MAY 29 
THE BUBAL 
fitrrarg UJiscdlaitg. 
THEJDELINQUENT SUBSCRIBER. 
One day last week, while sad and dreary 
As we wended, weak and weary. 
Across the unswept floor: 
We heard, at first., a yentln tapping. 
Then It became an earnest rapping 
At our sanction door. 
“ Come In !" we said; yet while we pondered 
And in silouco we still wondered 
What, for ns iv>nld be In store a 
Then, the door-bolt gently turning, 
In he walked. Onr cheek was burning! 
Thoughta of crimson gore. 
“ Are you the man who does the writing ?” 
(What word will rhyme with thin but fighting? 
Quickly thought we, o’er and o’er). 
“ Sir, we are,” we gently told him. 
Nodding t.o the boys to bold bim, 
If he tried to beat us sore. 
“ Then you’ll please give, me a credit 
Opposite that little debit 
For two dollars more; 
I like your paper and will take it 
As long as you strive to make it 
As good as It has been before.” 
We Jumped 1 he dodged ! thus wo missed him , 
Or we should have surely kissed him, 
No matter if the boys did roar ! 
So seldom treated in this manner. 
We felt inclined to sing hosannah ! 
Only this and nothing more. 
JOHN ASOOTT’S DAUGHTER, 
BY CHARLES RICHARDS DODGE, 
Author of “ Louise and I.” 
(Continued from page 334 ) 
CHAPTER IX. 
“BOOK-FARMING.” 
One afternoon the proprietor of Maplewood 
was at work mending a bad fence at the lower end 
of the farm, where It Joined the Wilkins’ place. 
Silas Wilkins had lived on tne *• back road,” as It 
was called, ever since George could remember, 
and when “ young Ashton” took the reins In hand, 
old Silas presumed to give that gentleman a great 
deal or “necessary” advice as to the surest way 
for him " to make a livin' on o’ such worn-out 
land." The pseudo-farmer was sharp enough to 
take It all In as law and gospel, but the advice 
somehow did not always receive a practical appli¬ 
cation, often lo the apparent disgust of the elder 
farmer, l.aterly the old fellow was Inclined to 
sneer a little, but he always kept his weather eye 
open when anything new was going on, noted the 
Improvements, and croaked not a little about 
sinking tne whole place. 
“ Seems to me you lake a pesky sight o’ trouble, 
George lor them’ere hlgh-Urned cattle o’yourn.” 
The old man said as he appeared on the ground. 
“I'm bound to have tight fences, Uncle Silas. 
I can’t afford to lose any or rny cows, they cost loo 
much.” 
“ Do you think I’d snoot ’em If they came on my 
land ?” 
“ Of course not, but your fences are so bad I’m 
afraid they d be in the highway before I could got 
to them.” 
“ Thank ye—” 
“ No offense meant, I assure you,” said George; 
“but it’s so much cheaper and easier to keep 
things In repair than to build new, I often wonder 
you don’t fix them.” 
“ I suppose Lhey orter be fixed,” the old farmer 
answered, thrusting his hands deep Into his pock¬ 
ets, “ but there's so tarnal much of it lo do, 1 can’t 
And time to begin,” 
George thought to himself, u You had better be 
Axing them now inalead of gassing here wits me,’’ 
for Uncle bllas would talk as long as there was 
anybody to listen to him. lie loved arguuieut, 
and would discuss politics or religion “ until ihe 
cows came home,” as the boys la the neighborhood 
put it. To-day the subject was leeding stock, 
thougU to the old gentleman’s credit, let it be said, 
he showed little Inclination to arguo and for once 
was iuclined to listen. 
“ Wall," said he at length, “you may feed ac¬ 
cordin’ to the book rules If you want to, but I tell 
ye a cow’ll eat Just so much anyhow, and tn the 
long run I’ve touud that reedin’ medder hay, with 
a few turnips for a relish, comes about as nigh the 
mark as you can gtt.” 
“I agree with you fully," George answered; 
“ good meadow hay is • A No. t,> and the roots are 
well enough for a relish, but supposing you could 
feed other things that didn’t cost half as much 
that would answer just as well, and so save a part 
of your hay tor market.” 
“ What is as good as medder hay that don't cost 
hall so much?” 
“You had a pretty large stock of oat straw last 
fall, didn’t you— ?” 
“ Neow, George! Oat straw as good as hay 1 
Oh, ho, ho! that won’t do.” 
*• But 1 can make it as good as hay at a very lit¬ 
tle extra cost, and that Is where the book learning, 
as you term It, becomes available.” 
