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diff --git a/old/63243-0.txt b/old/63243-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index eb5c297..0000000 --- a/old/63243-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6338 +0,0 @@ -Project Gutenberg's Hope Farm Notes, by Herbert Winslow Collingwood - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Hope Farm Notes - -Author: Herbert Winslow Collingwood - -Release Date: September 19, 2020 [EBook #63243] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOPE FARM NOTES *** - - - - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/American -Libraries.) - - - - - - - - - - - HOPE FARM NOTES - - BY - HERBERT W. COLLINGWOOD - - REPRINTED FROM - THE RURAL NEW YORKER - - [Illustration] - - NEW YORK - HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY - 1921 - - COPYRIGHT, 1921, BY - HARCOURT, BRACE AND COMPANY, INC. - - THE QUINN & BODEN COMPANY - RAHWAY, N. J. - - - - - TO - L. D. C. AND A. F. C. - WHO REPRESENT - “_The Hen with one Chicken_” - AND - _The Chicken_. - - -Most of these notes were originally printed in the _Rural New-Yorker_ -from week to week and covering a period of about 20 years. Many readers -of that magazine have expressed the desire to have a collection of -them in permanent form. It has been no easy task to make a selection, -and I wish to acknowledge here the great help which I have received -from my daughter, Ava F. Collingwood, in arranging this matter. It has -been thought best to arrange the notes in chronological order. “A Hope -Farm Sermon,” and “Grandmother” were originally printed in 1902. The -others follow in the order of their original publication. The reader -must understand that the children alluded to represent two distinct -broods,—the second brood appearing just after the sketch entitled -“Transplanting the Young Idea.” From the very first the object of these -notes has been to picture simply and truthfully the brighter, cheerful -side of Farm Life. - - - - -CONTENTS - - - PAGE - - THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN 1 - - A HOPE FARM SERMON 21 - - GRANDMOTHER 26 - - LAUGHTER AND RELIGION 33 - - A DAY IN FLORIDA 38 - - THE BASEBALL GAME 45 - - TRANSPLANTING THE YOUNG IDEA 51 - - THE SLEEPLESS MAN 58 - - LINCOLN’S BIRTHDAY 63 - - UNCLE ED’S PHILOSOPHY 69 - - A GOD-FORSAKEN PLACE 75 - - LOUISE 82 - - CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY 88 - - “THE FINEST LESSON” 94 - - “COLUMBUS DAY” 107 - - THE COMMENCEMENT 114 - - “ORGANIZATION” 122 - - THE FACE OF LIBERTY 130 - - CAPTAIN RANDALL’S HOUR 138 - - “SNOW BOUND” 147 - - “CLASS” 155 - - “I’LL TELL GOD” 163 - - A DAY’S WORK 171 - - PROFESSOR GANDER’S ACADEMY 181 - - COLONEL O’BRIEN AND SERGEANT HILL 189 - - HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES 198 - - THE INDIANS WON 206 - - IKE SAWYER’S HOTEL 214 - - OLD-TIME POLITICS 224 - - - - -HOPE FARM NOTES - - - - -THE SUNNY SIDE OF THE BARN - - -As a boy on a little Yankee farm I had a “stent” set out for me every -day. During the Winter it was sawing and splitting wood. Our barn stood -so that somehow on a Winter’s day one side of it faced the road, and -it always seemed to be warm and sunny. The other was turned so it was -always cold and frosty, with little if any sun. The hens, the cow and the -sheep always made for the sunny side of the barn, which represented the -comfortable and the bright side of life. The old gentleman who brought -me up always put the woodpile on the frosty side of the barn. He argued -that if the boy worked too much on the sunny side, he would stop to look -at the passers-by, feel something of the joy of living, and stop his work -to absorb a little of it. We were brought up to believe that labor was -a curse, put upon us for our sins, a serious matter, a discipline and -never a joy. When the boy worked on the frosty side, he must move fast in -order to keep warm. He would not stop to loaf in the sun, he could not -throw stones or practise baseball so long as he had to keep his mittens -on to keep his fingers warm. Thus the argument was that the boy would -accomplish more on the frosty side, and realize that labor represented -the primal curse which somehow seemed to rest particularly hard upon the -farmer. And so as a child I did my work and passed much of my life on the -frosty side of the barn, silent and thoughtful, while the hens cackled -and sang on the sunny side. It seemed strange to me that people could not -see that the thing which made the hens lay would surely make the boy work. - -There will always be a dispute as to whether a boy or a man does his -best work under the spur of necessity, or out of a full bag of the oats -of life. And they do it with greater or less cruelty as more or less of -their life has been spent on the frosty side. I never yet saw a self-made -man who did anything like a perfect job on himself. They usually spoil -their own sons by giving them too easy a time, while work is a necessity -in building character. Work without play of some sort is labor without -soul, and that is one of the most cruel and dangerous things in the -world. I have noticed that most men who pass their childhood on the -frosty side of the barn have what I call a squint-eyed view of youth. -They spend a large part of their time telling how they had to work as -a boy, and how much inferior their own sons are since they do not have -chores to do. That man’s boys will pay no attention except when his eye -is upon them, and rightly so, I think. The man looks across the table at -mother, with a shake of his head, for is not the Smith family responsible -for the fact that these boys do not equal their wonderful sire? I have -learned better than to expect much sympathy from my boys for what -happened 50 years ago. - -The old gentleman would come now and then and look around the corner of -the barn to see if I was at work. The frosty side of the barn in youth -has one advantage. It forces the boy to think and reason out the justice -of life. Uncle Daniel had not read enough of history to know that Guizot, -the great French historian, says that the only thing which those who -represent tyranny, injustice or evil are afraid of _is the human mind_. -What he means is that whenever you can get the plain, common people to -think clearly and with their own brains, they will sooner or later wipe -off the slate of history and write freedom in big letters. On the sunny -side I think I should have talked and so rid myself of my thought before -it could print itself upon my little brain, but there on the frosty side -of the barn I know that I said little, but reasoned it out with the clear -wisdom of childhood. If Uncle Daniel had been a student of Shakespeare, -he would have gone straight to that famous passage in Julius Cæsar which -probably expresses the thought of 90 per cent of the humans capable of -thinking, who have ever lived to maturity: - - “Let me have men about me that are fat, - Sleek-headed men and such as sleep o’ nights; - Yond’ Cassius has a lean and hungry look; - He thinks too much; such men are dangerous.” - -I was thinking out my problem, and I want to tell you younger men that -the questions which started at the teeth of my saw on the frosty side -of that old barn have cut their way through the years, and chased -and haunted me all through life. The injustice of labor and social -conditions—that is the foundation of the trouble in the world. Upon -it all helpful education should be based. Youth’s ideals will always -chase you like that, if you give them half a chance, and you never can -have better mental companions. I was trying to reason out one of two -resolutions. Off in that dim future of manhood when I should grow up, my -time would come, and I might have power over some other boy, or maybe a -man. I could put him on the frosty or on the sunny side of the barn, as -I saw fit. What would I do to him to pay for my session on the frosty -side? Somehow I think it is natural for human beings to seek reparation -and promise themselves to take their misfortunes out of someone else when -their power comes. I think I should have grown up with something of that -determination in mind had it not been for the poet Longfellow. - -Now you will smile, you successful farmers, you dry old analyzers and -solemn teachers and you budding young hopes. What has poetry to do with -farming or agricultural education? What did the poet Longfellow ever do -for farming? Did he ever have a hen in an egg-laying contest that laid -300 eggs in a year? Did he ever raise a prize pumpkin, or a prize crop of -potatoes? Did he even originate the Longfellow variety of flint corn? Do -not men need solid pith rather than flabby poetry in their thought? It is -true that Longfellow would have starved to death on a good farm. Yet his -poetry and the thought that went with it were one of the things that made -New England dominate this country in thought. My childhood was passed -at a time when we had no science to study. Bacteria were swimming all -about us in the air, the food and the water. I had, no doubt, swallowed -millions of them at every mouthful, and we grew fat on them. We had -no books on science or bulletins, but every farmhouse had its copy of -Bryant, Whittier, Longfellow, Emerson and Holmes. The best duck-raiser -in our town was a man who could recite Bryant’s poem, “To a Water -Fowl,” with his eyes shut. I think I could safely challenge many famous -poultrymen to recite even one verse of that poem, yet who would say that -he would not be a better poultryman and a better man if he could carry in -his heart a few verses of that poem? - - “There is a Power whose care - Teaches thy way along that pathless coast.” - - ... - - “He who from zone to zone, - Guides through the boundless sky thy certain flight, - In the long way which I must tread alone, - Will lead my steps aright.” - -I had recited Longfellow’s “Resignation” in school. I gave it about as -a parrot would, but on the frosty side of the old barn one verse shoved -itself into my little brain: - - “Let us be patient; - These severe afflictions - Not from the ground arise; - But oftentimes celestial benedictions - Assume this dark disguise.” - -Just think of that, a “celestial benediction”—it was a great thing for a -boy to think about. I looked both words up in the dictionary and got, -perhaps, half of their meaning. In all our town there seemed to be no one -except our old minister to come around on the frosty side of the barn -with comfort