Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, July 25, 1903, Page 7

Barbara Bret.t.on’s oe Ambition= ~ CHAPTER X—Continued. Some hidden excitement trembled in the dying man’s tones; his frame trem- ‘bled with suppressed feeling. “Avice, darling, come here,” he con- tinued. “Tell me, my child, have I made your life happy?” “So happy, papa, that all its sunshine goes out with you.” “Ah, no, my darling. Laughter soon returns to young lips, and the smile to young eyes. God in his merciful wis- dom has so ordained it; but now my ‘pet, my treasured child, leave us, Try ‘and sleep until your brother calls you.” One kiss she pressed on the forehead already growing white and cold, then. with swift steps, lest the choking sobs should escape her, she obediently crossed the room to seek her own szhamber, to fall on her knees and pray to the good God to bid the Reaper pass by this one ripe flower over which hovered his dread sickle. “Travis, we are alone? I have much to say to you. It is of Avice that I would speak Tell me, have you seen Milton Has any one taken Avice’s place in his heart?” “No one, father. He is the soul of manly honor and on Avice’s eighteenth birthday will gladly receive the renewal of her childish pledge.” “He must not wait till then; they must be married at once. Travis, that | betrothal was not without its meaning. It was to insure future protection and noble name to my child.” “A noble name, father? Is not the mame of Meredith a password?” Travis questiofed proudly. But even as he spoke a_ flush of shame rose to his cheeks as he remeim- bered how already he had tarnished his herftage. “Yes, yes!” the sick man answered. “But, Travis, listen. Try and prepare yourself for what I must tell you. Fit- teen years ago your mother and I were in Paris, were our child was born, a ttle girl, and well do I remember the feeling of pride and gratitude which stirred my heart as I sat down to write you, at the sckool where we had placed you, of the sister God had sent you, who must ever be your :ittle queen. Your mother would not have her babe @ moment absent from her, but lay with the head pillowed on her arm, lier eyes always fastened on its face. On the third day fever went to her brain, and for a time she was delirious; but in no moment of her delirium was she conient unless the little one was near her. Even in her sleep she would grope out her hand that she might touch it. When the child was four days old it suddenly sickened and— died—” “Father!”—the words burst in a gasp from the trembling lips of the Mstener—‘“and Avice?” “The physicians said, deprived of her child, she must surely die—that for a time we must deceive her. Oh, Travis, I can hear now her pitiful voice call- ing upon her baby’s name. There wa: no time to lose. I learned of an insti-| tution in Paris where friendless and forsaken children were cared for. All Paris was then ringing with the story of a little waif who had been found upon the steps of La Madeleine, and taken in, only to die—a common story enough, but made notorious by tne beauty of its mother, and suspicion which fell upon her, and which the notoriety of her after life confirmed.” “But that chili—her child—died, father, you are sure?” questioned the young man, with now ashen lips “Died? Do I not tell you they sus- pected its mother of being a mur deress? It lived a few hours, but the sisters telling me the story told of an- other child they had found sleeping by its side. I was taken to the little one’s cradle. She wakened from her sleep, and smiled up in my face. It was as though a little cherub had lain among the pillows. Even then she was beau- tiful. “I could not take her unless I formal- ly adopted her; but your mother’s life was at stake, and I would have counted no cost. In a few hours the child was mine, and I had the exquisite happi- ness of seeing your mother sink into a quiet sleep, holding her little daugh- ter closely nestled in her bosom—the sleep, the physicians said, that might restore life and reason. “So it proved. The child was small for her age, and when my darling was restored to consciousness’she saw no difference, nor dreamed of the little mew-made grave in Pere la Chaise veyard. lilt free months she lingered with us, when the little one entwined itself about both our hearts; but day by day I watched my wife fade, as a lovely flower droops, and all my love was powerless to hold her back. At last, Travis, on her deathbed, I told her all She smiled and blessed me. “My baby is waiting for me there, Henry. I shall not be alone in heaven; put I leave you Avice to comfort you on earth. Promise me you will forget ghe is not blood of your blood, flesh of your flesh. Accept her as my _ heri- tage.’ “And this heritage, my boy, I now bequeath to you in your dead mother’s I have shared my property de- name. tween you alike, even as you have shared my heart. The papers of her adoption, of which she must ever | lightning speed he flew past the line of | know, are-Travis! Avice and Milton —you will see that they are—” But the sentence remained unfia- {ened; the avertaxed strength gave way, and in his son’s arms Henry Meredith lay dead. CHAPTER XI. A Loosened Tire. Three years later! Of how little import seem the written words, yet how fraught with meanilng! It was a grand gala day in Paris. The president of the republic was about to review the rank and file of the army on the open plain in front ot the grandly beautiful old palace of St. Cloud, the former royal residence of the kings and queens of sunny France. All Paris was in movement. Down the Champs Elysees, past the superb memorial erected by the first Napo- leon in honor of his own glory—the Arc de Triomphe—out throught the gates on the wonderfully beautiful Avenue de I’Iperatrice, the crowd moved on. The pageant was a magnificent one. More than a thousand liveried’ equip- ages vie one with the other in the beauty of the horses, with their splen- did trappings, and of the costly vehi- cles of every imaginable description which carried the old nobility and the more wealthy of the bourgeoisie of the I city to the rare and superb spectacie which was to crown the day. In the midst of this glittering multi- tude a girl, mounted on a coal black steed and accompanied by two gentle- men, attracted the most flattering at- tention. Her habit became well the tall, slen- der figure, while the azure-tinted eyes swept the faces of those she passed, on a rapid, swinging trot, as though enjoying the admiration her beauty and her horsemanship had won her. Her horse curveted and pranced as though conscious of that firm yet gen- tle touch upon his rein, the form yield- ing so gracefully to his every move- ment. In a moment all was changed. Near- ing the Bois de Boulogne, the tire of a wheel directly in font’ of them loosened from its contact with the wheel itself, flew back and touched in its fall the slender fore legs of big black Jupiter. Another instant, and at now pale and terror-stricken faces. What had happened no one knew. Mad terror had taken possession of him, as with long strides he baffled all pursuit. i It was impossible in that dense crowd for any ohe to follow. Indeed, the accident for a moment barred the way; and at such a time a moment lost equals an eternity. On and on the! horse and rider flew, the girl still noid- | ing her seat firmly in the saddle, though not doubting but that she was riding to her death. ms The lovely cheeks had lost © their | color, the laughing joyousness had | died out of the violet eyes. Bui .no| sound escaped the half-parted lips, save | a faint gasp now and then, as if for) breath. | But suddenly in her very pathway uprose a pile of stone. She had, ieft the gay, glittering mass of people far behind. The road her horse had taken | was new to her, but deadly and irami- nent peril was the result of his choice. } The stones blockaded the way. In-| stinctively she closed her eyes to shut out the horrid sight. Only this morning she had smiled at her face in the mirror, and, remem- bering that the fete this evening was to be given in honor of her eighteenth | birthday, rejoiced that it was fair, | with the secret hope that some one} who was coming that evening would find it so. How would it be when they picked her up, mangled and lifeless? She) shuddered. A prayer rese to her Jips; then came a sudden shock, as her horse upreared on his haunches, then stood still, quivering and motionless. What miracle had saved her? Opening her eyes she discovered a horse and rider by ber side, the man’s strong arm still grasping Jupiter's rein. ¢ “You. ride bravely, mademoiselle,” eaid the stranger, courteously raising his hat; “but I feared that I would not be in time. I saw ihat pursuit would only aggravate the evil, and so chose the cross-roads, hoping I might avert the danger that threatened you.” “You have saved my life,” the girl answered simply. “—" But the words trembled on her lips, a dull mist swam before her; all grew dark; the slight, graceful form reeled. In another instant the stranger had caught her in his arms and the young, lovely face lay helpless and uncon- scious upon his breast. Long and earnestly he looked down upon it, making no effort to restore her consciousness. The long, dark lashes swept the now lily-tinted cheeks, veiling the lustrous eyes; the sunny curls clustered about the mar- ble temples, beneath the coquettish hat resting upon the dainty head; no breath escaped from between the part- ed lips. 4 bs One moment he stooped low’ his head, as though he would snatch a kiss from their unconsciousness; but the fair, silken mustache only brushed her brow. ‘ Then, drawing a knife from his pock- et, he qnickly severed one golden tress, which he had but barely found time to conceal as the crowd’swept in sight. Foremost among them, r her luxurious .equipage, -was. a lady; who bent forward with anxious inter- est: “Avice, my darling!” she murmured, as, her coachman drawing rein, she leaned anxiously forward. “I pray you, sir, place her here with me! What terrible thing has happened?” “Only a swoon caused by fright and fatigue,” he answered, courteously, as he deposited his lovely burden among the cushions. “I will send a physi- cian, madam, at once. I