“ How?” 
“ Well, chemistry, or rather chemical analysis, 
shows just what are the constituent parts of hay, 
straw, roots, or, In fact, anything that grows upon 
the farm, and gives ihe quantity of digestible mat¬ 
ters they contain. Taking good meadow hay as the 
standard, and knowing Its constituents, we will call 
It worth, for feeding purposes, twelve dollars a ton. 
By the same means 1 And that the amount of di¬ 
gestible matter that Is nutritive In straw la not so 
large, and that for feeding it Is worth but seven or 
eigne dollars. To make it worth, then, as much as 
good hay, I must And something to mix with It 
that has a much larger amount of digestible mat¬ 
ter, such as oil cake, for example. Now, by taking 
200 pounds of oil cake, and mixing It with 1,800 
pounds of oat straw, T get a mixture containing 
digestible matters equal In feeding value to those 
In my ton or meadow hay.” 
“ I never heard of that,” Mr. Wilkins remarked 
“ Some farmers buy Osh scrap and dried blood 
for the same purpose, and by their use, are en¬ 
abled to feed all sorts of poor stuff like straw or 
corn-stalks, with as good results as they can get 
from feeding timothy or clover, even.” 
“That’s ‘science’ Is It?” asked the old man, 
leaning his elbows upon the rence, and supporting 
his head with his hands. 
“Yes, that’s one kind of ‘hook-farming’ Uncle 
Silas.” 
“ Wall, dum me, George, if I shouldn’t call it 
common-sense.” 
“After you havellearned It,” suggested the 
other. 
“ But you don’t mean to say that stock will eat 
jish? n 
“ Sheep will learn to eat It, and It goes as far as 
corn with them. I knew of a man that kept a 
large flock of sheep all winter on straw, by giving 
each animal half a pound per day of dried Ash 
refuse from the Ash oil manufactories.” 
“I don’t know about that,” the old man an¬ 
swered, shaking hts head; It’s agin natur’.” 
“ How so ?” George asked. 
“ Seems to me If the Lord had Intended grass- 
eatlD’, animals to live on meat and stch, they’d a’ 
been got up different-it certainly Is agin natur’.” 
“ As to that It Is a part of the economy of nature 
for all animals to obtain nlcrogen from their food— 
It Is necessary for their very existence—and If we 
can furnish It to them arUActaliy, orln other way 
than that to which they are accustomed, nature's 
ends are subserved, though by different means. 
However, that Isn’t 1 science ’ as you call It, though 
It Is through the application of sclentiilc knowl¬ 
edge and principles that we are enabled to make a 
proper use or such things, and to farm economi¬ 
cally. Come Up to the house sometime, and 111 
give you a few books to read upon the subject.” 
“Thank ye, George; mebby I will—some day— 
but I’m ’frald It’s hard larnln’ oid dogs new tricks. 
Howsomever, you had stch good luck with your 
fertilizers last year, I believe I'll try some this 
spring—If you’ll tell me what you used.” 
“ All right, come up some evening, and I’ll tell 
you not only what I used hut how I used It, and 
there’s where a big slice of the 1 luck ’ comes In. 
There, I guess that will do for to-day,” the young 
man remarked as he drove the last nail, and 
picked up bis tool-box and coat. “ I’ll Ax the rest 
to-morrow.” 
" I’ll talk with ye again some time,” said Mr. 
Wilkins, turning to go. “ Good-day—I guess there’ll 
be snow to-morrow.” 
The young man started across the meadow In 
the direction of the house, but he had hardly pro¬ 
ceeded forty rods when the old gentlemen’s voice 
was heard calling after him. “ I say, George, you 
needn’t Ax that piece of fence back of the pond, 
I’ll tighten it myself in the mornin'." 
May thought her husband was In a very good 
humor from some cause or other, as he came In 
ten minutes later, whistling right merrily, and 
she asked him the reason, but he only answered, 
" I’ve been trying to convince neighbor W ilkins of 
the error of his ways." 
On his way home, farmer Wilkins reflected: 
“ Book-farmin’ ain’t such a terrible thing after all; 
accordin’ to young Ashton, it only means to knoxo 
what you want to do, and then to learn how to do 
it the easiest and cheapest way. I guess the world 
has turned clean over sence I was a boy.” 
CHAPTER X. 
8HADOW AND SUNSHINE. 