or promise, but this celestial benediction which the poet -told about got right to you. It might even live under that awful pile of -wood which I was to saw, and it would be worth the job of sawing it if I -could find such a thing under the pile. I heard people speak of a “nigger -in the woodpile” in terms of reproach, but a celestial benediction down -under the wood was certainly entitled to all respect. I did not fully -understand it, or what it meant, but it got into me and stayed there, -where the multiplication table or the rule of square root never would -remain. My belief is that if I had committed to memory in place of that -poem some excellent classroom lecture at college I should have become a -little anarchist, and gone through life pushing such people as I could -reach toward the frosty side of the barn. As it was, that poem, repeated -over and over, made me vow as a child that if I ever could influence or -direct the lives of farmers I would do my best to see that they lived and -did their work on the sunny side of the barn. - -In my day children were brought up on “the Scriptures and a stick,” both -well applied, and yet all these “lectures and lickings” never stuck in -my life as did the noble poetry we read in school, and the few pictures -which hung on the walls of the home. There is a curious thing about some -of these pictures. I am told of a case where two boys in the Tennessee -mountains volunteered for the navy. Their mountain home was as far -removed from the ocean as it well could be. They had never seen even a -large pond. For three generations not one of their ancestors had ever -seen the salt water. Yet these boys would not listen to any call for the -army, but they demanded a place in the navy. The story came to an officer -in a nearby camp, and he became interested and visited that home. Both -father and mother were puzzled over the action of their boys, and they -could not understand why Henry and William had demanded the ocean. As the -officer turned away he noticed hanging on the wall in the living-room -of that house the crude picture of a ship under full sail and on an -impossible blue ocean. It had come into that family years before, wrapped -around a package of goods, and mother had hung it on the wall. From their -youth those boys had grown up with that picture before them, and it had -decided their lives. It was stronger than the influence of father and -mother—they could not overcome it. I speak of that in order that you men -and women with children of your own may understand how the dreams, the -poetry, the visions of youth may prove stronger influences than any of -the science, the wisdom, or the fine examples you may put before your -little ones. - -On the wall of our old living-room at home was a chromo entitled “Joseph -and His Brethren.” It was an awful work of art. It showed a group of men -putting a boy down into a hole in the ground. It would have made the head -of an art department weep in misery, and yet it affected me deeply. I -used to stand and study it, with the result that at least one chapter of -the Bible gave me great joy, and that was the story of Joseph and his -brothers. That story helped to keep me sweet and hopeful on the frosty -side of the barn, for I reasoned it all out as I worked. Here, I thought, -was a farm boy. He did rather more than his share of living on the frosty -side, and see what he came to. I used to picture Joseph in mind as he -came walking over the desert carrying his father’s instructions about the -sheep and the management of the farm. His brothers saw him coming, and -they said among themselves, “Behold, this dreamer cometh.” You see, even -in those days, practical men could not understand the value of a dreamer, -a poet or a thinker as the first aid to practical agriculture. I have no -doubt that Joseph the dreamer often forgot to water the sheep. I have no -doubt but that they got away from him when he was herding them, and so -his brothers quickly got rid of him, and they sent him off to the place -where they thought dreams never came true. And that is where they made -their mistake, and the same mistake is often made in these days by other -practical farmers, for dreams that are based on faith and pure ambition -always come true. If Joseph had not been a dreamer, carrying the ideals -of his childhood into Egypt, we can readily understand which side of the -barn his brothers would have gone to when they appeared before him later. -But Joseph was a man who remembered the dreams and the hopes of his -childhood kindly; he gave those brothers the sunniest side of the barn, -and by doing so he made himself one of the great men in history. - -You may surely take it from me that at some time in your life, if you -prove worth the salt you have eaten, your State or your country will call -you up before the judgment seat, and will say to you: - -“I demand your life. In your youth you had ideals of manhood and of -service. I have trained you and given you knowledge. I now demand your -life as proof that your old ideals were true.” - -That comes to all men not only on the battlefield, but in all the humble -walks of life—the farm, the factory, the shop, wherever men are put -at labor, and it means a life given to service, the use of power and -knowledge, in order that men less fortunate may live on the sunny side of -the barn. - -We had something of an illustration of this when America entered the -great war. Many of us felt honestly that our boys were not quite up to -the standard. We thought they were a little lazy, inefficient or spoiled, -because they did not think as we did about labor and the necessity for -work. We did not realize what the trouble was, and so we generally -charged it to the influence of mother’s side of the family. We could not -understand that by education, training and example, we had simply taught -those boys only the material and selfish side of life. They demanded -unconsciously more of its poetry and romance and thus the war swept -them away in a blaze of glory. We suddenly woke up to find that under -the inspiration of an unselfish desire, our lazy and careless boys had -become the finest soldiers this world has ever seen. They were made so -through the power of poetry and imagination, for “making the world safe -for democracy” is only another name for making the great life offering -in order that helpless men and women may know the comfort and glory of -living on the “sunny side of the barn.” - -I think I have lived long enough and under conditions which fit me to -know human nature better than most men know books. Our present improved -man came from a savage. Originally man was a confirmed dweller on the -frosty side of the barn. As human life has developed, the tendency has -been for this man to run for a warm place on the sunny side. In order to -get there, his natural tendency has been to crowd some weaker brother -back into the frost. We may not like to admit it, but as we have crowded -poetry and imagination and love out of agricultural education, we have -lost track of the thought that there is one great duty we owe to society -for the great educational machine she has given us. That one great life -duty is to try to carry some more unfortunate brother out of the frost -into the comfort of the sunny side of the barn. We are too much in the -habit of trying to leave this practical betterment to the Legislature -or to the Federal Government, when it never can be done unless we do it -ourselves, as a part of human sacrifice. You must remember that in spite -of all our scientific work, the world is still largely fed and clothed -by the plain farmers, whose stock in trade is largely human nature and -instinct. The shadow which undoubtedly lies over farming today is due to -the fact that too many of these men and women feel that they are booked -hopelessly to spend their lives on the frosty side of the barn. - -It is in large part a mental trouble, a feeling of deep resentment, -such as in a very much smaller way came to me as a little boy, for -you will see how real and true are the ideals of childhood. The great -aim of all education should be to find some way of putting poetry and -imagination into the hearts of the men and women who are now on the -frosty side of the barn. There is more in this than any mere increase -of food production, or increase of land values. A great industrial -revolution is facing this nation. Such things have come before again and -again. They were always threatening, and every time they appeared strong -men and women feared for the future of their country. Yet in times past -these dark storms have always broken themselves against a solid wall of -contented and prosperous freeholders. They always disappear and turn into -a gentle, reviving rain when they strike the sunny side of the barn. That -is where the errors and mistakes of society are taken apart and remade, -better than ever before, by skilled and happy workmen. It is on the -frosty side of the barn, in the unhappy shadows, where men tear down and -destroy without attempting to rebuild, for there can be no human progress -except that which is finally built upon contentment and faith. Men and -women must be brought to the sunny side of the barn if this nation is to -remain the land of opportunity, and such men and women as we have here -must do the work. - -If you ask me how this is to be done, I can only go back to childhood -once more for an illustration. I know all the characters of the following -little drama. We will call the children John, Mary and Bert. John and -Mary were relatives of the old gentleman who owned the farm, and they -came for a long visit. Bert was the farm boy, put out to work on that -farm for his board and clothes, one of the thousands of war orphans who -represented a great legacy which the Civil War had left to this country. -John and Mary were bright and petted and pampered. You know how such -smart city children can usually outshine and outbluff a farm boy. The -woman of the house, a thrifty New England soul, decided that this was her -chance to get the woodshed filled with dry wood, and so she put the three -children at it. Before Bert knew what was going on, those city children -had it all “organized.” Bert was to work on the frosty side of the barn -where the woodpile was, and he was to saw and split all the wood. John -played until Bert had split an armful, then John carried it about two -rods to the shed, where Mary took it out of his arms