Grand Rapids Herald-Review Newspaper, August 22, 1903, Page 6

\ smother and the sisters there loved «tance now to thefr walls in my anguish man’s eyes. v favor I would ask at your hands. tly. = —~ CHAPTER XIX—Continued. | Silently Dr. Hayes drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to her. Yes, there was no mistaking that bold cchirography, she thought, as she took ‘the page from the envelope, addressed to Dr. Richard Hayes, and read its contents: - “It is to you I turn, old friend, in the ‘bitter trouble which has come upon sme. You know the pride of name and race—the fact that I would tarnish neither, let the cost tomy own hap- winess be what it may.” Ah, did not Avice remember words of just such import uttered to her— words which at the time had passed ‘her by. as idly as the summer wind, ‘but which now smote ‘with the force of the hurricane upon her unprotected face? The letter continued: “I have been shamelessty, disgrace- fully imposed upon! The girl who, in a few short weeks, was to have been my wife, has no right to the name she bears—is, in fact, a nametess waif, whom the generosity of Mr. Meredith raised from obscurity. I can now un- derstand the reason of our early be- ‘trothal—the effort to continue the de- ception upon the world. Thank God, there is yet time to retrieve the mis- take! That she is innocent of any share in the imposition I firmly be- dieve, but, none the less, I cannot con- -sent to see her again. Will you under- take this task for me? Will you say to her that I know all, and, thought I will keep her secret, our engagement } 4, of course, annulled? Do this for me, my friend, and believe me, grate- fully, —Milton Lennox.” Ah, Avice, was there no warning an- gel to tell you that not thus would ‘your lover have chosen his messenger —not thus crushed the opening blos- som of content under his heel? The handwriting she knew; further ‘than that she questioned nothing, as she raised her haggard eyes to the -doctor’s face. A great reward lay within the man’s covetous reach; but drops of perspira- tion stood out heavy on his brow, as ‘the realized the full meaning of all he had undertaken. He crumpled in his grasp the letter she had handed back. “My, darling!” he exclaimed, “did I not tell you truly of his unworthiness? i have carried out the task he set for me; but I must go further. Avice, he ‘has discarded you—I sue at your feet for but the crumbs whose fullness you would have showered upon him.” “Hush!” she commanded. ‘You are very good. I see it all now. Forgive my injustice toward you; but what you speak of can never be! Three years of my life I spent in a convent ‘school. They were happy years. The me; they will not refuse me adm and despair.” “But your brother—he will oppese this plan.” “He shall not even know it until too late. This very night I shall leave this foof forever, to hide my sorrows, at least, perhaps under the nun's veil.” A flash of triumph shone in the The difficult problem was adjusting itself. } “As you will, then, Avice. At least, dear, you will find rest and peace, and | perhaps—perhaps, in time, I may win my reward. But there is one great The journey to the convent is a long one; you are unfitted for travel. Will you accept, at least my professional aid, and let me be your escort thither?” The girl put one weak hand to her throbbing temples, as she rose weari- “I wish I could better reward your true and noble friendship,” she said. “I shall be glad indeed if you will grant me this last favor and give me your protection on this journey.” “T will meet you, then, at the rail- ~road station promptly at 7 o’clock this evening,” he answered. “The train starts at fifteen minutes after; but—if you change your mind--” “T shall not change my mind—I shall de there.” ¥ CHAPTER XX. f Flight. With a step from which all girlish dightness had fled, and eyes blinded with fast-falling tears, Avice, having heard the front door close upon her visitor, wearily mounted the stairs to iher own room. For a moment she stood upon the threshold surveying the many familiar objects, the treasures which she had gathered together during her short, ‘happy life. How short it seemed in ‘retrospect!—how long the vista of the -coming years, when she must live on with one ‘thought, one hope, and that ‘for eternal forgetfulness! During the years she had spent at the convent school she had so often watched the calm, placid faces of the snuns, and wondered if they hid no seething passions, no heart-tears, no -soul-burnings. So, perhaps, might ssome young, bright, happy girl one -day wonder, tooking at ber; but ah, would even that outward calmness be vouchsafed to her, when in her heart there ever yawned a wited sepul- ‘ing her belongings. Dr. Hayes’ card in her hand, and all the world had been filled with dancing sunshine. Oh, why had not some pre- monition warned her that-that empty piece of pasteboard was the first note of the doom which had overtaken her? Here, in its velvet frame upom the wall, Milton’s face smiled down upon her. A hot, burning anger drove away her tears, as, filled