The cloud hung over the little household for 
weeks. May’s feelings had undoubtedly been 
wounded deeper than her husband could possslbly 
know, and it was hardly to be expected that she 
would forgive and forget in a moment. George 
was ashamed of his hasty words when he came to 
reflect, upon them, and won his wife’s forgiveness 
through a kindly and sympathetic manner towards 
her. Allowing time for the wound lo heal, he 
again brought all his arguments to bear upon the 
case, appealing to her reason and good sense. 
Throwing the entire blame upon his father’s ob¬ 
stinate prejudices, he flnally reasoned her Into the 
heilef that It had been tor the best—deceit and all, 
and the skeleton was banished. Sarah showed 
herself a true sister at this time, and was very 
warm and friendly, though Charles, her husband, 
kept upon as strictly neutral ground as policy 
would admit. Between William and George there 
was a decided coolness, so much so, they rarely 
met. 
A visit from Blanche De Fondvtlte brought a 
pleasant change to the young couple, relieving 
the monotony of winter farm life. She was lively’ 
and Interesting, and when she entered the cozy 
little parlor upon her arrival. It 3eemed as though 
a whole basketful of sunshine had dropped into 
the midst of the little household. 
“ Why May," said she, with animation, “ it 
seems so funny to see you at the head of an 
establishment, and such an establishment! It’s 
so romantic a little place, even in winter, what 
must It hem Bummer? Love In? cottage, mead¬ 
ows and buttercups, purling streams and warbling 
birds—I think I shall settle here for life.” 
“We are very happy, Blanche; but our butter¬ 
cups are only butter bowls, the cows teed in the 
meadows, and the warbling birds that most Inter¬ 
est us are chickens.’’ 
t * Or turkey gobblers,’’ Interposed George. 
“ Dear me I how very unpoetleal. There l I’m aU 
prose now. I should have said happiness In an 
old lunn-housa, cow pastures and milk palls, mud¬ 
dy brooks-where the geese aud ducks feed—and 
noisy chickens. Ahem I have heard of your 
farming operations, Mr. Ashton; papa says you are 
doing splendidly—are you ?” 
«That’s a question I am asking,, Miss De Fond- 
vllle. It's hard enough work I know at present 
but they say It’s a long lane that has no turning.’ ’’ 
Blanche’s coming was a bit of sunshine truly, 
and May, who had allowed herself no respite from 
the round of duty which becomes a part of a wo¬ 
man's existence upon the farm, now took time to 
sit down and enjoy life. Of course. Blanche was 
shown over the farm. The Improvements were 
pointed out to her and dilated upon, stock put on 
dreRs parade and Inspected; she was Initiated Into 
the mysteries of dairy farming and forthwith de¬ 
clared she would accept the first sensible young 
farmer that offered her hts baud, heart and an In¬ 
terest In his broad acres, 
“Provided hla family have outlawed him,” said 
George, grimly. 
“ With or without, if he only owns the farm.” 
George winced, hut added, “ and it Isn’t mort. 
gaged.’’ 
Blanche was entirely Ignorant of having hinted 
at anything personal, but she dropped the subject 
until May and h(: self were alone again. 
“ Did T step on anybody’s toes yesterday when I 
alluded to owning the farm?” she asked, “Mr. 
Ashton suggested ‘mortgage’ so soon, I didn’t 
know but 1 bad given a thrust tn the dark.” 
“Yes, Blanche, there Is a mortgage of two 
thousand dollars on the place, which wc will have 
to pay off one of these days. It could have been 
partly cleared away by this time, but It has cost so 
much to bring the farm up to George’s Ideas. Of 
course, you know all about old Mr. Ashton’s shut¬ 
ting the door upon George when the farm was 
oought?” 
“ Foolish old man !” said Blanche. 
“ I never knew until a little while ago the true 
reason for 
“ Why, was there another reason than the one 
given ?” 
“ Yes, I had It from the old gentleman’s Ups.” 
“ Then you have seen him. May ?—Is he very 
cross t—do they keep him chained or only mu zzled ? 
But the reason ?” 
“ Because his son married an Ascott!” 
“May 11 ” 
“ Oh, Blanche, It has made me so unhappy. No 
one knows, how cruel a stab he gave me, or how 
deep Is the wound. Many and many a night I have 
cried myself to sleep, when George had been dream¬ 
ing for hours, and many and many a time 1 have 
waked In the dead of night with his cruel words 
ringing In my ears. 1 An Ascott 1' My dear, gent le 
father was an Ascott, and the Insult was more to 
him than to hts daughter.” 