and piled it inside. -I have lived some years since that time, and I have seen many enterprises -come and go, and if that arrangement is not typical of thousands of cases -which show the relation between the farmer and middleman and handler, I -have simply lived and observed in vain, _and Bert represented the farmer_. - -And the distribution of the rewards received in exchange for that -combination was still more typical. Now and then the woman would think -the woodshed was not filling very fast, so that some form of bribery -to labor was necessary. She would then come out with half a pie, or a -few cookies, to stimulate the work. Strange to say, the distribution of -this prize was always given to the girl. She was doing that absolutely -useless work of piling the wood, and yet the pie and the cookies were -handed to her for distribution. For a great many centuries, it must be -said that the farmer never had much of a chance with the town man when it -came to receiving favors from the ladies, and in the distribution of that -pie John and Mary usually ate about seven-eighths of it, and handed the -balance to Bert, for even then those city children had formed the idea -that a silent, unresisting farm boy was made to be the beast of burden, -fit for the frosty side of the barn. - -And just as happens in other and larger forms of business, there were, -in that toy performance of a great drama, forms of legislative bribery -for middlemen and farmers. Those children were told that if they would -hurry and get the woodshed filled up, they would receive pleasure and a -present. John and Mary, as middlemen, might go to the circus, while the -boy on the saw would receive a fine present. This would be a book which -told how a splendid little boy sawed 15 cords of wood in two weeks, -and then asked his mother if he couldn’t please go down the road and -saw five cords more for a poor widow woman during his play time. Ever -since the world began, that seems to have been the idea of agricultural -legislation. The real direct pleasure and profit have gone to John and -Mary, while to Bert has gone the promise of an education which will teach -him how to work a little harder. Looking back over the world’s history, -the most astonishing thing to me is that society has failed to see that -the best investment of public money and power is that made closest up to -the ground, the great mother of us all. Other interests have received -it, largely because they have been able to organize and make a stronger -appeal to the imagination. - -Of course in every drama of human life there has to be a crisis where -the actors come to blows, and it happened so in this case. There came -one day particularly cold, and with a special run of hard and knotty -wood to be sawed. That gave John and Mary more time for play, and put an -extra job on Bert. I cannot tell just how the battle started; it may have -been caused by Mary, for a thousand times in the history of the world -the relations between two boys and a girl have upset all calculations -and changed the course of history. Or it may be that the spirit of -injustice boiled up in the heart of that boy on the saw, and swept away -his peaceful disposition. At any rate, when John found fault because he -did not work faster, Bert dropped his saw and tackled the tormentor. If I -am to tell the truth, I am forced to admit that there was no science at -all about the battle which that boy put up for the rights of farm labor. -He should, I suppose, have imitated some of the old heroes described -by Homer and Virgil, but as the rage of battle came over him, the most -effective fighter he could think of was the old ram, and I regret to say -that he lowered his head, and, without regard for science, butted John in -the stomach and knocked him down. Then he sat on his enemy, took hold of -his hair with both hands, and proceeded to pound his head on the frosty -ground, while Mary danced about, not caring to interfere, but evidently -waiting to bestow her favors upon the victor. And just as John was -getting ready to call “enough” the kitchen door opened and out came the -woman of the house with the old minister. - -She certainly looked like a very stern picture of justice as she peered -over her spectacles at the boys on the ground, and the three children -were arraigned before her. “What shall I do with these children? I shall -never get this job done. I have spent nearly five pies on these children -already, and see how little they have piled, and here they are fighting -over it. I think the best thing I can do is to whip that lazy boy at the -saw.” - -I wish you could have seen the face of the old minister as he rolled up -his wrinkles and prepared to answer. It was worth a good deal to see how -he looked out of the corner of his eye at the boy on the saw. - -“My good friend,” said he, “this is not a case for prayer or for -punishment, or for investigation, or for education. It is a case for -an adjustment of labor and pie. That boy on the saw has been doing -practically all of the work, and getting almost nothing of the reward. He -is discouraged, and I don’t blame him. You cannot crowd more work out of -him with a stick. Move him out into the sun, give him the pie, and let -him eat his share and distribute the rest. Make the other boy split and -carry and pile all that wood, and put that girl at washing windows. _The -closer you put the pie up to the sawbuck, the more wood you will have -cut._” - -Now tell me, you scientists and you wise men, if that does not tell the -whole story. It is the pie of life, or the fair distribution of that pie, -which leads men and women to the sunny side of the barn. What we need -most of all in this country is some power like that of the old minister, -who can drive that thought home to human society, and it will not be -driven home until our leaders and our teachers have in their hearts more -of the poetry and the imagination which lead men and women to attempt the -impossible and work it out. You will not agree with me when I say that in -a majority of the farm homes today there is greater need of the gentle, -humanizing influence of poetry and vision than of the harder and sterner -influence of science and sharp business practice. As the years go on you -will come to see that I am right. - -I know that is one of the hardest things on earth for some of us to -understand, for modern education has led us away from the thought. In -our grasp for knowledge we have tried to substitute science entirely -for sentiment, forgetting that the really essential things of life -cannot stand close analysis, because they are held together by faith. In -reaching out after power we have tried too hard to imitate the shrewd -scheming of the politician and the big interests. We have failed thus far -because we have neglected too many of our natural weapons. Over 200 years -ago Andrew Fletcher wrote: - -“I knew a very wise man who believed that if a man were permitted to make -all the ballads, he need not care who should make the laws of a nation.” - -Andrew Fletcher’s wise man knew what he was talking about. Very likely -some of you older people can remember the famous Hutchinson family in -the days before the Civil War. I have seen the New Hampshire farmhouse -where they were raised. It was just a group of plain farmers who traveled -about the country singing simple little songs about freedom. That plain -farm family did more to make the American people see the sin of slavery -than all the statesmen New England could muster or all the laws she could -make. There was little science and less art about their singing, but it -was in the language of the common people and they understood it. - - “The ox bit his master; - How came that to pass? - The ox heard his master say - ‘All flesh is grass!’” - -There came a crisis in the Civil War when soldier and statesman stood -still wondering what to do next, for they were powerless without the -spirit of the people. Then William Cullen Bryant wrote the great song in -which he poured out the burning thought of the people: - - “We’re coming, Father Abraham, - Three hundred thousand more, - From Mississippi’s winding stream - And from New England’s shore. - We leave our plows and workshops, - Our wives and children dear, - With hearts too full for utterance, - But with a silent tear. - - “We’re coming, we’re coming, the Union to restore; - We’re coming, Father Abraham, three hundred thousand more!” - -Had it not been for such songs and the spirit they aroused the Civil War -never could have been won. We now understand that during the great war -the French army was at the point of mutiny, and was saved not by stern -discipline but by a renewal of its spiritual power. I think it will be as -hard as for a man to try and lift himself by his boot straps to try to -put farming into its proper place through science and material prosperity -alone. We need poets to give us songs and playwrights to put our story in -such pictures that the world must listen to it and understand. The one -great thing which impels us to work on and fight is the hope that the -property which we may leave behind us will be safe and put to reasonable -use. Some of us may leave cash and lands; others can give the world only -a family of children, but at heart our struggle is to see that this -heritage may be made safe. - -For most of us make a great mistake in locating a storage place for the -heritage which we hope to leave to the future. We work and we toil; we -struggle to improve conditions; we strive to capitalize our worry and our -work into money and into land in order that our children may carry on our -work. Have you ever stopped to think who holds the future of all this? -Many of you no doubt will say that the future of this great nation lies -in the banks and vaults of the cities where money is piled up mountains -high. We have all acted upon that principle too long, digging wealth -from the soil and then sending it into the town for investment, until -we have come to think that our future lies there. We are wrong; it is a -mistake. The future of this land, and all it means to us, lies in the -hands of little children, who are playing on the city streets or in the -open fields of the country, and it is not so much in their hands as in -the pictures which are being printed on their little minds and souls. -And this future will be safer with poetry and imagination than with the -multiplication table alone. - -I know about this from my own