with indignation against him, she snatched the picture from its place and rent it from its frame. Poor girl! She little knew the fatal meaning each act would bear hereafter in the net her own hands were helping weave about herself. But she must calm herself. In the few hours left she must ‘act. Oh, for a mother’s arm to enfold her, a moth- er’s breast on which to throw herself and sob out this sudden,“awful mis- ery! Seating herself at her desk, slowly turned the key in its lock, the same key she had so carelessly drop- ped and Marie had returned to her. The little parcel of letters tied with blue ribbon met her eyes. How lov- ingly she had put each new message with its sisters. Now, with a sort of shuddering horror, she gathered them up and, crossing to the low fire in the grate, dropped them in the ashes. Her father’s letters she read _ through. They were filled with tenderest afiec- tion, and these she placed against her heart, as though they might penetrate it even yet with a single drop of com- fort. Then, drawing pen and paper toward her, she wrote: “I am going away, Travis—darling brother. I may call you so once more, may I not? though I have learned the secret of my birth. You will hear from Mr. Lennox’s own lips of his letter and his messenger, therefore you will not wonder that for a tong time I want to shut myself away from this cruel world; sa I am going back to the convent, and to ask the dear sisters if they will receive me once more in their midst, not as a merry pupil, but as a sad, heavy-hearted ‘woman, who in time, perhaps, will from them learn their calm and join their number. Forgive, me, dear, if this step does not meet your approval. I feared it might not, therefore I would not tell you of it until too late to op- pose me. I am very miserable, very wretched, Travis, and it*seems as though God had put the thought of this blessed retreat into my heart. Per- haps there I may even learn forgive- ness for the man who has dealt me this most dastardly blow. What had I done that he should choose such means to break the tie between us? Did he fear I would plead with him for his name, his love? Ah, Travis, I have no right to the Meredith name, but I think somewhere is the old Mer- edith pride for all that. I remember now papa’s anxiety for your coming— the conversation you had together be- fore he died. Have you known my secret all these years? How bravely you have kept it! How true a brother you have been! But oh, why—why was I not left to perish on the steps of La Madeleine, where my heartless, un- known mother placed me? —‘Avice.” This she sealed and directed, then began the task of sorting and arrang- Every gift of her lover, from the flashing diamond to the faded flower, she put carefully to- gether. She wrote his name upon the packages, then called Marie. . “Mademoiselle is ill!” the maid ex- claimed,.in seeming anxious solicitude, at sight of the pale face and swollen eyes of her young mistress. “No, Marie; I am only suffering from a nervous headache to which I am accustomed. I am going rather unexpectedly to-night on a short visit to a school fellow. Incase Mr. Mere- dith does not get home before I start, please give him this note, which will explain my sudden departure and its reasons. Now, if you will pack for me, putting into one trunk my plainest drésses and only such necessaries as I shall need, I will throw myself on the bed and try to get some rest.” “Pardon the suggestion, Miss Avice, but will you not permit me to ac company you?” “T cannot,” she answered wearily. “I may, however, send for you later. Meantime, if I,do not return immedi- ately, say to Mr. Meredith that it was my wish that you should not be dis- missed.” The maid courtesied and began the task, while Avice covered her burn- ing eyes and held her throbbing tem- ples with her two feverish hands. Thus hours dragged themselves away. At times a strange, faint sick- ness crept over her, but she drove it off. At any cost she must retain her strength until she no longer had such urgent need of it. The clock, striking six, aroused her. “Call a cab, Marie,” she said, “and order my trunk carried down.” She crossed to the mirror, but start- ed back, horror-stricken, at her own reflection. Her eyes, no longer swol- len, seemed two stars, gleaming against the unnatural pallor of her face. It was in the same mirrog into which she had smiled on the morning of her birthday fete, and the, young, joy- beaming reflection had sailed back at her, She had been so grateful to her chre? Only an hour before she bad held | preserver that its beauty, f_ which she | felt such a natural, girlish pride, ‘had +) Se she |, sites not been marre‘l—so grateful ts God ‘that her life had been saved—and now beauty and life alike, were worthless. “Good-hye, Marie!” she said, softly, _| slipping a note into the Frenchwom- Barbara Bret.t.on’s | «+s Ambit.ion ~ an’s palm—a note which, when the maid realized its, magnitude, made even her hardened conscience send a thrill through her. “Be sure and see that Mr. Travis receives my note the moment he