“ Your father was one of Nature’s noblemen* 
May. Do you remember an old friend of his 
named Stephen Hascall? ” 
“ Yes, he was a near neighbor.” 
“ Papa met him when In the West last faU, and 
learning he was formerly from S-, mentioned 
your name. The old gentlemen was delighted, of 
course, to meet a friend of “ little May Ascott’s," 
as he called you, and he gave papa the whole his¬ 
tory of your famUy, down to the time when you 
went away from Maplewood. Your father and 
Mr. Ashton had trouble with each other regarding 
a money transaction, and that, perhaps, will ex¬ 
plain his feelings Coward you.” 
“ An Ashton brought me back to my father’s 
old home, and when I think of that I always feel 
Uke forgiving the old gentlemen nts cruel words,” 
“ My pailencel I should be fo r giving the old, 
gentlemen a piece of my mind as often as circum¬ 
stances would admit; but let us talk upon some 
pleasanter subject.” 
These few brief weeks of Blanche’s visit were- 
happy ones to May, and when they had passed 
and the parting hour had come. It seemed not 
only as though a member of the household had 
been taken away, hut that a part of herself was 
gone, 
“ Parting is such sweet sorrow," 
Juliet lisped to her lover as she bade him “ sweet 
good night” in the Garden of the capulets. 
There Is a sorrow tn parting, and there Is a pecul¬ 
iar sense of sadness, a pathetic yearning, that 
always comes at the close of a pleasant visit, or 
the end of an interesting novel, as we say good¬ 
bye to the characters, and resume again the 
thread of uneventful every-day life. 
It was thesecoDd year upon the farm. Spring was 
backward, and things had gone wrong from the 
start. George was anxious to make a good season, 
audio hasten matters he put In his corn when the 
soil was too ccld and wet, and it rotted In the 
ground. He had sold some of his hay about mid¬ 
winter thinking there was enough In the “ big 
bay,” with other kinds of feed, to carry him 
through, and was obliged to buy In early spring 
at a high price. Peter broke his leg about this 
time, and bis place had to be supplied by a raw 
hand who seemed to make more work than he 
performed. Farmer George was “ dowu in the 
moui A,” and began to realize that tn farming, as 
In stock speculation, there must he margins—and 
that due allowance must always be made for con¬ 
tingencies. But he worked the harder, and adopt¬ 
ing May’s motto, saved when he could aud spent 
only where It was absolutely necessary. In a 
month or two old Peter made his appearance. The 
crops were now doing finely, and as the skies 
brightened the young farmer began to think- of 
oue or two needed lmprovments that had been 
planned the year before, and to figure on. the 
finance question. One of these was an addition 
to the bam that would enable him to keep more 
cows through the winter, and thus extend hts 
dairying operations. He thought it all over, 
made close calculations as it seemed to him, and 
“the Improvements went on.” It turned out 
another draining experiment-lt certainly drained 
his pocket—for the work cost more than the sum 
stated by the carpenter, and other estimates were 
sadly out of latitude. 
The season, backward and cold at the start, 
was now making up for lost time with a vengenoe 
and m consequence everything suffered In a great¬ 
er or less degree from drought. The corn grew 
wel of oeurse th wheat was almost ready to 
harvest but other crops suffered greatly, and the 
grass, particularly upon the upland, was badly 
burned. To m ake matters worse, when the needed 
rain made Its appearance, it came just at harvest 
time, accompanied with violent wind and hall, 
and the gram fields were swept, Wie wheat lodg¬ 
ing so badly m places It was hardly worth cut¬ 
ting. Altogether It. was a bad season, and older 
farmers than George Ashton mado calculations 
for a “ snug” winter. He said little to May about 
his troubles, however, for he knew It would only 
gtve her needless worry, but he resolved to put 
no more Improvements upon the farm In any way, 
shape or manner, unless there was the money In 
hand to pay for them and a good surplus In bank, 
besides, for contingencies. 
In spite of it all, October brought a joy to Maple¬ 
wood, though poor little May was shut In her 
room for over a month, and motherly Mrs. Briggs 
had to take charge of the housekeeping depart¬ 
ment, and direct Susan, the mald-of-all-work, in 
her, now arduous duties. George was as happy 
as possible under the circumstances, gladly giving 
his wife a large share of his company, now that 
the busy reason had passed— and fora time nis 
difficulties were forgotten.—7b he continued,. 
SKETCHES OF GERMAN LIFE. 
BERTHA A. WINKLER. 
Cooking and Baking. 
