Mrs. Tupper's chickens are hatched in incubators, hovered in a
coal-heated brooder house, fed according to experiment-station
directions, and reared in poultry houses built from
experiment-station designs. From the first they have been
practically free from lice and disease. She gets winter eggs. Even
in zero weather and at times when feed is most costly, her spring
pullets more than pay their way.

"Bees responded as readily to proper treatment," she said. "My
second season I harvested $265 worth of comb honey from twenty
working swarms. And I was stung not a half-dozen times at that."

Some of Mrs. Tupper's neighbors were inclined to joke at first at
her appetite for bulletins, her belief in experts, and her rigid
insistence on pure-bred stock and poultry. They admit now that her
faith has been justified.

If Mrs. Tupper had trod in the well-worn neighborhood ruts, she
would have marketed her produce by the
country-store-commission-man-retailer-consumer route; but again she
did not. From the first she planned to plug the leakage of farm
profits in middlemen's commissions. When she had anything to sell,
she put on a good-looking tailored suit, a becoming hat, smart shoes
and gloves, and went to the city to talk to ultimate consumers.

The consciousness of being dressed appropriately--not expensively or
ornately--is a valuable aid to the farm saleswoman, Mrs. Tupper
thinks.

"If a salesman comes to me shabbily dressed or flashily dressed, I