comes in.” Then the cab door closed behind her and the coachman whirled swiftly round in the direction she had given him. - It was all a blank to her. She did not even think or reason until they drew rein at the railroad station, and Dr. Hayes’ dark, eager face appeared on the platform. Drawing her arm through his as he assisted her to alight, he led her into a quiet corner of the waiting room, as- suring her that her ticket he had al- ready provided. Still she took no heed of time, obey- ing unhesitatingly when he said theit car was in readiness, only heaving a sigh, as of relief, when the fresh wind from the open window, blowing in her face, told Ler that the train was in motion. Another train upon the opposite track started at the same hour, one bound north, one south. She, of course, believed herself upon the lat- ter, but in reality every hour of the long night was speeding in a contrary direction. In the early morning Dr. Hayes, whose attention had been so quiet and unfailing that in spite of her misery she could but gratefully recognize it, told her that her journey’s end was reached. How strangely unfamiliar the little station looked as she stepped wearily upon the platform! He found it neces- sary almost to carry her to the car- riage in waiting, where she threw her- self back among the cushions, with closed eyes, living over in anticipation the fond and surprised greetings the sisters would extend to her. At last the carriage stopped before a little cottage, standing a short dis- tarve back from the road. Dr. Hayes sprang out, only to return in a mo- ment to say that some slight accident had occurred—would she alight until it could be repaired? How quiet, how peaceful this little place looked, she thought, as she walked up the flower- bordered paths, early spring weather though it was; then the door opened, and a woman, dressed as a French maid, courtesied a welcome, as if they were expected guests, withdrawing to leave them alone in the room, whose air of comfort, almost elegance, was strangely at variance with the plain exterior of the humble cottage. Avice sank wearily into a chair. An expression almost of pity passed over the dark features of the man watch- ing her keenly, his professional eye noting her pallor and silently estimat- ing her strength, “Avice,” he said gently, standing be- fore her and taking one of her hands in his, his fingers lightly resting on her pulse, “do you not think that for a little while you might be as happy here with me as in that gray, gloomy convent?” CHAPTER XxXlI. The Brother. “Avice! Avice!” It was her broth- er’s voice thus calling her, but no an- swer came. “Avice!” Travis called again, then he ran quickly up the stairs to her room. The door was closed, byt in response to his-knock Marie threw it open. “Oh, Mr. Meredity, I am so glad you have come, sir!” she said. “I do not know what to think. Miss Avice has gone away!” “Gone away?” he echoed. “Where?” “I do not know, sir. Dr. Hayes called to see ber this morning, and after he had gone I[ heard her sobbing for a long time in her room, though she would let no one enter. She then called me and told me that she was very unhappy, and that she was going away. That I must pack her jewels and some few of her dresses in one trunk and have it carried from the house before your return. At times she would rouse herself to almost gai- ety; then sob as though frightened at her own thoughts. I saw her burn a package of letters, tied in blue ribbon; and you see, sir, Mr. Lennox’s picture is gone from iis frame. She said to give you her dear love, and she hoped she would not add to your misery.” Pale, aghast with terror, Travis lis- tened to the maid’s tearful tones. What was this terrible thing which had happened? What had driven Avice from the sbelter of his protect- ing love? “Did she leave no other word, no written message?” “None, sir, that I could find, except this package addressed to Mr. Len- uox.” Travis tore it open, but within was no written word, only her lover’s gifts returned to him. It lent a doubly om- inous meaning to her flight. “Perhaps I may yet discover some- thing. Dr. Hayes, you say, was here? At what hour?” “About twelve o’clock this morning. Miss Avice has seemed much agitated lately after each of his visits; and, sir, if you will excuse me for seeming to make bold, I went down stairs for a moment on an errand, and heard him say to Miss Avice, ‘My darling, this fight between duty and love is killing you. Let me decide it for you—for us both” ‘ Whiter and whiter grew the young man’s face. “Curse, him!” he said, while his right hand clinched; then, by a povwger- ful effort, he recovered his seeming calmness. “Miss Avice is doubtless gone on a visit to some school friend. See that no mystery is made of her absence among the servants. Let it be understood that I was aware of her intentions. In the meantime I will see Dr. Hayes and ascertain, if possible, what ga’ tion during their interview. If, how- ever, in putting Miss Avice’s things in order, you discover any note, bring it to me at once. r An