start in life. I was expected to be -satisfied with work until I was 21, and then have a suit of clothes and a -yoke of oxen. One trouble with the farmers of New England was that they -thought this a sufficient outfit for their boys. I think I might have -fallen in with that plan and contented my life with it had it not been -for a crude picture which hung in the shop where we pegged shoes. It was -a poor color scheme, a perfect daub of art, in which some amateur artist -had tried to express a thought which was too large for his soul. A bare -oak tree, with most of its branches gone, was framed against the Winter -sky. It was evening; a few stars had appeared, and the sky was full of -color. The artist had tried to arrange the stars and the sky colors so -that they represented a crude American flag, with the oak tree serving -as the staff. His great unexpressed thought was that at the close of -the Civil War God had painted His promise of freedom on the sky in the -coloring of that flag. As a child, that crude picture became a part of -my life. I have never been able to forget the glory of it, as I have -forgotten the meanness, the poverty, the narrow blindness of our daily -lives, so that all through the long and stormy years, wherever I have -walked, I have seen that flag upon the sky, and I have waited hopefully -for the coming of the sunrise of that day when, through the work of real -education, when with the help of such men and such women as are here -today, every hopeless man, every lonely woman, every melancholy child -upon a sad and desolate hill farm, may feel the thrill of opportunity, -and the joy and the glory of living upon the sunny side of the barn. - - - - -A HOPE FARM SERMON - - -No use talking, the best part of a vacation is getting home. We were all -sorry to leave Cape Cod. To tell you the truth duty seemed to be stuck -full of thorns a foot long as we looked back at it from the easy bed of a -loafer on his vacation. No wonder the poor little Bud cried when our good -host kissed her good-bye. We looked at her with much the same expression -as that on the face of the woman who missed an important train by half a -minute and listened to the forcible remark of a man who was also left! We -got over that, however. The harness was put on our shoulders so gently -that we hardly felt it, and here we are again with a soft pad of gentle -and happy memories to put where the rub comes hardest. Everything was -all O. K. at home. Grandmother was in good spirits, the Chunk reported -good sales, and the weather had been fair for farm work. The boys had -the corn all cleaned up and the weeds mostly cut. The strawberries have -been transplanted; the alfalfa clipped off; the squashes have grown into -a perfect tangle of vines, the sweet potatoes look well, and there is no -blight in the late white ones! The children found nine new little pigs -and 30 new chickens waiting them. Yes! Yes! It was a happy homecoming. I -climbed the hill on Sunday and looked off over the old familiar valley. -There were the same glorious old hills with the shadows chasing along -them, the little streams stealing down through their fringes of grass -and bushes, the cultivated fields, and the homes of neighbors peeping -out through the orchards! Surely home is a goodly place after all. Other -places are good to come away from, but home is the place to go to! - -Now, I know that many of my readers are in trouble. I am, and every -mail brings news from people who are carrying crosses and facing hard -duties with more or less bravery. There are women left alone on the farm, -striving to drag a heavy heart through life. Men have seen wife and child -pass away. Others have seen hopes and ambitions crushed out. This season -has been hard for many. I will quote from a letter just at hand from -central New York, where flood and storm have scarred the hillsides and -ruined crops: - -“One neighbor hung himself; one says he shall have an auction and go to -the old ladies’ home; another had the blues until he cried.” - -Now, in spite of all the talk we have of the Nation’s great prosperity, I -know that there are thousands of sad hearts in country homes, sad because -they have seen the cherished things of life and the work of self-denying -years swept out of their grasp by a power which they could neither master -nor comprehend. The picture of a strong man dropping his head upon the -table and crying like a child is the saddest vision that can rise before -our eyes. Farm life has its tragic side, and the sadness of it would -crush us down at times if we would permit it to do so. No wonder men and -women grow despondent when with each year comes a little more of the -living blight which slowly destroys hope and faith in one’s physical -ability to master the secret of happiness. I do not blame men and women -who give way to despondency under pressure of griefs which have staggered -me. I only regret that they cannot realize that for most of the afflicted -of middle years the only true help is a moral one. - -I feel like repeating that last sentence, though it may come like the -application of a liniment I knew as a boy. The old man who brought me -up invented a certain “lotion.” Whenever I cut or burned my flesh that -lotion bottle was hauled out, a hen’s feather inserted and a liberal -allowance smeared over the wound. It was like rubbing liquid fire on the -flesh, but it _did_ pull the smart out and carry it far away. I used to -imagine that the “lotion” gathered the pain all into a lump and pulled it -out by the roots with one quick twitch. One of the most helpful books I -have ever read is a little volume entitled “Deafness and Cheerfulness.” I -read it over and over, and I wish that every deaf man or friend of a deaf -man could have it. I find in this little book the following message which -I commend to all who feel their courage giving way: - -“The noblest dealing with misfortune is in manly silence to bear it; -the next to the meanest is in feebleness to weep over it; the wholly -unpardonable is to ask others to weep also.” - -With the first and third of these propositions I fully agree. It is not -always a sign of weakness for a man to get off into solitude somewhere -and find relief in tears. When the tear glands are completely dried up -the man loses an element of character which all the iron in his will -cannot replace. But “manly silence” _is_ the “noblest dealing with -misfortune”—and also the hardest. It is human to cry out and complain at -the pain of what we call injustice, but if the child is human should not -the grown man be something more? What are years and the burning balm of -experience given us for if not to enable us to rise up nearer to divine -strength? As I look about me it occurs that most of us who have reached -middle life or beyond have grown unconsciously away from childhood and -youthful strength. We somehow feel that people ought to regard us as -others did 25 years ago. The fat man of 45 is no longer the young sprout -of 20, though he may think so. If I am not mistaken, one great trouble -with many of us is the fact that we crave and beg for the things that -go with youth when in reality we are grown-up men and women! It is our -duty now to face life and its problems, not with the careless hope of -youth, but with the sober and abiding faith that should come with mature -years. Run over a child’s ambitions and, after his short grief, his -spirits rise again for the next opportunity. The man’s hopes are shaken -by repeated defeat, and hope of physical victory finds itself caged at -every turn by former defeat. We may grieve or despond over this and play -the child; or we may act the man, raise our hopes and ideals above the -range of former defeat, and find comfort and courage in doing the things -which shame infirmity and affliction. I know some of you will say that -this complacent man may moralize—but give him a touch of trouble, and -how he would whine! I hope not! Trouble has taken many a mouthful out -of us but, if I thought any honest friend really meant that, it would be -the greatest trouble of all. I repeat that the greatest comfort to the -despondent must be a moral one, yet the riding of some harmless hobby -helps one to walk with fortitude. Let a man say to himself that he will -study and work to breed the finest pigs or raise the finest strawberries -or master some science or public question, and he will find strength and -comfort in his work! I’ll promise not to attempt any more preaching for -a good while if you will let me end this little sermon with a quotation -from Whittier: - - “Soon or late to all our dwellings come the specters of the mind; - Doubts and fears and dread forebodings, in the darkness undefined. - Round us throng the grim projections of the heart and of the brain, - And our pride of strength is weakness, and the cunning hand is vain. - In the dark we cry like children; and no answer from on high - Breaks the crystal spheres of silence, and no white wings downward fly. - But the heavenly help we pray for, comes to faith and not to sight, - And our prayers themselves drive backward all the spirits of the night.” - - - - -GRANDMOTHER - - -The last celebration of Thanksgiving was about the most startling that -any of the Hope Farmers remember. I have passed this holiday under quite -varied conditions. “Boy” on a New England farm and in a boarding-house, -cattle herder on a Colorado ranch, sawyer in a lumber camp, teacher in -a country school district, hired man and book agent on a Michigan farm, -“elocutionist” in a dramatic company, “professor of modern languages” -(with a slim grip on English alone) in a young ladies’ seminary, -printer’s devil in a Southern newspaper office, ditcher in a swamp, and -other capacities too numerous to mention. A man may perhaps lay claim to -a bit of helpful philosophy if he can find some fun in all such days and -carry along in his mental pocket “much to be thankful for.” He is sure -to come to a time in life when these “treasures of memory” will be very -useful. I would not refer to family matters that might well be marked -“private” and locked away with the skeleton in the closet if I did not -know that the plain, simple matters of family record are things that all -the world have in common. - -A pirate or a man trying to hide himself might have seen virtues in the -dull, misty fog that settled upon the city the night before Thanksgiving. -Grandmother had been slowly failing through the day. The night