think I al- ready recognize one among the crowd. “Ere she had time to ‘ask him to whom Avice owed such a debt of grat- itude, he had gone. Even before the physician had gained her side, the color fluttered back to the girl’s cheeks, the breath once more mingled with the common air, the blue eyes unclosed, and looked searchingly from one to the other of the anxious faces about her, as though searching for some one whom she missed. “Florence!” she said, at last, smiling faintly. “You here?” “Yes, dear. When your horse passed so swiftly that I had barely time to recognize him and his rider, you can scarcely conceive of my terror. I gave my coachman orders to follow as rapidly as he could, and so was just in time to be of some slight service to you. Ah, here is Mr. Meredith!” a deeper blush dyeing the speaker's cheeks as a horseman rode a horse, flecked with foam, up to the carriage door, and instantly threw himself from the saddle. “You need not bring that white face here,” she continued lightly. “Avice is still to be the belle of the ball this evening.” “Thank God!” burst from his ashen lips. “Qh, Avice, what I suffered when I saw your danger and could not follow! Tha carriages so blocked the way that I lost sight of you. My horse seemed to creep, and yet—poor Juno!—her sides will long bear the impress of my spurs.” “will you not consign her to your groom, and take your place with us? Avice is so much better that 1 intend- ed driving her slowly home that she may lie and rest until the evening.” “No, I will ride beside you,” the young man answered; then added, in a voice so low that it only met her ear, “How gladly I would face death could I but owe life and safety to you!” “Qh, but Avice owes me neither!” she blushingly replied. Then, as they turned their horses’ heads about, she recounted the story whose bravery had saved Avice’s life, but who had left them so suddenly, while the girl, listening, lived again those few moments of deadly peril, seemed to feel again the pressure of that strong yet gentle touch, to see again that handsome face bending over hers, while memory thrilled at a something in his face and voice which awakened echoes of a far-off time, and the knowledge of a want, a void, in her life she had imagined filled to re- pletion. CHAPTER XII. At the Ball. . Three years ago Avice Mer€dith, | standing by her dead father’s side, nad | thought all the brightness had forever died out of her life; but he, in his old- er wisdom, ere his speech had been forever silenced, had spoken truly— young lives like young vines. ever throw out fresh tendrils in pursuit of happiness, aud young sunshine is too intense to be long hid behind the | darkest clouds. | To her brother only, in that terri-/ ble time, she clung for comfort; and | when, as gently as he could, Travis | reminded her of her father’s last | wishes, her whole nature shrank from,| their fulfillment. “He said, only if Mr. Lennox him-| self sought me. Do not seek him, | Travis. I could noi bear it! Let me) go into a convent school for three | years to study. Then ! will be obedi- | ent to your wishes, as I should have | been to dear papa’s.” Her entreaty was too earnest to be gainsaid. In her deep grief the child- love she had once experienced for Mil- | ton Lennox seemed suddenly to be followed by repulsion, as her woman’s pride asserted itself. The true reason which made her father’s wish so urgent Travis could not ‘reveal to her. He could not him- self yet realize it; but he saw in se- clusion, she at least would receive pro- tection, and be shielded against the world. And so it was that at last she | gained his consent to her plan. . | One letter had reached her in all) this time which had brought vivid | scarlet to her cheeks and brow. Mil- ton wrote: “I have just heard of your deep loss, | and my heart has gone out, not only in | sympathy, but in love, to my little} child-wife. So I call you, Avice, in my own soul—so I enshrine you, pure and perfect. My own life looks black be- side the stainless whiteness of yours; | but in its future every good and noble thought or deed shall be owed to you. I am ready to come to yuu whenever you call upon me, but there will dawn a day when I shall not wait your summons. On your eighteenth birth- day I shall see you—shall come in search of your promise. Avice, it is for you to say whether my coming shall be in vain. Yet, how dare I hope that you should love me? But, perhaps, perhaps—oh, blessed uncer- tainty!