hour’ ago Travis Meredith had thought that all the world could hold of ill had been outpoured upon him, but he now knew that he had not yet tested his own capacity for suffering. The cool air blew refreshingly upon his fevered brow as he gained the street, and calling a cab with orders that he be driven at once to Dr. Hayes’ hotel, he buried his head in his hands, to try and realize this last awful ca- lamity which had’overtaken him. But when his , destination was reached new and. bitterer disapoint- ment was in store for him. Dr. Hayes had left the hotel that evening, say- ing that he was going south, and leay- ing no word as to the time of his pos- sible return. “In fact,” added the clerk, with a smile which almost maddened the man whom he. addressed, “from something Dr. Hayes let drop I inferred there was a lady in the case, and that perhaps he has gone upon his honeymoon.” What was there to be done next? Ah, Avice had taken a cab, Marie said. He must find the driver, and learn where she had been driven. This was no difficult matter, and scon Travis knew all the man could tell him. The driver had been sent for, and had taken the young lady to the rail- road station. A gentleman had met her, and had paid him his fare—in fact overpaid him—a tall man with dark eyes, complexion and hair. The young lady had seemed much agitated on meeting him, and he had almost to |" carry her into the waiting room. Then the driver had driven off. Two trains were due at that hour, one going north, one south. He could not tell in which direction they had _ gone. Thankee, sir,” glancing down at the gold piece slipped in his hand, and wondering if the young lady had run away from her lover or her husband, who had reaped him such a rich har- vest for his day’s work. With such results he would not care if there was an elopement_every day in the week, and he called upon to aid in it. Travis could do but one thing more. He must learn at the railroad station what route Avice had taken, and tfol- low her. But here the clue ended. No one could inform him in which train they, had departed, though sev- eral had seen and noticed the beauti- ful girl, whose companion had seemed to wish to screen her from all observa- tion. ‘What madness had overtaken Avice that she should thus betray his tender- est care? Could it be that she acted of her own will? He would not believe it, he could not; but when he at last entered his now doubly lonely and dreary home, Marie met him, and in her hand she held a tiny note. “I found this, sir, on the floor, where it had fallen from the mantel. I hope it will explain everything, Mr. Mere- dith.” Travis tore it open where he stood, and read these words: “Forgive me, Travis, and ask Milton to forgive me, too, as I have asked papa in his grave to forgive my brok- en promise to him. If he had lived, he would have released me from it, I know. You cannot dream what I have suffered before consenting to this step. But I loved him, Travis; that is my excuse. I won't tell you his name, though you may guess it. Perhaps, when I am his wife, you will forgive me, and him, too. Tell Milton to try and believe it is better I did not find out the truth too late. Dont’ try to follow us. 1! will write you again soon. —‘‘Avice.” Travis crushed the paper in his hand witb an oath, and without a word turned into the library and threw him- self face downward on the couch. He felt the world slipping away from un- der his feet, as though all his life had been spent upon the brink of a preci- pice—that now he was hurled down- ward to black, blank despair. , CHAPTER XXII. The Lover’s Return. Travis Meredith well remembered the proud swelling at his young heart when he had first looked upon his baby sister, as she lay crowing in her satin-lined and lace-cmbroidered cra- dle. She seemed to him then something too poor, too exquisitely lovely to be mortal, and so he had ever held her in his heart as in a shrine. The secret his father had imparted to him concerning her birth made his allegiance no whit less loyal. The baby sister who had died he had never seen. Avice had in very truth taken her place; but ab! like the serpent coiled in his bosom, roused from its torper by. the heat of its breast, came the sudden thought, to sting him. Had that little child lived, would she thus have rewarded the faithful love and care spent upon her? Avice knew nothing of the story of her birth and adoption. She believed herself a true Meredith; yet sbe thu& dragged her name in the dust! But how could his hand cast at ber the first stone? Had he not, too, betrayed the family name and honor? Was there some ancient curse wreaking its ven- geance upon them? No; he must find her and save her from herself. The man who would thus steal her was ca- pable of grosser wrong. Great purple veins stood® upon his brow at the thought, as, in his impo- tence and wrath, he rose and restless- ly paced the floor; when the sound of rapidly revolving wheels reached his ear, suddenly stopping in front of his own door, while the next moment the quick peal of a bell rang through