1914. 
1067 
THE RURAb NEW-YORKER 
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“Good Reading” 
Stories and Studies 
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No More Stove Wood. 
(Continued from page 1055.) 
ered them with water, exactly as if she 
were going to cook them, and then she set 
them all on a table in the snu, for there 
was no stove wood to make a fire to cook 
them with. She then set the dining table, 
filled the pitchers with milk, cut the 
bread, and sat down to wait for 12 
o’clock. In the field the work was going 
on also, the mowing machine whirred, the 
hired man clucked cheerfully to the horses 
as he drove the plow down the straight 
rows of corn, “laying it by,” and all the 
time breakfast became a thing of the past, 
and dinner a fast approaching reality the 
sun climbed higher and beamed hotter, 
and the farmer men listened longingly for 
the summons to take out the horses for 
dinner—even though there was no stove 
wood left to cook it with. 
Twelve o’clock came and Mrs. Coward 
blew a blast on the dinner-horn that sent 
the waves of hungry anticipation rippling 
all over the farm. Machinery stopped, 
chains rattled, horses were driven mer¬ 
rily up to the barn and fed, and up to 
the house trooped the hungry farmer men 
ready for one of Mother’s big dinners— 
even if there was no wood cut to cook 
it with. 
Into the kitchen strode Mr. Coward to 
get the “washpan” in which the farmer 
men are accustomed to bathe their sun¬ 
burned faces, and something strange and 
chill struck him. No fragrant odors of 
boiling beans, of stewing peas, of baking 
apples greeted him, only a placid old lady, 
whose heart was quaking, and whose 
knees were shaking beneath her “wrap¬ 
per,” at the enormity of her revolt. 
“Why Nancy, what’s the matter, 
where’s the dinner, I thought you blowed 
the horn, ain’t it twelve o’clock? 
Where’s the dinner?” 
Mrs. Coward lead her gaping aston¬ 
ished “man” to the table in the back 
yard where the sun beamed down on the 
uncooked vegetables, and mildly said, “I 
set it in the hottest place that I could 
find, Jim. there was no wood cut to cook 
with.” 
Mr. Coward said never a word, nor 
smiled a smile; it is a dangerous thing to 
fool with a hungry man. That was the 
quietest meal that was ever eaten in that 
house. The hungry men made out the 
best they could on bread, and butter and 
milk, and Mrs. Coward’s heart almost 
misgave her as she thought of their disap¬ 
pointment, but she made no apology, the 
situation was a serious one. 
Before those men went back to the 
field, there was a generous pile of wood 
in the box behind the stove, and there was 
such a supper that night as loosened the 
tongues that were tied at dinner time. 
And never again did Mrs. Coward have 
to pick up chips, or cut a stick of stove 
wood to cook a dinner. Her men folks 
could take a hint when it was shouted at 
them. 
Woman's Work. 
HERE seem to be queer ideas in 
some places on the man’s part in the 
home; some fathers seem rather useless 
except to pay bills. I have always 
thought it was a man’s part to do the 
heaviest, hardest things about the home, 
when lie was there. Father always does 
and has. Yet my maid (on a week’s 
trial) was seriously disturbed and came 
to me about father’s filling the wood- 
box. 
“It doesn't seem right to see your fa¬ 
ther carrying wood. It seems as if I 
ought to take it right away from him,” 
she said. "My father never liked to see 
the woodbox empty or the water pail 
either when he got home.” 
Father is a natural born gentleman and 
his women folks have never been strong. 
Over at the tenant house on washing 
days, I have sometimes seen the mother 
of eight carrying her own water from 
the well, with most of her seven sons 
lounging around. As the sons range in 
age from two to 22, not much can be ex¬ 
pected of the younger three. Yet when 
the well w r ent dry, water was carried by 
the mother and daughter from a distant 
brook. The tenant-house sons are doing 
just what they have always been doing, 
and apparently it never occurs to them 
to do anything else. s. 
The Two-legged Peter. 
L ULA BENT, aged 20 years, boarded 
cats, and her mother, a widow, left 
with little money but a large country 
house and a family of six, boarded any¬ 
body. Mrs. Boucher, a city dame of 
French descent, motored out to see the 
Bents, and asked them to board her cat, 
Peter, and her grown son, as she was 
going to Paris for the Summer. 
“Noa\’, Miss Bent,” she said, “you must 
kiss Peter every night before you put him 
to bed, for he always kisses me, and I do 
not wish him to break off that affectionate 
habit. He must ha\’e ice cream occasion¬ 
ally, salads, baked beans, and cream of 
tartar biscuit only.” 
There Avere many other instructions re¬ 
garding Peter, his nap, his bath, and so 
forth. All that she said about her sou 
Avas that he was queer and literary and 
difficult to understand. Mrs. Boucher 
then bade her cat a tearful good-bye and 
coldly took leave of her son. The younger 
members of the Bent family heard her 
address the latter as Peter. When she 
had gone, Peter, the son, overheard these 
children say to Lula: 
“Are you going to kiss that homely 
thing every night?” 