—I may teach you the precious lesson, and so link forever your young life to mine!” ' f It was this letter, conned over and over until each word was as an old, familiar friend, which now again seemcd written in the air as she stood | that night before her mirror, having just escaped from the last skillful | thank you for my life? | est reward. ‘touches of her maid’s deft fingers. “You are perfect, mademoiselle. A ia paler than usual, but more beau- tiful. e These were the spoken words her ear caught, but over and above them all rang the fwritten words—‘There will dawn a day I shall not wait your summons!” Would he keep his word? Should she welcome him among her guests to-night? Ah, the color was not wanting now! That thought brought it in quick crim- som tide over the snowy neck, above the white silk dress, softened by lace, over the throat on which gleamed the flawless pearls, up even to the shell- tinted ears, until.she turned away to hide it from herself. It had been her dead father’s last wish. She had sworn obedience to his commands; she had ever looked upon her life as a consecrated life .That she should wish it otherwise had never crossed the horizon of her fancy, until the morning of the day on which it was to meet with its fulfillment. Was there some fatality at work, that this face that was bent over her as she swooned, the voice whose musical utterance still lived within her mem- ory, should refuse to be banished from her thoughts, should suddenly have Jent new sweetness to her life so mi- raculously saved—the life which be- longed to another? But her guests already were arriv- ing. By her brother’s side she stood in the spacious and elegantly appoint- ed salon, receiving her congratulations and extending to them her welcome, until, at a given signal, music clashed forth from a hidden recess its harmo- nious summons to the dance. ‘ It was a gay, brilliant scene. Flow- ers, light, radiance everywhere, and the girl, standing upon the threshold of this new and bewildering world, thought how glad a thing it was to live. “Avice!” It was her brother’s voice which ar- rested her attention as she stood,for a moment alone. Turning, she saw him A happy light danced in his eyes as his hand rested familiarly on the shoulder of— Could she fail to recog- nize that handsome face which only a few short hours béfore had been her last waking consciousness ere she swooned away? It was the man who that morning had saved her life. “Avice!” Travis repeated, “This is Mr. Lennox. Surely you have not for- gotten him?” Mr. Lennox. How blind she had been not to have remembered him! Now she could trace each feature. But what had brought him here to- night? Was it love or duty? This un- solved question, the obligation under which she rested to him, the con- sciousness of the bond between them, lent an almost coldness to her manner as she shyly outstretched one little gloved hand and murmured a few words of greeting. “Think of it,” Travis interrupted, Milton has been in Paris nearly a week without letting us know.” “I could not intrude upon Miss Mere- dith,” Lennox answered, his eyes searching the beautiful face, on which the blushes came and went. Her heart beat so fast, so loudly, it seemed as if his ear must catch its throbbing. A something thrilled her. It was as though the king had come to claim his own; but such a grand, a noble sovereign! Must he not bend very low his kingly head to seek this little blossom another’s hand had plucked for him. “Avice, have you no word of wel- come for me?” They were alone now, her hand rest- ing on his arm, as they stood within | the dimly lighted conservatory, where he had led her. The notes of the mu- sic came to them faintly; there was the sweet odor of many plants, the far- | off ripple of falling water from some far-off fountain; but sweeter than any music were the deep, rich tones of his questioning voice. “Welcome!” she said, upturning her radiant eyes to his. “Have I not to Oh, Mr. Len- nox, how can | ever repay the debt I owe you?” “That I saved it is my richest, rar- But I had hoped you would not remember me as the stran- ger, fortunate enough to avert such a calamity as threatened you. Avice, do you not know how gladly I would have laid down my own life rather than on this day one hair of your head should be harmed? For three long years I have had but one hope, one dream— that the day might come when in spite of the vast gulf of years yawning be- tween us, I might teach you to love me, might win your promise to become my wife, might pillow your head again on my heart, as I had pillowed it, when it was a boy’s true, earnest heart, with your sunny, baby tresses. I have longed far one word from you to short- en the weary time of my waiting hours. None came. When I reached Patis my first impulse was to seek you out; but I had waited so long, I would wait until the appointed time. To-day I recognized Travis, myself un- seen, and knew at once who rode so fearlessly and gracefully by his side. In that terrible moment of your peril, one prayer only trembled on my lips— that I might be in time. God answered it. The unspoken words reached his great, listening ear. Avice, darling, will you redeem your childhood’s pledge?” Was it love? Was it duty? Again this question thrilled the girl’s heart. Could it be that this man, who had all the world in which to choose, would have sought her out but for the re- demption of his given word? But her father’s dying wish, his last entreaty, her faithful promise—dare she waver, whatever be the cost. “I owe you my life, Mr. Lennox. It is yours to do with as you will.” “Not thus, Avice, will I accept it. Forget my part in this morning’s work and tell me truly if some one else has the treasure I would so gladly