brought -her greater pain than ever. All through these long months we had been -able to keep from her the real nature of her disease. I took it upon -myself to keep the children happy. If we grown-ups found it hard to be -thankful we would see that the little folks put out enough thanks for the -whole family. I took them down to the market to pick out a turkey! We had -a great time, and finally found a turkey fat enough. The market man gave -each of the children a handful of nuts—and they now want Mother to give -him all her trade. They went home fairly radiant with happiness. Was it -not better for them to go to sleep with the pleasant side of the day in -their hearts rather than the shadow which the rest of us could feel near -us? - -The morning came dark and dismal. It didn’t seem like Thanksgiving -as the Bud and I went after the doctor. The clerks and professional -people seemed to be taking a holiday, but the drivers, the diggers and -heavy workmen were at their jobs as usual. The streets were filled with -children dressed up in ridiculous costumes, wearing masks or with faces -blackened. These urchins went about begging money from passers-by. Our -little folks were rather shocked at this way of celebrating Thanksgiving. -Where this ridiculous mummery came from or how it crept into a -Thanksgiving celebration is more than I can say. It may be as close as a -city child can come to thanking Nature for a bountiful harvest! Charlie -and his family came in from the farm, and Jack came from his school. -Grandmother made a desperate struggle and was finally able to sit up so -that her children and grandchildren might be about her. As the children -grew restless in the house I took them out and we walked along the -river. My mind was busy with other matters relating to other days, but -the little folks, happily, saw only the great bright side of the future. -Their past was too small to cast any shadow. We went as far as Grant’s -Tomb and passed through the room where the great general’s remains are -lying. As we passed in, the Graft and Scion saw the men take off their -hats and they did the same. - -“Why do they make you take off your hat?” asked the Graft, when we came -out. - -I tried to explain to him that this was one of the things that people -should not be _made_ to do. They should do it because they wanted to show -their respect or reverence. I doubt if I made him understand it, for when -a boy is hungry and other boys are playing football in a nearby vacant -lot even the gentlest sermon loses its point. Our dinner was such a -success that we did not have chairs enough to go around. The children had -to sit on boxes and baskets. A taste of everything from turkey down went -in to Grandmother, but she could eat little. The plates came back again -and again until the Hope Farm man was obliged to say: - -“Well, Mother, I shall have to turn this turkey over after all.” - -He had not only to turn it over but scrape many of the bones clean. The -farm folks finally went home and Jack too was obliged to go. Happily -the little folks were tired out and they were asleep early. About two -o’clock Mother woke me. She did not do it before, because it might have -alarmed Grandmother, who did not, I think, clearly understand her -true condition. There was apparently no pain or struggle at the end. -We noticed that her face lighted up with a strange, puzzled look, of -surprise and wonder—and well it might when one is called upon to lay -down the troubles and toil of such a life as hers in the dim, mysterious -country which one must die to enter. - -Perhaps the hardest part of it all was to tell the children about it. -They must have known that some strange thing was happening. They woke up -early and saw the undertaker passing through the room. Then Mother got -them together and told them that poor Grandmother had suffered so long -that God pitied her and had taken her to Him. The little folks sat with -thoughtful faces for a while and then one of them said with wide-open -eyes: - -“Is Grandmother _dead_ then?” - -And so the body of poor Grandmother passed away from us while her spirit -and memory passed deeper than ever into the lives of the Hope Farm folks. -Life with her had ceased to be comfortable. It was merely a steady, -hopeless struggle against pain and depression. Mother was able to go -through these long months calmly and hopefully because she knows that her -mother had every service that love could render. It is with that thought -in mind that I feel like saying a solemn word to those whom I have never -met, yet who seem to be as close as personal friends can be. Do not for -an instant begrudge the money, the time or toil which you may spend upon -those of your loved ones who need your help. That is a part of the cross -which you must carry cheerfully or reject. Do not let those whom you -serve see that it is a cross, but glorify it from day to day. It is not -merely a part of hard, cold duty, but the vital force in the development -of character. It may be that I am now talking to someone who is putting -personal comfort above the self-denial which goes with the sacred trust -which God has put into our lives. Where will the flag of “comfort” lead -them when the discomforting days come? A conscience is a troublesome -thing at best, but one that has been gently and truly developed through -self-sacrifice is a better companion than the barbed finger of trouble -thrust into the very soul at last by the relentless hand of fate! - -A novelist could weave a startling romance out of the plain life record -of this typical American woman. She was born in Massachusetts—coming -from the best stock this country has ever produced. This is not the -narrow-eyed, cent-shaving Yankee, but the children from the hillside -farms who went to the valleys and at the little water-powers laid the -foundations of New England’s manufacturing. These sturdy people saw -clearly into the future, and as they harnessed and trained the power of -the valley streams they cultivated and restrained their own powers until -the man as well as the machine became a tremendous force. Honorable -misfortune befell this manufacturing family, but could not crush it. -In those days the boys, under such circumstances, dropped all their -own ambitions and took the first job that presented itself, without -a murmur and with joy that they could do it. The girls did the same, -though there were few openings for women then outside of housework and -the schoolroom. Grandmother had a taste for music, and became a music -teacher. She finally secured a position as teacher in a little town -in Mississippi, and in about the year that the Hope Farm man was born -she went into what was then a strange country for the daughter of a -Massachusetts Abolitionist! What a journey that must have been, before -the Civil War, for a young woman such as Grandmother was then. The South -was in a blaze of excitement, yet this quiet, gentle Northern girl won -the love and respect of all. There she met the man who was to be her -husband—a young lawyer, able and ambitious, but weighted down by family -cares, political convictions and ill health. He was a Union man whose -family had made their slaves free and who opposed secession to the last. -Grandmother was married and went to the South just before the storm -broke. What a life that was in the dreary little town during those years -of fighting! Her husband was at one time drafted into the Confederate -service and sent to the front only to have a surgeon declare him too -feeble and sick for even that desperate service. He cobbled shoes, -leached the soil in old smokehouses for salt, and “lived” as best he -could. Once he took Grandmother through the lines with a bale of cotton -which he sold to pay passage money to the North. After the war he was -State Senator and Judge under the patched-up government which followed. -Carpetbaggers and rascals from the North lined their pockets with gold -and brought shame upon their party and torture and death to the ignorant -black men who followed them. In the midst of this carnival of shame and -thieving Grandmother’s husband never touched a dishonest dollar and did -his best to give character to a despised and degraded race. Of course -he failed, for the race did not have strength enough to see that what -he tried to offer them was better than the hatred of their old masters -and the dollars which the carpet-baggers held out. It was not all lost, -for when he was buried I am told that around his grave there was a thick -fringe of white people and back—at a respectful distance—acres of black, -shining faces which betrayed the crude, awkward stirring of manhood in -hearts untrained yet appreciating true service to country. - -I speak of these things to make my point clear that Grandmother was a -woman capable of supporting her husband through these trials and still -capable of holding the love of those who opposed him. In the face of -an opposition so frightful that few of us can realize it this quiet, -unflinching woman kept steadily on, respected and trusted by all. She -took up her burdens without complaint, hid her troubles in her heart, -and walked bravely on in her quiet, humble way, until at last she found -a safe haven with her children. A true and sincere Christian woman she -lived and acted out her faith and did her life’s duty with dignity and -cheerfulness. The little folks as they sit beneath the tree at Hope Farm -and talk of Grandmother will have only blessed memories of her. - - - - -LAUGHTER AND RELIGION - - -I have learned to have deep sympathy for the man who cannot laugh. He may -have great learning or power or skill or wealth, but if fate has denied -him a keen sense of humor he is like a McIntosh apple with the glorious -flavor left out. Most of the deaf are denied what we may call “the -healing balm of tears.” Unless there chance to be some volcanic eruption -of the heart they must go in dry-eyed sorrow through their years. Yet, -if they are able to laugh it is probable that the deaf see more of the -ludicrous side of life than do those who have full hearing. It comes to -be amusing to notice how men and women strive and worry over the poor -non-essential things of conversation, and waste time and strength trying -to make others understand simple things which the deaf man comes to know -at a glance. Those who are so unfortunate that they are forced to hear -all the litter and waste-basket stuff of conversation may wonder why the -inability