the silent house. It was Avice come home again. It 7 had been some sorry jest—same frigh« ful nightmare; but, if he could but once more hold her to his breast, he must forgive the suffering and anxiety she had caused him. ~~ But no; it is not her light step sound- ing in the hall, but a man’s firm tread, and, glancing up, Travfs saw Milton Lennox, pale and travel-stained, stand- ing on the threshold of the room, as the clock upon the mantel] chimed the hour of midnight. “Forgive my intrusion at this hour, Travis,” he bexan, “but—” He stopped abruptly, shocked at the white, haggard face raised to meet him. “Great heavens! Avice is not—” The word that he strove to utter re- fused to be spoken. “Not dead—no,” Travis answered. “And Florence is well?” “Yes, better. Those to whom life has lost all charm are ever vouch- safed its blessing.” “I feared some new and terrible ca- lamity. It seemed written in your face as I entered, driving from my mind, for the moment, the important busi- ness which had brought me here at this late hour. Travis, I have received the most dastardly of all weapons, an anonymous letter. Somehow I could not drive it from my memory and I determined to put a hurried end to all business and return at once to Paris to ask you to help me unearth its writer. It is a tissue of nonsense. Here—read it.” Silently Travis took it and silently read it through. What relentless fate was at work. He turned a ghastly face toward his friend as he said in a hoarse, agonized whisper: “Tt is all true.” . “True? And I would have hurled the lie down any man’s throat that dared utter it! Avice, then is. not your sister?” “Not by the ties of blood, though 1 | knew nothing of it until my father told me the story on his death-bed. My own little sister died and it was to save my mother’s life this child was put in her stead. The world knows nothing of it; Avice herself is in ig- norance of it.” Then he groaned at mention of her name. “It is perhaps as well, Milton, that you have learned the truth,” he continued. “It will ena ble you the better to give her up.” (To Be Continued.) MIXED COLONELS. But tke Irishman Was Certain They Had a Perfect Right to the Title. Several years ago Col. Mike Hickey and Col. Dan Buckley were well known figures in Chicago politics. One day two Irish laborers were working on the street near the city hall when Hickey came out and marched away with the martial bearing for which he was Jocally famous. “D’ye know who thot is?” asked one of the laborers. “T do not,” the other answered. “Thot’s Col. Moike Hickey,” said the first. “Is it a colonel he is?” “Av coorse. Didn’t ye iver hear av Col. Moike Hickey?” “Naw. Was he in the war?” Sure not. He's a conthractor.” “Thin how-cau he be a colonel av he niver was in the airmy?” “I dinnaw. But anyhow he’s Col. Moike Hickey. Presently another man came out-of the city hall and strode majestically away. “D'ye know who thot is?” the first laborer asked of his companion. “Naw. Who is he?” “Thot’ec Col. Dan Buckley.” “Phwat’s he colonel av?” The informant scratched his head and reflected a moment. “T don’t jisht knaw,” he finally said, “put I do be thinkin’ he’s the colonel av Moike Hickey’s rig’mint.”—Brook- lyn Eagle. pe Pb iA ORAS Bas The Automatic Waiter. “I believe that there is no work in the world that makes such machines of men as does the business of wait- ing in some of these ‘quick lunch’ eat- ing places,” said the business man. “The brains of the waiters seem to work like phonographs. What they hear iv the way of orders given them is seemingly registered and _ repro- duced without any apparent mental activity or realization of exactly what the order means. The other morning for instance, I overheard this dialogue and monologue in one of these res- taurants. Two men seated at the same table gave their orders to the same waiter. : “‘Bring me a couple of soft-boiled eggs and a cup of coffee,’ said the first man. “‘Same thing for me, waiter,’ said the second, adding in a jocular way, ‘but be sure the eggs are fresh.’ “‘A)) right,’ was the reply. “And a moment later his voice came from the back of the restaurant: ‘Soft- boiled for two—an’ have two of ’em fresh.’ "—Public Ledger. The Spring Style. é “The new spring fashions,” says the happy wife, who has just returned from a visit to her modiste, “show a great many changes. For instance, the dresses wil] not have any collars oa them, but will be cut really low’in the ueck.” “Huh!” snorts the loving husband. “l know, though, that I will get it in the neck when the bill comes in. That style never changes.—Judge. - Lucky Numbers. “Speaking of Lucky numbers, they are the ones with the dollar sign be- fore them, aren't they?” “Well, that depends updn whether they cepresent what is coming to you or what you owe.”—New York Times. “What kind of tobacco does smoke?” he “Well, he never objects to mine.”