Few travelers have thought It worth the trouble 
to bestow more than a parting glance upon the 
peasants’ mode of living. They describe courts 
and princes, converse with diplomatists, dine 
with merchants and associate with the elite of the 
place; whUe the peasant, the bone and sinew of 
Germany, is but casually noticed or only men¬ 
tioned as a droll, picturesque specimen of Ger¬ 
man curiosities. The few books which describe 
the home-life of the humbler classes are so fraught 
with error as to give the reader but a vague, con¬ 
fused impression of the real life and character of 
the people. For example, an author, describing 
the various German dishes, invariably mentlobs, 
In connection with black bread, coffee as betng the 
favorite and Indispensable beverage among all 
classes. Now, coffee costa from thirty to fifty 
cents, and sugar from fourteen to eighteen cents a 
pound, and the poor, pinched peasants who are ob¬ 
liged to fiat this same black bread in one Instance 
cannot afford to Indulge In such expensive fare in 
the other, it la true that, notwithstanding their 
wine and cider, coffee Ls a favorite beverage among 
them, and but for the want of means to obtain It, 
would be in universal use. as it ls, however, In 
rural districts, none but the weU-to do burger 
drinks hla cup every Sunday morning. Among 
the poorer class, where coffee ls only indulged In 
at weddings, Christmas and other festive occa¬ 
sions, a pound Is made to last a whole year. “ He 
ls whittling a beggar's staff ” is a common saying 
among them If they see one of their neighbors In¬ 
dulge In coffee or meat on week days. 
There Is a uniformity, a simpleness and frugality 
In their culinary department which deserves to be 
b6tter known among Americans, whose pies and 
puddings would be considered a ruinous extrava¬ 
gance by a German housewife. 
A peasant's breakfast in Wurtemburg, Germany, 
consists of a dish of boiled, unpeeled potatoes and 
one of bread soup wuich ls simply bolting water 
poured over thin slices of bread ana flavored with 
onions fried In butter. At ten o’clock he has a 
lunch of bread and older, or wine. At twelve 
a dish of vegetables mixed with flour ordumpllngs 
and boiled until It ls a kind of tntn pudding All 
vegetables are prepared in a similar way as fiour 
la the substitute for meat. Very often a dinner 
consists of nothing but a mixture of flour, eggs and 
milk. It is then called “ Mehl-speisse.” Mush is 
a favorite dish, but the milk is poured into it 
while boiling and, in eatlDg, the plates are entirely 
dispensed with, as the pan is placed in the center 
of the table within equal reach of all and each 
dips In with hla spoon and conveys It direct from 
pan to mouth. Supper Is only a repetition of the 
morning meal with the addition of a pot of sour 
milk to be eaten with the potatoes. On Sundays 
those who can afford It have coffee and white 
bread,ot hers have only milk soup for breakfast. The 
dinner ls then cooked with meal, and supper con¬ 
sists of fried meal with potatoes or green salad 
according to the season. The large black loaf is 
placed upon the table at every meal for each to 
take a slice until It is gone. 
This klud of food Is certainly only conflned to 
the peasantry. But the middle class, such as 
trades people and mechanics, do not fare as well 
as the common day laborer In America. It ls only 
among merchant-princes, the nobility and in 
hotels that me can find the tables loaded with the 
richness and variety so often described by travelers 
The cellar, which Is always the pride aud boast 
of ’he peasant, contains long rows of barrels filled 
with wine, cider and vinegar; huge plies of pota¬ 
toes and turnips, and, of course, a barrel of sour- 
krout. Upon a shelf fastened In beams overhead, 
are from fifteen to twenty loaves of black bread, 
two feet long and half as wide and thick, with one 
or two white loaves for Sunday use- 
In this locality tc ls not the custom to do the 
baking at home. Each village has one or two 
grand ovens, to which the loaves are transported 
after being kneaded at home. The baking Is gen¬ 
erally done every two weeks, and always at night 
when the field work cannot ho attended to and 
the occasion can be turned Into general merry¬ 
making by the young folks who always continue 
to drop a hint to their mentis that the taking 
would be done on a certain night. By a sort or pre- 
arrangement unknown to the old rolks who would 
not consent to such nonsense, some five or six 
chaps and as many damsels drop into the bake¬ 
house successively for a chat. By-and by a tiddler, 
apparently aU unconscious of the group that ls so 
anxiously expecting him, passes the door playing 
his fiddle as merrily as possible. The sound of 
the violin brings them all to the door. The old 
folks begin to see the trick and moved by the 