to hear may act as a torture to the tender heart. They do not -know how closely sound is related to the emotions. They cannot understand -without losing many of the finer things of life. Yet, as between the -tearless man and the unfortunate soul who is denied the joy of laughter, -the latter is more deserving of sympathy. One may be nearer insanity but -the other is nearer the gallows. - -One great reason why the negro race has come through its troubles with -reasonable success is because fate has given the black man the blessed -privilege of laughter. Many a time when other races would have gone out -to rob and kill the black man has been able to sing or laugh his troubles -away. So, as between the man who cannot weep or lash himself into a rage -and he who cannot laugh, the latter is a far more dangerous citizen and -far more to be pitied. - -I suppose I ought to be an authority on this subject, as some years -ago I was in the business of trying to inoculate some very serious and -sad-minded people with the germ of laughter. We had some specimens so -tough and so hard-boiled that it was a difficult matter to start them. I -was stranded in a farm neighborhood in a Western State working as hired -man through a very dull winter. Back among the hills, off the main roads -when prices are low and crops are poor, you strike a gloom and social -stagnation which the modern town man can hardly realize. I did my work -by day and at night went about to churches and schoolhouses “speaking -pieces.” We called those gloomy and discouraged people together and tried -to make them laugh. - -I remember one such entertainment held in a country schoolhouse far back -in the mud of a January thaw. The dimly lighted room was crowded with -sad-faced, discouraged men and women to whom life had become a tragedy -through dwelling constantly upon their own troubles. At intervals during -my entertainment two sad-faced women and a couple of men who would have -made a success as undertakers at any funeral sang doleful songs about -beautiful women who died young or children who proved early in life -that they were too good for this world. During one of these intervals a -farmer led me outdoors for a conference. Your modern artist can command -a salary which enables him to ignore criticism, but in that neighborhood -the financial manager was the boss. - -“See here now,” said the farmer, “we hired you to come here and make us -laugh. Why don’t you do it? I’ve got my hired man in there. He’s all -ready to go on a spree and he will do it if you don’t make him laugh. We -have paid you $2.50 to come here and speak. That means $1.25 an hour or -$12.50 for a 10-hour day. No other man in this neighborhood gets such -wages. It’s big money, now go back and earn it. _Make that man laugh!_ -It’s a moral obligation for you to do it.” - -There was the hired man, a great hulk of humanity feeling that he would -be a hero, the champion of the neighborhood, if he could hold humor at -bay. When I went back into the schoolroom the teacher stood up by the -stove and said it was the unanimous request of the audience that I should -read or recite the “Raven,” by Edgar Allan Poe. That was not exactly in -my line, but who is large enough to resist such an appeal? Years before -I had heard a great actor in Boston recite the poem, and with the noble -courage of youth I started the best imitation I could muster. No one, not -even the author, ever considered the “Raven” as a humorous poem, but it -struck the hired man that way. I had cracked jokes in and out of dialect. -I had “made faces” and played the clown generally without affecting the -hired man. Yet, at the third repetition of “Quoth the Raven—Nevermore!” -the hired man exploded with a roar that shook the building, and the rest -of the entertainment was one long laugh for him. The rest of the audience -joined with him, and long after the meeting closed and the lanterns -twinkled down the dark and muddy roads, you could hear roars of laughter -from the farmers, as they journeyed home. Just what there was about the -“Raven” to explode that man I have never known. It changed his life. -It broke a spring somewhere inside of him and his jokes and roars of -laughter changed the whole social life of that neighborhood. The minister -told me in the Spring that his people had received a great spiritual -uplifting during the Winter. He gave no credit whatever to Poe and the -hired man. - -That same Winter I went to a church for another entertainment. I sat in -the pulpit beside the minister and every time I stopped for breath he -would lean over and whisper: - -“_Make them laugh! Give them something humorous! Make them laugh!_” - -He saw that laughter was religion at such a time. It was a gloomy night. -The people were sad and discouraged. Their religion was a torment to them -at the time. Nothing but laughter could cure them, and I did my best -with discouraging results. I will confess that I lost faith for once in -my life and quit trying. There was one intelligent and prosperous farmer -in the front pew. He seemed to be a leader and I directed my efforts -straight to him. It came to be the one desire of my life to make that -solemn-faced man laugh, and he would not do it. It seemed to me as if he -sat there with his solemn face a little bent forward, like some wise old -horse listening to the chatter of a young colt. I could not stir him and -I confess that I quit ingloriously and “took up the collection.” - -But, when we all went out on the church steps while lanterns were being -lighted and the boys brought up the horses I saw my solemn-faced friend -talking with another farmer. - -“John,” said the farmer as he snapped down the globe of his lantern, “how -did you like the show?” - -“Well, Henry, it was good all the way through. I am so sore around my -ribs that I’m going home to rub liniment on my sides.” - -“How’s that?” - -“Why, Henry, that young feller was so funny that _I never come so nigh -to laughing in the House of God as I done tonight_. When I get home out -of sight of the elder, I am going to stand right up on my hind-legs and -holler.” - - - - -A DAY IN FLORIDA - - -A man told me last week that Florida was too dull for him. He would -rust out. There was “more life and human nature on Broadway, New York, -in 15 minutes than in a week of Florida.” So I thought I would see how -much “real human nature” the sun could observe as Putnam County revolved -beneath his eye. - -As I came outdoors the sun was bright with hardly a cloud in the sky. -The mercury stood at about 65 degrees. Most of the bloom had fallen -from the orange trees and the young fruit had begun to form, while the -new leaves showed their light green against the darker old leaves. On -the tree by the gate, there were peaches as large as walnuts. A drove -of half-wild hogs from the woods went slowly along the village street, -with one eye open for food and the other watching for a possible hole -in a fence through which they might crawl into a grove or garden. For -while no one seems to think it worth while to bolt or even shut a house -door at night except for warmth, there must be barbed wire around every -growing thing that a hog could fancy. Two red hens with their broods -of chickens ran about under the orange trees. In front of the house I -found a group of “redheads and towheads” gathered around a fisherman who -carried a fertilizer sack. He had caught three young alligators and the -children were buying them. They finally got the three for a dollar, and -they intend taking the hideous things back to New Jersey to “raise” -them. You may yet see an improved breed of Hope Farm alligator. Finally -the school bell rang and the older children scattered while the little -ones played on. I have said that the child crop is a vanishing product in -this locality. I understand there are but four white children of school -age—not enough to maintain a school! There is a broken and abandoned -schoolhouse here, but it has not been occupied for some years. There -is a school for colored children. Our people opened a school here, but -in this locality the State actually does more for educating colored -children than for whites. Think over what that means and see if Broadway -can match the “human nature” which comes out of such a situation. Our -own children are rosy as flowers. They ought to be, for they have played -out in the sun every day since December 1. They would have gone barefoot -nine days out of ten, but for sand burrs and hookworms—for that dread -disease gets into the system through the feet. Florida is surely a Winter -paradise for children and elderly people. As these children pen up their -alligators and separate for school and play, an old man walks with firm -and active steps down the shaded street to the store. He is 89 years old -and is still planting a garden—very likely for the seventieth time! On -the platform of the store he will meet a group of men who will sit for -hours discussing the weather or looking off through the pines toward -the blue lake. On Broadway, people are rushing to and fro with set, -anxious faces, tearing their hearts out in the fierce struggle for food, -clothing, amusement and shelter. There is quite as much “human nature” -about these slow and gentle dreamers, basking in the Florida sun. In -this little place where our folks have wintered there are nine different -men who live alone. There are perhaps 30 voters in this district, and -strange as it may seem they are about evenly divided between the two -great parties. That is because a number of old soldiers have moved in -here. They draw their pensions, work their gardens or groves and live -in peace in this carefree land. “Human nature?” Ask these old soldiers -with “warfare over,” as the sun goes down and they look out over the -lake, why they ever came to Florida, and if they are disappointed. If you -started a contest with a prize for the man who can take the longest time -to travel a mile, I could enter several citizens. Yet it was in Florida -that the world’s record for speed with a motor car was recently made. -While some of our neighbors might consume two hours in going a mile, it -was in Florida that Oldfield drove a car one mile in 27⅓ seconds. This -contest in speed is a very good illustration of the contrary character of -Florida climate and conditions. Many people fail here because they try to -fit Broadway “human nature” to this balmy gentle land. You cannot use the -same brand! - -The forenoon wore