaid Oscar, with a brave, though not very successful attempt at a smile. “May I profit by it to tell you some- wretched life.” It did not occur to him that God helps those who help themselves, nor that he had, of his own act, banished he had left her naught else to say. | and | approval, and, having briefly prepared the invalid for her unexpected visitor, took up a convenient position upon the landing, just outside the bedroom door, after the manner of her kind. “At last, Stephen!’ There was something intensely pa- | thetic in the tone and look which ac- companied the simple words; sorme- thing to move most men, too, in the outstretched arms and the pale, beauti- ful face framed in waving masses of dark hair. But Stephen Deane was in no mood for pathes, and he had not visited Brixton for sentimental reasons. “What the dickens are you moving in bed for, Alice?” he inquired, testily, and wholly ignoring the outstretched arms. The girlish figure in the bed seemed to shrink as though struck by heavy blows, and the pale face was buried in the delicate white hands. There was a half-stifled sob, but no reply. “Oh! Confound it all!” exclaimed Stephen. “If you're going to be sulky, I'll be off. Good thing I left my port- r.anteau on the cab. I half-expected a ‘scene of some sort.” This was strictly true, forasmuch as he had come with | the fixed intention of provoking one. | he girl-wife nerved herself by a great effort to reply, in some sort, to | her husband’s brutal words. Brief as | nad been her married life, she had sel- | dom (save in the very early days of | their union) experienced aught of kind- ness or consideration at his hands. | Yet she had yielded to him on every point, and had let him have his own ; Way in everything—save only where ‘her own honor was concerned. | He had tried, had tried hard, to in- ‘duce her to elope with him, from her | father’s house, and to trust him to ar- | range a subsequent marriage; but to , this proposai she had resolutely re- | fused to listen. Her woman’s instinct had warned her that, although she | loved him, she dared not trust him; | and she had told herself that, though | She would risk her happiness, not even | for his sake would she jeopardize her ‘ good name, Yet, in the face of his solemn assur- | ance that an avowed marriage would, ‘for family reasons, utterly ruin his | prospects in life, she had yielded so far | as to consent to a private celebration of the ceremony. And afterwards he | had persuaded her, still for family rea- | sons, to live in Brixton lodgings under |a false name. Here, for a short time, he had resided, also, absenting himself | Row and then for a day or two. But | these absences had become more fre- quent and prolonged. And now, after abandoning her for more than six weeks, he had returned in a fit of ill- | humor, to worry and bully her. She had been prepared to forgive him for his neglect, in the joy of seeing him | again; and, had he so willed it, all might have been well between them. | But her patience had at lergth reached | its utmost limits: and there was little indicative of further meek endurance or plaintive entreaty in the set lips and in the flashing, dark eyes which she presently turned upon him. Stephen had never seen anything at all like this new expression upon his wife’s face before; and, sooth to say, it somewhat staggered him. But he had come to get through an unpleasant job, and he was not one to be baulked by the angry eyes of a sick girl. “Well?” he sneered, “are you tongue- tied? I simply asked you why you are moping in bed at 3 p. m., and you con- tent yourself with glaring at me like a cat. The old woman says there is rothing really the matter with you—” “I do not need Mrs. Dobbs’ opinion of my condition,” she interrupted, quick- ly; “nor do I want her permission to remain in bed. As a matter of fact, I FARM AND GARDEN. am “not well. Do you wish m@ to; get up? “Please yourself,” he answered. “If you think you are better in bed, stop there. It’s all one to me.” “Have you come to stay, or is this merely a flying visit?” she asked. “Well, as I told you, I brought a port- mapteau with me,” he explained, light- ing a cigarette; “but, in view of your present frame of mind, I think I will take it away again. I am not wanted here, that’s plain enough.” “That is an unjust and cowardly thing to say, Stephen Deane,” she re- joined, hotly. “I have been waiting here for you (God knows how anxious- ly, how longingly!) for many dreary weeks. What do you suppose a girl, circumstanced as I am, can do with herself, alone in these wretched rooms, from morn till night, week in and week out? Go out? Where to? With whom? I hzve abandoned my own people for your sake. To whom could I look for companionship in your absence? I tell you I have many times wished myself dead, to escape the madness to which this prolonged solitude has been slowly drivirg me. Yet now you dare to tell me—you who have deserted me—that you are not wanted here!” “Spare me these heroics,” he pleaded, mockingly. “We shall get on better if we both keep our tempers. Now, as I understand you, you are furious be- cause I have been away six weeks, and you choose to regard this as willful neglect on my