secured and so sacredly have guarded. I would not force it, 1 wish no sacrifice of your youth, your beauty; but if, in- deed, no other name has been written upon its pure white page, let me, then, inscribe my own upon it. Avice; the truth!” “There is none other. Your name has been there all these years—” “Come!” a voice interrupted, “this is a monopoly. Miss St. John and 1 pronounce you usurpers. Miss St. John, My friend, Mr. Lennox.” “Mr. Lennox and I have already met,” replied the lady, to Travis’ amazement, warmly extending her hand. “It was he who saved Avice's life so bravely this morning, then left us without allowing us to learn his name.” Speechless, Travis grasped Lennox’s hand, but Milton, looking tenderly at the girl beside him, said quietly: “I have already earned my richest reward, for she has already given it into my keeping.” Ah, how rich, how full of promise that life seemed when Avice, a few hours later, laid her tired head upon its pillow, to give to its deliverer its last waking thought, his good-night kiss still fresh upon her lips! How little she dreamed that in the room next hers, her brother paced up and down, tortured by doubt and memory! All these years he had borne his burden alone. For a time his love would not die. The beauty of the womanu who had ensared him was ever before him, as the water beyond the reach of Tantalus, but ever a mockery to his hungry, famished eyes. Then, a year before, in a daily news- paper, he had read the printed words which had freed him and threw off his yoke—the words which told of a frightful railway accident, and which placed among the list of victims Bar. bara Bretton’s name. For a time he would not believe’ it true, but the balance at his banker's had since then remained untouched. There was no reason to doubt save one. He had learned to love another. Could it, be that he was free to woo and win her, or, if free, would Flor- ence St. John, listening to the reading of that page in his history, not turn from him forever? It was this thought which kept up that weary vigil; this question that perhaps it were better to bury that past in its own oblivion, leaving her in ignorance of its existence, that drove sleep from Travis Meredith's eyes, while Avice smiled and mur. mured low a nave even in her dreams a A WOMAN BUTTED IN. She Saw a Woman Smoking, and It All Ended in Police Court. Scenting the odor of a cigarette as she passed through a hall in the board- ing house at 152 East Twenty-eighth street, New York, Mrs. Frederick A. 'TkKompson glanced about to see whence the smoke came. So did Mrs. Walter Javines, who was with her. A thin cloud was coming from the room of Miss Harriet Rice, who writes novels. As the door was open, they looked in. Miss-Rice was reclining on a couch. In her dainty fingers she held a gold. tipped cigarette, and ever and anon she would place the gold tip to her lips and inhale the fragrant smoke, and then let it curl and eddy outward. Mrs. Thompson looked at Mrs. Javi- nes. Mrs. Javines returned the look. Then they moved on, but as_ they moved on Miss Rice’s day dream was shattered by her hearing the words: “Can a lady be a lady and still smoke a cigarette?” The tiny roll of perfumed tobaccc and paper fell to the floor as Miss Rice sprang to her feet. A moment more and she was in the hall, demanding to know if the phrase about a lady and a cigarette was meant to apply to her. An argument followed. Its exact na ture is in dispute, but the outcome was that Mrs. Thompson had the novelist summoned to the Yorkville court, as- serting that not merely smoke, but bad language had passed Miss Rice’s lips. “I did not use improper language,” said the novelist to Magistrate Flam: mer. “I simply gave Mrs. Thompson scme wholesome advice about minding het own business.” The magistrate dismissed the case, saying: “A respectable boarding house should be free from tenement hous¢ quarrels.”—Detroit Tribune. On View on Mondays. “What I never could understand,* said the dense man, “is why the wom: en spend such fabulous sums for this here lingere, when they never display it, of course. Now, if they would put some of that dainty lace and ribbon on their dresses or hats—” “You forget,” said the other men who had also been looking into the show window, “you forget that the neighbors always rubber at the wash ing when it is hung out.”—Judge, She Was Disappointed. They had been sitting in silence. “I spoke to your pa this morning,” he said, breaking the monotony. “W-what d-did you say?” she asked anxiously, her heart beating like the proverbial trip-hammer. “Oh, I said ‘Good morning. That was all, dear.” Biting her lips, she yawned and re marked that she was sleepy.—Chicaga News. Nothing Distinctive. “What does the expert mean when he says there is ‘no character’ in Clark’s handwriting?” inquired the seeker after knowledge. “He means,” replied the man whe knew, “that every character is legibly formed.”