off lazily. Across the road a man was working a mule -on a cultivator—tearing up the surface of an old orange grove. The only -auto in the town went by over the pine-paved road, the very cough of -the exhaust pipe sounding like a lung rapidly healing in the soft air. -Charlie went by followed by a big colored man. They carry spades and -axes for Charlie is sexton, and this is one of the rare occasions when -a grave is to be dug, for some old resident is being brought home to be -buried. - -Mother and I had planned to take the train at noon and go south for a few -miles to do some shopping and look up a “colony” or land boom scheme. -So we got ready and went to the station in ample time. And there we -waited, as everyone else does in this land of tomorrow. An hour crawled -by, and still there was nothing in sight up the track except the distant -pines and the heat rising from the sands. No one quarrels with fate in -Florida—what is the use? Under similar circumstances in New Jersey I -should have been held in some way responsible for the delay, but here it -did not matter—if the train did not come, another day would do. We waited -about 100 long minutes and then the good lady announced that she was -going home, as there would not be time to get around, and home she went, -good-natured and smiling as the Florida sun. - -Let me add that the next day we waited nearly two hours again and then -went home once more, but who cares whether he goes today or some future -“tomorrow”? - -Having been cut out of our trip I became interested in the funeral. A -little group of wagons was drawn up under the pines waiting for the -train. I have said that an old resident was coming “home”—to be buried -by the side of husband and relatives—in the rough little cemetery behind -the pines. At last, a puff of thick smoke up the track showed where the -dawdling train was showing the true speed of a hearse. Down the grade it -came, halting with many a wheeze and groan in front of the little station -where the fated box was taken off. Our little funeral procession was -quickly made up. Uncle Ed drove old Frank ahead with the minister and the -Hope Farm Man as passengers. Then came the dead in a farm wagon, and half -a dozen one-horse teams straggling on behind. Your funeral on Broadway -with its gilded hearse, black horses and nodding plumes might be far more -inspiring. Who can say, however, that there was less of “human nature” in -this little weatherbeaten string crawling over the Florida sand? I was -thinking as we went how this dead woman had seen what seemed like the -death of hope in this land. For right where we were passing, on these -dead fields, she had seen orange groves in full fruitage, and had seen -them all wiped out in a day of frost! - -You would have said that Charlie stood leaning on his spade beside two -great heaps of snow. The soil was pure white sand, and as they threw -it from the grave it had drifted in over the sides until no dark color -showed. On Broadway there would have been an imposing procession, the -organ pouring out tones that seemed to carry a message far beyond the -comprehension of the living. Here in this lonely little clearing, my -friend the minister led the way, the little group of mourners followed, -and Charlie and Uncle Ed with a few neighbors carried the dead. I wish I -could have had you there with me—you who say that life and human nature -crowd into the “lively” places. I wish I could paint the picture as I saw -it. - -The minister and the station agent’s wife began to sing. One of the men -who helped carry the coffin laid down his load and joined the singers. -They wanted me to make a quartette, but I am no musician and I could -not have made a sound. It was better for me to stand in the background -against a tree, by the side of the colored man who leaned on his shining -spade and bowed his gray head. For does not the color line fade out at -the grave? I wish you could have seen it, the trio of singers, the sad -group under the pines, the earth piled up like snowdrifts, the pine tops -quivering and moaning, and the Florida sun streaming over all. I felt the -pine tree against which I leaned tremble as the wind blew through it. -In a tree over us a gray squirrel turned his ear as if to listen. For -gathered around those piles of glistening sand were men and women who -carried all the world holds of “human nature”—tragedy, despair, hope, -sorrow and peace. Not 100 feet from where I stood was a row of six little -white stones where six old army comrades were buried. I studied their -names, six men of the army and navy from New York, Maine, New Hampshire, -South Carolina, Vermont and Ohio. There they lie in the sand, sleeping -“the sleep that knows no waking.” And this woman wanted to be brought -back to this lonely place that she might rest with her people. “Human -nature?” I made a dull companion as old Frank toiled back with us to the -village. - -Our folks had left the house and I followed them along the shady path to -the lake. The younger people had been in bathing. They were sitting on -the lake shore, the children were shouting and playing as they ran about -the beach. I am glad they were not at the funeral. As Mother and I walked -slowly back, the little ones came trailing on, waving branches of palm -and singing. And there over the fence was our famous gallon-and-a-half -cow—easily the most energetic citizen in the place. - -Night comes quickly in Florida and brings a chill with it. The sun seems -to tumble directly into the west and to leave little warmth behind. -Before we ended our slow walk home, darkness had fallen and Uncle Ed had -started a grateful fire of logs. As if to demonstrate the Florida axiom -that there are only two absolutely sure things—death and taxes—we found -the county assessor before the fire. He had reached us on his rounds and -was ready to tell us how much we owed the State. You will see therefore -that the human life in Florida is much the same as anywhere else only -“more so” for here there is no artifice or straining after effect. Men -and women are naturally human—as they were meant to be. - - - - -THE BASEBALL GAME - - -“_Two strikes, three balls!_” - -A silence so intense that you could feel it fell upon 60,000 people who -saw the umpire put up his hand to announce the second strike. It was the -crisis of the first baseball game for the world’s championship between -New York and Philadelphia. The great stands were black with people, and -thousands more were perched upon the rocks which rose above the level in -which the ball grounds are laid out. The boy and I sat on the bleachers. -It was the only place we could get; we sat there three hours before the -game began—and we were among the last to get in. Of course you will say -we should have been at home picking apples—but without discussing that I -will admit that we were packed away in that “bleacher” crowd. - -There were some 25,000 of us crowded on those wooden benches with our -feet hanging down. Here and there in this black mass of hats a spot of -lighter color showed where a woman had crowded in with the rest. There -may have been 100 women in this crowd. The “stands” where the reserved -seats are placed were bright with women’s gay colors. Our seats were not -reserved, but well “deserved” after our struggle for them. - -I enjoyed the crowd as much as the game. Many of you have no doubt read -that description in “Ben Hur” of the motley crowd which surged out to the -Crucifixion. Gibbon describes the masses of humans who attended the Roman -games. The world as known at that time gathered at these spectacles, yet -I doubt if those old-time hordes could produce the variety of blood or -color which showed within 1,000 feet of where we sat. Within four feet -sat two colored men showing traces of two distinct African races. The -young man on my right was certainly an Irishman. The fat man, who was -wide enough to fill two seats, was a German. In front an Italian, behind -a Swede, off there a Frenchman, a Spaniard and even a Chinaman. There -was an Arab whose father ate dates in the desert. The son looked forward -to this date as an oasis in the desert of hard work. Here were Indians, -Japanese, Mexicans, Russians, Turks—the entire world had poured the blood -of its races into that vast crowd. I do not believe the great Coliseum -at Rome ever held a larger company. Yet this crowd was different. In -the savage hordes of centuries ago the air was filled with a babel of -sound—each race shrieking in its own language. This vast army of “fans” -thought and spoke in the common languages of English and baseball. For -there is a true language of baseball. Nothing can be popular unless it -acquires a language of its own. It was an orderly crowd too. Somehow -these waiting men seemed to feel that they had come to the hush and -dignity of a great occasion. You may laugh at us—you poor unfortunate -people who do not know a home run from a fly catch, but you have missed -a lot of the thrill and joy of life. We feel sorry for you. To the true -baseball crank this game represented the climax of the year, for here -were the best 18 players in the world ready for the supreme struggle. -So these thousands sat silent and watchful. As you know, when stirred -by passion 60,000 people can give vent to the most hideous and awesome -sound. Yet when stilled by the thought of what is to come the silence of -this great army is most profound. Now, of course, you and I may say—what -a pity that all these people and all the energy and money they represent -could not be used for some more useful purpose. I could name half a dozen -things which this country needs. If it were possible to gather 60,000 -people in behalf of any of these things with the claws of elemental -savagery barely covered with thin cotton gloves no Legislature in the -land would dare refuse the demanded law. That is true, but it is also -true that human nature has not yet evolved from the point where at the -last analysis the physical power and what it stands for appeals first -to the young and strong. You cannot get away from that, and it must be -considered in all our regrets about the “younger generation.” We can have -anything we want in legislation and reform whenever we can work up a -spirit and a demand for it which is akin to this baseball feeling! For in -this silent, orderly crowd there was nothing but cotton over the claws. -There was a dignified-looking citizen not far from us who looked like a -fair representative