part. As a matter of fact, I have been kept away by mat- ters of vital importance, and I simply could not get back before.” “I know all about the Deanshurst af- fair. I have had ample time to read the newspapers.” “Very well, then I need not explain any further,” he proceeded. “In fact, I did not come with the intention of explaining at all, believing that my simple statement would satisfy you.” “So far as an excuse can satisfy me, I was satisfied. You have deemed it wise or expedient to leave me here alone, and I suppose you are within your rights, as my husband, in so do- ing. But I have my rights, also; and I refuse to endure this hole-and-corner existence any longer.” “Soh. .. You mean to show fight, do you?’ he queried, with a bitter laugh. “Very foolish of you, Alice, very foolish, indeed.” “If by ‘showing fight,’ you mean my right to assume my position before the world as your wife,” she made answer, “yes, I do, and I shall! Nay, hear me out. Until to-day 1 ve trusted you, obeyed you blindly. I consented to a secret marriage. I have borne the igno- miny of masquerading under a false name, And all this to serve you, and for reasons which you have never con- descended to explain to me.” “Quite true.” he assented, coolly. “I have, hitherto refrained from giving you my reasons. Shall I tell you why? Don’t blame me, mind, if the informa- tion proves a bit startling just at first.” “Go on,” she said, fixing her dark eyes on his face. “Well, if you must know the whole truth and nothing but the truth, you inye no more legal claim to my name than to the one you are passing under at present!” For several moments she seemed in- capable of doing aught save to stare at him in bewildered horror. Then the true import of the terrible statement me home to her, and she found her voice. “It is false!’ she cried, raising her- self in the bed and grasping him, al- most fiercely, by the sleeve. “It is as | false as everything else that you say! “Think so?’ he inquired, mockingly, at the same time disengaging his arm. “Oh, no, it isn't; it’s quite true, I can assure you, most solemnly. Of course v's not your fault I’m not tied to you for the rest of my life; you tried very hard, indeen, to make sure of me. But you see, marriage d@n’t suit my book at all. And so I devised a little plan that had the double advantage of satis- fying your scruples and leaving me free. Need I assist you in divining what that little plan was, or does the hint suffice?” “ve clergyman who married us—” “Was, of course, no clergyman at all,” he interposed, airily. “Played the part well, though, didn’t he?—considering he is always three parts drunk, I un- derstand. The license? All nonsense, of course. I’m afraid the Rev. Jeremy Jones will get into trouble one of these days—” “Silence, you ruffian!” Even the most callous are not proof against a swift, unexpected blow from the dagger of Truth. Stephen, Deane was a ruffian; he had treated this girl- woman in ruffianly fashion; and, de- spite himself, he recoiled before her words. There was, moreover, that in her look which indicated a courage and resolution he had never given her cred- it for possessing. The abrupt prutali- ty of his avowal had not crushed her as he expected it would; he had mistaken her patient endurance and submission to his wishes for weakness of charac- ter. He had, in short, blundered, and he knew it. “I can make every possible excuse for your excited state,” he said, without a trace of the cynical, bullying tone he had previously indulged in; “but I must ask you to refrain from calling me names. You can serve no useful purpose by irritating me.” “Irritating you?” she repeated, scorn- fully. “Does it occur to you that, if what you have said about your mar- riage is true, I would be justified in killing you? Upon your oath, before Heaven, is it.true? Or is it merely a device to seal my lips until such time as it may suit your plans to acknow- ledge me as your wife.” “Upon my solemn oath, it is true,” he replied; “but I do not ask you to believe even my oath without proof. You know when the supposed marriage took place. Search the registry at Som- erset House; you will find no record of it. Here is an address that will find the drunken actor who officiated at the ceremony; he will tell you what that ceremony was worth.” (To Be Continued.) An Amendment. “I think,” said the governor of the Ladrones, disdainfully, “that you Americans are a race of shopkeepers.” “No,” replied the captain of the Charleston, -as he proceeded to raise Old Glory, “we are more like a nation of real estate operators.”