—Philadelphia Press. His Dim Impression. Horticulturist (on his travels)—Are you baving any trouble in this part of the country with the San Jose scale? . Stage Driver—] can’t say for cer taia, but I think I heard some of the boys say the bosses had : refused ta sign it—Chicago Tribune. ‘ DEFECTIVE PAGE Humus and Moisture. Decayed vegetable matter is humus. To have a good soil we must have a supply of vegetable matter in it. The chief advantage of this is in enabling the soil to hold water to a greater de- gree than would be the case did it not contain water. The eastern garden- ers have been surprised sometimes to ‘ind that their soils would not respond to commercial fertilizers and that the ' land was becoming apparently very subject to drouth. The trouble was that the humus had been exhausted by year after year growing crops upon it by the help of commercial fertil- izers without putting on a particle of ocarnyard manure or turning under green crops. At the Minnesota ex- periment station tests were made on soils with a good supply of humus and those with little, as to water content. On one soil the humus was found te be 8.35 per cent of all. The water content was 16.48 per cent. The other soil contained 2.5 per cent of humus, and the water content was 12.14 per cent of the total. This dif- ference has been figured out as about a quart of water per cubic foot of soil, which would mean over 10,000 gallons to the acre. In a dry season this dif- ference would be a very great factor in the maturing of the crop. Plants do not eat; they drink: All food is taken in a liquid condition. If the water is absent the plant starves. The humus supply is there fere of prime importance in the devel- oping of our farm crops. There is another great advantage in having a soil rich in humus and that is that the soil does not give off its water so rapidly as do soils where the humus is wanting. The roots go after the food and moisture and get them, but the water does not so rapidly pass to the surface of the ground. The hu- mus acts as a sub-earth mulch, if such a term be allowable. It hinders the pumps of the sun and wind from taking motsture out of the soil, but helps them to take the moisture irom the leaves of the plants, which meth- od is serviceable to man. At the ‘station mentioned the two soils “were saturated with the same amount of water and exposed to the © sun and wind for ten hours. At the end of that time the soil with the largest amount of humus contained 6.12 per cent of its water, while the other soil contained only 3.94 per cent. \ Pruning Potato Tops. That potato tops should not be pruned seems to be clearly proved by some experiments carried on at the Vermont Experiment station last sea- son. In the annual report the direc- tor says: ef The moist, cool weather of July and August, 1902, led to unusual lux- uriance in the development of potato tops, especially where they had been properly sprayed. This condition brought to the experiment station in- quiries as to whether it was not de sirable to check this tendency to veg- etative vigor in some way, as for ex- ample, by breaking down the tops with a roller,, or by cutting them back. We have always advised against any such practice on _ theoretical grounds, but decided to put it to test this year, in the grounds of a local gardener. He wished the tops cut back in a portion of the field. This was done on August 12th. The stalks were then about three feet long when straightened out and arose about two feet above the soil. They were cut clean at a height of one foot above the soil, Which removed the bulk of the foliage. These stalks sent’ out within a few days many new shoots, but this new growth began to yellow in about a week and the plants were dead by September Ist. In striking contrast the unclipped plants on either side were in full and vigorous foliage at this date and continued green through September; indeed, there were some green plants when they were dug the second week in October. Seven rows, each one hun- dred feet long and three and one-half feet apart, were handled experiment- ally, five unclipped and two clipped. The yields were as follows: Row 1, not clipped, yield 228 Ibs. Row 2, not clipped, yield 221 Ibs. Row 3, clipped, yield 150 Ibs. Row 4, not clipped, yield 223 lbs. Row 5, not clipped, yield 224 Ibs. Row 6, clipped, yield 155 Ibs. Row 7, mot clipped, yield 211 Ibs. Averages—Not clipped, 221 pounds; clipped, 152 pounds. It is evident that practically one third of the crop was sacrificed by the clipping. Feeding Brood Sows. For brood sows in winter and very early spring, it is always advisable to give them access to a piece of early sown wheat or rye, and to let them 2 have a limited amount of nicely cured clover, alfalfa or cowpea hay by way of variety of feed. Sorghum stalks : 4 grown as is customary for the produc- tion of syrup, in limited quantity, make an excellent addition to the ra- tion, The main thing to be avoided in carrying hogs of this sort through the winter, is a straight corn diet. x The greater the variety of cheap ma- » oe terials like these, the better the sows ¢ ay will do.—G. W. Waters. : Adventitious buds are produced by ee some trees irregularly anywhere on , the surface of the wood, especially where it has been mutilatei or in dured. /