12 manila envelope.  Into this envelope we put his application, his references, and other papers.  His application tells us what kinds of work he can do and has done in other shops.

There are 29 different kinds of work to be done in our shops, from gear cutting to running errands.  I have listed these operations, alphabetically, on a cardboard the exact length of the employment record envelope, 12 inches.  When a man tells me in his application that he not only can operate a drill press, for which he is hired, but has also worked at grinding, I fit my cardboard list to the top of the employment record envelope and punch two notches along the top directly opposite the words “drill press” and “grinding” on my list.  Then I file away the envelope.

I rest secure now in my knowledge that I have not buried a potential grinder in a drill press operator, or that I do not have to carry his double qualifications in my mind.  I know that if Beggs should suddenly telephone me some morning that his grinder is absent—­sick, or fishing, perhaps—­I need only take my cardboard list and, starting at A, run it down my file until I come to the envelope of the drill press operator.  I am stopped there automatically by the second notch on the envelope which corresponds in position to the word “grinder” on my list.

    And there is every likelihood that, with the necessary explanation
    to the man’s own foreman, Beggs will get his grinder for the day.

From the following article, printed in Farm and Fireside city and country readers alike may glean much practical information concerning ways and means of making a comfortable living from a small farm.  It was illustrated by four half-tone reproductions of photographs showing (1) the house, (2) the woman at her desk with a typewriter before her, (3) the woman in her dining-room about to serve a meal from a labor-saving service wagon, and (4) the woman in the poultry yard with a basket of eggs.

    TEN ACRES AND A LIVING

    SHE WAS YOUNG, POPULAR, AND HAD BEEN REARED IN THE CITY.  EVERYBODY
    LAUGHED WHEN SHE DECIDED TO FARM—­BUT THAT WAS FOUR YEARS AGO

    BY ALICE MARY KIMBALL

When she decided to be a farmer everybody laughed.  She was young, popular, unusually fond of frocks and fun.  She had been reared in the city.  She didn’t know a Jersey from a Hereford, or a Wyandotte from a Plymouth Rock.

    “You’ll be back in six months,” her friends said.

Four years have passed.  Mrs. Charles S. Tupper still is “buried” in the country.  Moreover, she is supplying eggs, chickens, honey, and home-canned goods to those of her former associates who are willing to pay for quality.

    “Farming,” said Mrs. Tupper, “is the ideal vocation for the woman
    who feels the modern desire for a job and the need of marriage and a
    home.