—Philadelphio North American, = f _ MATTERS OF INTEREST TO AGRICULTURISTS. Som? Up-to-Date Hints About Cul- tivation of the Soll and Yields ‘Thereof—Horticulture, Viticulture and WPloriculture. Clover Hay. We have been working regularly at this for a number of years, writes M. Jamison in National Stockman. Twice we have undertaken to cut and cure the hay when in full bloom, before any heads had turned brown. When cut at this stage we found that a hot sun would make the leaves so brittle that it was very hard to save them. If necessary to use a tedder on account of heavy swath the leaves would be whipped off. We have succeeded best when we started the mower after 2 few heads had turned brown. When we have the work started we do most of the cutting in the evening. When there is not time after five o'clock supper to get down before dark the required area we commence earlier. The dew will be on top of this, and by starting the tedder early it can be cured very rapidly. But we doubt if anything is gained by cutting while dew is on in the morning, even if the tedder follows directly after the mow- er. It will dry as quickly standing as it will by cutting and teddering. In good weather clover cut in the even- ing can be put in heavy windrow or shock the next day, but this work should cease before it begins to gather moisture in the evening. If cut at the Proper stage we do not think it can be sufficiently cured to put in stack or mow the next day after cutting. When the ground is very dry it may be safe, as the heat in the soil below and sun above cure it very rapidly. If to be hauled on the wagon it will do as well to leave in large windrows the second night as to put in shock. The morning of the third day after cut- ting, after the dew is off, open out the windrows or shocks, and as soon as well cured and heated by the sun’s rays, begin to haul in. If unloaded with horse fork or sling every bunch that drops from the fork or sling should be moved and distributed even- ly over the mow. Don’t let it pile up under the track and tumble over into the mow. When this is done the com- pact mass under the track will “mow burn” and come out dark in color, and have a dry burned flavor. Sometimes we drop a few loads in this way and the next morning before we can work in the field all this is moved and placed away in the mow. This moving we think quite an advantage, as it lets the air through it again without danger of blacking it and drives out the heat and moisture that have accumulated during the night. It cannot be put in the mow too dry, but it is a very easy matter to err in judgment as to how much moisture it may safely contain when put in. When there is much doubt on this point it is safest to let it remain in the field a little longer. If heavy rain catches it in the field we prefer to have it in the swath rather than in the shock, unless the shocks are well settled before the rain comes, hence do not rush all hands to get in shock before the approaching rain strikes the field. We have made bet- ter hay out of clover that has lain in the swath one week during cloudy and rainy weather than it would have been possible to make out of it had it been wet in the shock or windrow. And we have had it stand in the shock a week because the weather was too unfavor- able to haul, and been able afterwards to save it in good shape; but it had been well settled in the shocks before the rains came. Peach Leaf Curl and Plum Pockets. Bulletin 60, Indiana Experiment Sta- tion: All over the state of Indiana, the peach trees are this season quite generally injured by abnormal develop- ment of the leaves. They become thickened, much puffed and blistered, and with a whitish bloom on the sur- face of the affected portions. These distorted leaves will finally drop off, and often the fruit, on account of the weakened condition of the tree, drops also. Healthy leaves after a time re- place the diseased ones, and in the lat- ter part of the season the trees regain a normal appearance. This disease is known as “leaf curl,” and is caused by a fungus that penetrates the tissues, and on the surface forms spores so abundantly as to make the leaf look pale. Most of the injury during any season, however, does not come from the spread of the spores, but from the part of the fungus that lives over the summer and winter in the ends of the twigs and buds. Although the trees appear to quickly recover from an at- tack of “curl,” yet they really carry the disease in their tissues until next year, when it breaks out again in the young leaves. Some seasons are more favor- able to its development than others, but a ¢ree-which once shows the dis- ease is likely to have more or less “curl” every year. No effective remedy is known. Spraying with Bordeaux mixture as soon as the disease shows checks the distribution by spores some- what, and cutting off the twigs and limbs bearing the curled leaves gets rid of some of the perennial part of the fungus; but the most thorough atten- tion only partially checks the disease and it is doubtful if the results pay for the effort. Plum trees are affected with diseases produced by very similar fungi. The spring growth, sometimes the leaves, but more usually the shoots, are puffed and whitened, and greatly distorted, the young stems occasionally becoming a half inch to an inch thick, soft and hol- low. In other cases the fruit is simi- -larly affected. The plums are paler, more elongated, soft and hollow, with- out a trace of a pit.. These are often called “plum pockets,” and sometimes “bladder plums.” Like the peach curl, this disease winters over in the ends of the twigs, and a tree once attacked will be likely to show the disease from year to year. But as a rule only a few branches of a plum tree are attacked, and cutting away these branches may rid the tree of the disease. No other remedies are known.