“I’ll kiss the other Peter first,” she an¬ 
swered. And Peter, the son, was amused, 
and did not blame Lula a bit, for he did 
not share his mother’s inordinate love for 
cats. 
At the end of the Summer Mrs. Bou¬ 
cher, having returned from Paris, motored 
again to the Bents to get Peter. Her sis¬ 
ter accompanied her. Everybody at Bents 
had gone out but little weak-minded 
Mary, aged five, avIio sat rocking herself 
upon the veranda. Mrs. Boucher and her 
sister were glad to take seats in the 
pleasant, breezy spot. 
“How’s Peter?” inquired the former of 
Mary. 
“He’s fine,” was the reply. 
“Do he and Miss Bent get along well?” 
“Oh, yes,” said Mary ; “she loves him 
and he loves her.” 
“What’s Peter had to eat?” 
“Oh, Lula makes everything he likes.” 
said Mary, “leap-year cake, diplomatic 
pudding, angel cake, and all these things.” 
“Oh !” ejaculated Mrs. Boucher. “Well, 
I’m glad she’s been so good to him. I al- 
Avays give Peter a taste of everything that 
I have.” 
“Where does he sleep?” 
“In the guest chamber.” (Mrs. Bou¬ 
cher manifested some surprise.) 
“Does she give him a bath?” 
“No; he takes it himself, but she gives 
him the towels.” 
Mrs. Boucher and her sister exchanged 
looks, and the latter remarked: 
"I guess it’s the two-legged Peter she’s 
talking about. You’d better inquire about 
the other and see if he’s fared as Avell.” 
“Where's my cat Peter?” inquired Mrs. 
Boucher. 
“I don’t knoAV. I guess he’s on a spree. 
He stays out nights, and he goes into 
Mrs. McCarty’s garbage-can—they have 
scarlet fever there; and he eats grass¬ 
hoppers and kills snakes, and he eats 
cockroaches, too. I guess I can get him 
if you Avant him.” 
“Well, I want him.” 
Mrs. Boucher and her sister indulged in 
a tete-a-tete Avhen she was gone. They 
helped themselves to some newspapers 
lying on a table in the corner of the 
veranda, so that they could wrap them 
around Peter, Avho had been frequenting 
such questionable places. 
“My poor Snooky-ookums!” said Mrs. 
Boucher Avheu Mary appeared with Peter. 
He had a black nose, acquired by search¬ 
ing in somebody’s coalbin, paint on his 
legs, a knot in his tail for bad behavior, 
and instead of his pretty red collar, a 
string, Avith an old cigarette picture for 
a bangle around his neck. She managed 
to carry him to the automobile, and away 
he Avent, back to his aristocratic home. 
After their arrival, and Peter had been 
bathed and fumigated, and made to realize 
that his Avikl life Avas at an end, Mrs. 
Boucher sent the following note to Lula 
Bent: 
“Dear Miss Bent: It does not seem 
to me that my cat has received just the 
treatment that I desired, but I believe 
that you have done Avell by the tAVO-legged 
Peter. Please tell him to pay the bill. 
“Sincerly yours, 
“Consuelo Boucher.” 
She received in reply a note from her 
son : 
“Dear Mother : What you term ‘neg¬ 
lect’ of Peter—but which, I dare say, he 
realized Avas freedom, delectable—has cer¬ 
tainly been made up for by the treatment 
accorded the ‘tAvo-legged Peter,’ who, for 
the first time in his life has been shoAvn 
some consideration. I’ll gladly pay the 
bill, and Lula’s going to keep me. 
“Y’ours ever lovingly, Peter.” 
j. c. m’bain. 
Neighborly Chat. 
4 4'T'HAT is the most delicious cherry 
X pie; how do you get such a fine 
pastry?” asked Mrs. Barnes, as they 
cleared the table. 
“Oh, I always make the crust the day 
before I need it, and put it in the ice box. 
It really is an improvement. No, Mrs. 
Barnes you’ll not help Avith the dishes. 
I am going to enjoy your visit—Ave’ll go 
on the veranda. The dishes will not run 
aAvay,” she laughed. 
“Have you been reading anything es¬ 
pecially interesting, Mrs. Hayden?” 
“Well, really not much, other than the 
papers. Do you knoAA’ I ajn interested in 
the English women’s fight!” 
“Are you? I attended a lecture a few 
weeks ago, and the speaker said he 
Cooking (?) Dinner In The Sun. 
thought it not so much a ‘woman’s ques¬ 
tion,’ as a fight for liberty—the same old 
struggle that has marked English history 
from the days of the barons. As Ave Avere 
coming out of the hall, a feAV boys shout¬ 
ed : ‘Look at the old hens.’” 