—~ Detroit Free Press. “ The Calf and the Cow. The dairy calf, to be raised econom ically and with the greatest chance of ‘developing into a valuable dairy cow, must be raised by hand, says J.,H. ‘Grisdale. True, considerable skill and careful attention are necessary to suc ceed along this line, but careful ob servance of four or five principles will insure success: First, regularity of feeding; second, uniformity in quan tity of food; third, uniformity in qual ity of food; fourth, uniformity in tem perature of food; fifth, cleanliness. The young calf should be fed at least three times a day for two or three weeks, and preferably four times. The ration the first week or ten days should gonsist of whole milk fed at @ temperature of about 100 degrees Fahr. This ration may be gradually changed to skim milk by introducing a small amount into the wholé milk ration and gradually increasing the proportion, being carefyl to feed al- ways at the same temperature. The place of the fat removed in the cream may be taken by oatmeal or flaxseed meal boiled, being careful to make but a very slight addition in the us@al amount at any one time. Most ills that calves are heir to arise from a vio- lation of some one of the principles I have mentioned or from a lack of cleanliness. Almost every case of scours or indigestion may be traced to some sudden change in the time of feeding, the quantity or temperature of food fed. “The boy is father of the man” is a trite saying, but even more surely the calf is mother of the cow. The ill-fed, dyspeptic, un- thrifty calf can never hope to develop anything but a commonplace cow, and two or three successive generations of calves so treatel are surely enough to chill the aspirations of the most sanguine dairy man. The calf once past the age of three months is -usual- ly safe, the danger from that time on lying in the risk of getting too much food and takipg on fat rather than growing. It is usually best to breed when about 15 months old and when four or five months advanced in preg- nancy, or even sooner, a heavier ration of a kind fitted for milking cows should be fed. As parturition ap- proaches she should be fed as much as she can stand of foods suited for cows in full milk, even though she get fat and develop an abnormal udder. Much of her future usefulness depends upon her treatment during the first period of her lactation. A ration must be found that will induce milk produc- tion, but such as will not encourage the laying on of fat. She must be treated kindly, well fed and milked for twelve months or longer. Habits formed during the milking period stick to the cow as long as she lasts. So let these habits be good ones., In conclusion to the prospective dairy man I say as was once said to me: “Breed, weed, feed and hustle” but— of these the greatest is feed. Testing Requires Skill. The details of sampling and testing required are worthy ‘of the factory- man‘s most earnest attention and care, says Professor Eckles of the Missouri er conditions of use does exact justice to all, and instead of being a cause of friction between patrons and creamery, it should be a peacemaker and judge that increases business and en- courages improvement among the herds of the dairymen. It pays to do your testing carefully and honestly. It pays as a business policy, leaving out for the moment the questions of right and wrong. It pays'to give every man just what he is entitled to—no more and no less. I believe a creameryman should know where he furnishes a set of tests that he would be able to go before court and swear they are cor- rect. It does not take the patrons of a@ creamery long to find out whether the testing is being done carefully or not. I do not believe it pays for a man to attach an air of mystery to the method of testing or to keep the time of testing a secret and allow no pa- trons to be present. Rather announce the time the testing is to be done, and invite all to be present, and demon- strate how simply the system is car- ried out. Let a factory manager once gain the confidence. of his patrons by accurate, careful Work and the trouble over this question at ‘the factory is about over. The Kitchen Garden. While gardening is steadily on the increase, yet it is a-deplorable fact that many farmers have little or no garden and by this means deprive themselves of a privilege that should be taken advantage of by every one. Nothing is more healthful or more easily produced for the use of the family than a good supply of garden vegetables of all kinds. Thus it is that nearly the entire living of the family can be secured from™such a garden for several months in the year, and that living is the most healthful and palatable of anything that can be furnished, especially when Truits are added. We would not advise farmers who are not within easy reach of a good market or canning establish- ment to attempt to raise much More than enough for their own use, ‘be- oes cee: ness is overdone and-prices at a low figure. This, a viral ny the prevailing scarcity of help, ma- terially interferes’ with theo tor success, when carried on on a large scale-——John Vanloon. - 2 et Lettuce was first cultivated Eng. land in 1662, but its os known, Station, The Babcock test under prop- - origin is un- : ina » oy at we.