—J. C. Arthur, Botanist. Pasturing Fields too Early. When crops are planted for the pur- pose of using for the double purpose of a future crop and fall pasturage, the pasturing should not be done while the plant is yet small. Take clover as an illustration. There is a temptation to put the stock onto it as soon as it is large enough to make good pastur- age. But if this be done it is evident that the development of the roots will be prevented, for the root can develop only in proportion to the development of the top. Now if we sow clover we do it because we expect to reap great good from the clover roots in the soil as. well as for the part that appears above the ground. We must therefore treat the field in a manner that will cause the greatest development of the root. We think it is therefore better to allow the plant to attain its full size thus driving down the root into a re- gion of eternal moisture. If the crop be fed off after that the root will re- main and the redevelopment of the plant will be rapid. The same is large- ly true of the grasses when a good sod is desired. Too early cropping by stock will prevent the formation of new sod and if there be an old sod it will be greatly weakened and thinned. Cultivating Corn. As soon as the corn is well up I run the roller over it same way as planted, following immediately with the har- row, writes a correspondent of Mirror and Farmer. Remove the center row of teeth and straddle each row. Clods are thus crushed and the harrowing renders the soil mellow by more read- ily admitting sunshine and moisture. In the first cultivating I merely aim to scratch the ground to the depth of two or three inches, using the double cultivator with feeders. I cultivate deeper the second and third times, but cultivate shallow after the corn is about waist high to avoid tearing or pruning the roots, which is detrimental in hot, dry weather. Light stirring will then suffice to keep the ground moist, mellow and clean. I always like to cul- tivate after each good rain, and try to have the ground in a thorough state of cultivation before the corn begins to tassel and shoot, as it should not be disturbe@ thereafter. Circumstances al- ter cases and the kind of season we have has something to do with the way we manage our corn crop. Tomatoes from Cuttings.—I some- times cut off a branch from a plant and plant it in the ground rather deep- ly; in fact, leaving but little more than the tip-end out of the ground. In warm, sandy soil and under otherwise favor- able conditions such a cutting seldom fails to strike root promptly and make a good plant, bearing fruit but little later than the plant from which the cutting was taken. For the purpose of increasing a stock of plants in the greenhouse I clip off the leading shoots and afterwards the side branches, and trim them. These are planted out in the propagating-bench or in a strong hotbed, and under favorable conditions will strike roots often in the course of six or seven days. To insure suc- cess, however, the soil must be warm and moist, and preferably sand. If the soil be cold and soggy the cuttings will fail to grow. On the whole, the to- mato is as easy to grow from cuttings as almost any of the florists’ plants.— T. Greiner, in Farm and Fireside. Cow Peas or Clover.—Owing to the fact that clover is frequently damaged py freezing in winter and by drouth in summer, there is some inquiry for another leguminous crop which is not open to these objections. With our present knowledge, no substitute for Indiana can be offered that is equal to the common red or large English clovers, both of which are thoroughly acclimated and flourish throughout the state. Notwithstanding this fact, the cow pea has some points of advantage, among which are (1), greater capacity to endure drouth, (2) ability to grow on soils too thin to nourish clover, (3) ability to produce a large amount of forage or green manure in a few months of warm weather, and thus avoid the frosts of winter and early spring.—Indiana Experiment Station. Surplus is Profit—The first $25 of the annual income from a cow yields but little or no profit to the owner over cost of keep; and it will take 5,000 pounds of milk at 50 cents a hundred pounds to bring this sum. If by proper selection and breeding one can get a cow that will yield 8,000 pounds of milk with but little if any more expense for food and care, the extra 3,000 pounds will represent profit. It is recognition of this principle and action accordingly that makes fortunes in other lines of business, and will add to the profits,of the farm.—Ex. t Timber Raising.—Timber raisin: pound to claim the attention of farm- ers more in the future than it has in the past. And it is going to be quite as profitable as any other farm crop. The farmer should start his own trees if possible. Most yarieties that are best to cultivate for profit may be eas- ily started from seed. In Europe the waste lands that are neglected today on most of our farms would be in- stantly converted into forests.—Ex. _ A man may transgress as truly by holding his tongue as by speaking un- advisedly with his-lipsj—C. H. Spur- geon, — t \ oe, af ee nee seep