“Well,” laughed the listener, that was 
not such a bad name either. I made $150 
last season on eggs and young fry. No, I 
don’t sell by pound ; just charge 50 cents 
apiece, and 10 cents extra if I dress 
them.” 
“That is Aunt Emma’s method, too. 
By the way, I wish you could have seen 
her lawn this Spring. Last Fall she tried 
a new way of setting out her tulip and 
hyacinth bulbs. Instead of putting them 
in regular flowerbeds, she scattered them 
over the lawn. You can scarcely imag¬ 
ine how beautiful was the effect. The 
lawn dotted with the various colors. Of 
course, when they were through blooming, 
you could not tell that the grass had been 
flowered’ at all. Aunt Emma said that 
all Spring she felt that the fairies were 
hiding in the tulips!” 
“I am certain the effect was lovely. I 
think I 11 try that method next Spring. 
I must go, though I do wish I could re¬ 
main longer.” m. e. d. 
Antidote for Snake Bite. 
ONSUL-GENERAL JAMES A. 
SMITH sends from Calcutta, India, 
an account of a treatment for snake 
bite. In 25 years venomous snakes killed 
543.991 humans and 187.436 cattle. • 
“The mortality from snake bite among 
the poorer inhabitants of India is due in 
part to their habits and mode of life. 
Many sleep on the ground in their houses, 
the walls and floors of which often give 
cover to snakes. Persons are sometimes 
bitten by serpents which craAvl over their 
bodies in the darl and are perhaps irri¬ 
tated by some unconscious movement of 
the limbs during sleep. In such cases 
the reptile is seldom seen, and there is a 
dreadful doubt as to whether a rat, a 
mongoose, or a deadly snake has caused 
the wound. During the great heat of the 
plains in Summer scanty clothing is Avorn 
and many people go barefooted. Avhile 
those Avho do wear shoes seldom Avear 
hose, thus leaving the ankle and instep 
exposed. Many fatal cases of snake bite 
occur among natives engaged in cutting 
grass Avhen the vegetation is dense and 
capable of concealing even a panther. 
The native squats down on his heels, 
grasps a handful of grass, and cuts it off 
near the roots Avith a curved hand scythe, 
and often touches and irritates hidden 
reptiles.” 
An antidote for the poison is now made 
from the snake’s venom, and the plan is 
thus described: 
“A couple of Indian assistants dragged 
forth a tin box. the lid Avas lifted up, 
and an angry cobra disclosed. It ex¬ 
panded its hood and swayed its Avicked 
little head from side to side, hissing like 
a steam engine. One of the Indians with 
remarkable dexterity seized i„ firmly at 
the back of the neck, at the same time 
placing his foot on the end of its tail to 
prevent it from coiling. The cobra, be¬ 
ing thus harmless, was carried forward, 
and a wine glass with a piece of Ameri¬ 
can cloth covering the top was placed 
near its head close to its darting tongue 
and glittering eyes. At once it struck, 
its t.Avo sharp upper fangs pierced the 
cloth, and the deadly poison dropped into 
the glass. There was perhaps half a tea¬ 
spoonful in the glass, sufficient to kill 
half a dozen human brings. The cobra 
Avas then forcibly fed Avith egg flip 
through a tube and put back in his box 
hissing ferociously, and Avas then left for 
10 days to mediate on the indignity he 
had suffered. The venom is extracted 
only once in 10 days. The venom is dried 
oyer lime and sent to Kasauli, Avhere it is 
dissolved in a salt solution. It is then 
put into a horse, only a small dose being 
given at first. This is gradually increased 
until at the end of tAvo years the animal 
can stand a dose 200 times the original 
one, since it acquires immunity from the 
poison.” 
As Others See TJs. 
Town Lady: (fanning languidly while 
waiting for dinner at the boarding 
house) : “Is it really true that farmers’ 
wives have such a hard time? It seems 
like an ideal way to live. No cost, you 
know.” 
Little Country School Teacher 
(attending the institute and boarding for 
the Aveek) : “Only two classes of farm 
women have a very hard time.” 
Toavn Lady : “I thought so. I believe 
all this talk is greatly exaggerated. I 
don’t see what our women’s magazines 
give space to such stuff for. What tAvo 
classes do reely have a hard time. Miss 
Gray? You know I find it real interest¬ 
ing to get your point of view?” 
L. C. S. T.: “Those whose husbands 
are ambitious and therefore prosperous, 
and those Avhose husbands for various 
reasons are not prosperous, but who are 
ambitious themselves.” 
T. L.: “Ambitious! My land! I 
didn’t know ambition applied to low pur¬ 
suits like farming.” 
L. C. S. T. (a little exasperated) : 
“The point is that those two classes take 
in every farm woman. Whether they 
have a right to be ambitious-” 
T. L. (interrupting) : “Oh, la, don’t 
get excited. I’m sure I don’t knoAV any¬ 
thing about it. There’s the dinner bell. 
Isn’t the fare here the poorest?” 
IDA EARLE FOAVLER. 