of the “City of Brotherly Love.” You would choose -him as one of a thousand to take charge of a Sunday school. Yet when a -Philadelphia player raced home with the first run there came a hoarse cry -that might have startled even a listless Cæsar 2,000 years ago. There -was our Philadelphia friend on one foot waving his hat and shrieking -defiance and taunts at the crowd of New York “fans.” Why, the germ of -that man’s mind was back in the centuries, clad in hairy flesh and skins -shouting a war cry at what were then its enemies! And when New York tied -the score the entire bleachers seemed to rise like a great black wave of -humanity with shrieks and cries and waving hats. For the moment these -were hardly human beings—as we like to consider the race. They were crazy -barbarians lapsed for the moment back to elemental motives. And as I came -back to find myself standing up with the rest I was not sure but that the -brief trip back to barbarism had after all been a profitable one! - -But we left the umpire standing with his hand up calling _two strikes_! -It was the fifth inning, with the score one to one. There were two out -and New York had worked a man around to third base. One more pitched ball -would tell the story. Consider the mix-up of the races in this “American -game.” The man on third base straining like a greyhound to get home was -an Indian. The man at bat was of French blood, while the next batter was -an Irishman with a Jew close behind him. The catcher was an Englishman -and the pitcher a pure Indian. This Indian stood there like a silent -representative of fate with the ball in his hand, eyeing that Frenchman, -who shook his bat defiantly. I presume neither of them thought for the -instant how 200 years ago it would have been tomahawk against musket in -place of ball and bat. Yet the race traits were evident—the light and -airy nerve of the Gaul and the crafty silence of the red man! Oh, how -that ball did go in! “Ball!” shouted the umpire and the batter took his -base. Then it seemed as if bedlam had broken loose. Men and women shouted -and cheered and laughed and cried, for they thought that the Indian was -“rattled” at last. But his ancestors went through too much fire for that. -He stood in the center as cool as a cake of ice. The play for the man on -first was to run to second when the ball was pitched, and run he did. -I noticed that the catcher jumped six feet to the right as that Indian -threw the ball. It went like lightning right into the catcher’s hands. -The second baseman had run up behind the pitcher and took the throw from -the catcher. Of course the runner on third tried to run in on this throw, -but back came the ball ahead of him and he was out! Then in an instant -the mighty crowd saw that New York had been ambushed. It was a great -trick, and played so accurately and quickly and with such daring that -even the Philadelphia “fans” were mind-paralyzed and forgot to cheer. -The silence which followed the Indian to the players’ bench was the most -eloquent tribute of the day. And it happened, as every “sport” already -knows, that New York finally won two to one. The needed runs were made -on mighty hits by an Indian and an Irishman, and the great crowd filed -out and home to talk it over. I wish I could tell my children how some -Cape Cod Yankee had a hand in it, but too many of these are occupied in -telling what they or their ancestors used to do. I think the game was -invented and developed by Yankees, and that they have made the most -money out of it. Probably Cape Cod is willing to rest content with this -and let the others handle the ball. I am ready to admit we ought to have -been home picking apples, but we saw the game, and the apple harvest will -go better to pay for it. - - - - -TRANSPLANTING THE YOUNG IDEA - - -Of all the planting that a farmer finds it necessary to do there is -nothing quite equal to transplanting home-grown plants in the garden -of education. Some homes might be called hotbeds, others are very cold -frames, and there are grades running all between. Children grow up away -from childhood and show that they are ready for transplanting—with -evidences around the head to be compared with those on a tomato plant. -You cut off their roots, and try to trim their heads and plant them in -the hard field of practical life or in the sheltered garden of education. -It is a large undertaking, for here is the best crop of your farm put out -at a hazard. You may not have grown or trimmed it right, and the soil in -which you plant it may not prove congenial, or some wild old strain from -a remote ancestor may “come back” when it should “stay out.” You cannot -tell about these things except by experiment, therefore there is nothing -quite equal to this sort of transplanting. That is the way Mother and -I felt as we took the two older children off to college. My experience -has taught me both the power and the weakness of an education. He who -can grasp the true spirit of it acquires a trained mind, and that means -mastery. He who simply “goes to college” and drifts along with the crowd -without real mental training is worse off than if he never had entered. -He cannot live up to his reputation as a college man, and when a man -must go through life always dragging behind his reputation he is only a -tin can tied to the tail of what was once his ambition. I can imagine -an intelligent parrot going through college, and perhaps passing the -examinations, but all his life he would be a parrot, unable to apply -what he had learned to practical things. I made up my mind long ago to -give each one of the children opportunity. That means a chance to study -through a good college. Each and every one must pay back to me later the -money which this costs. My backing continues just as long as they show -desire, through their labor, to think and work out the real worth of -education. Should they become mentally and morally lazy and assume that -“going to college” is like having the measles or raising a beard—out -they come at once, for if I know anything at all it is the fact that the -so-called student who goes through college just because his parents think -it is the thing to do makes about as poor a drone as the human hive can -produce. - -Where should the children go? The case of the girl was quickly settled -by her mother. Years ago this good lady had her own dreams of a college -education and knew just where she wanted to go. Denied the privilege of -going herself, she nominated her daughter as her substitute. That settled -it—there was no primary or referendum or special election. There seemed -to me something of poetic realization in this setting of the only bud -into the long-desired and long impossible tree of knowledge. As for the -boy—the case was different. I would like to send at least one child back -to my old college, and I think a couple of the smaller ones will go -later. I know better than to try to crowd boys into associations which -are not congenial. If your boy has intelligence enough to justify his -going to college let him use his intelligence to decide something of what -he wants. I advised the boy to select one of the smaller colleges of high -reputation and keep away from the great universities. He made what I -call a good choice—an institution of high character, lonely location and -with one great statesman graduate who stands up in history like a great -lighthouse, to show the glory of public life and the dangerous rock of -his own private habits. - -Well, Mother and I traveled close to 900 miles up and down through New -England on this trip of planning in the garden of education. I could -write a book on the memories and anticipations which filled the minds of -this Hope Farm quartette. As the train rushed up the country, winding -through villages and climbing hills, we took on groups of bright-faced -boys on their way to college. Before we reached the end of our journey -the train was crowded with them. There was one sour-faced old fellow on -the train who viewed those boys with no benevolent eye. - -“A lazy, careless lot. I’d put them all at work!” - -The old man was wrong—he was sour. Even the evidence of hope and faith in -the future which those bright-eyed boys brought could not sweeten him. -Here were the thinkers and dreamers and workers of the future. Underneath -their fun and careless hope they carried the prayers of their mothers -and the poorly expressed dreams of fathers who saw in those boys the -one chance to carry on a life work. While the old man scowled on I found -myself quoting from “Snow Bound,” Whittier’s picture of the college boy -who taught the winter school: - - “Large-brained, clear-eyed, of such as he - Shall Freedom’s young apostles be.” - -The responsibility of acting as “young apostles” would have wearied these -boys, but unconsciously they were absorbing part of the spirit which will -fit them for the work. Finally the train stopped and poured us out into -a dusty road. There were not teams enough to carry 10 per cent of the -crowd, and the rest of us cheerfully took up our burdens, crossed the -river and mounted a steep and dusty hill. It took me back 30 years and -more, to my first three-mile dusty walk to college. At the hilltop, as -the glory of the college campus stood revealed in the shimmering light -of the setting sun, it must have seemed to the freshmen that they had -surely been “walking up Zion’s hill.” To me it was like old times patched -up and painted with perhaps a few ornaments added. Two boys went by -bending under the weight of mattresses. When I first hit college I bought -a bedtick, carried it to the barn and stuffed it with straw. It was all -the same, only there was the difference which the years naturally bring -in comfort and convenience. But finally the darkness came and the moon -seemed to climb up over the college buildings, flooding the campus with -long bright splinters of light. As we walked back under the trees there -came back to me the one, unchangeable, holy thing of college life—the -undying, gentle, kindly spirit of the college which a man must carry as -long as he lives. - -We got up before five o’clock and traveled far down the Connecticut -Valley to plant the family flower. Those of you who have read “The -Princess” and have fairly active imaginations may realize how the Hope -Farm man felt at this institution. Here men did not even reach a back -seat. There was absolutely nothing for me to do except stand about, hat -in hand, and pay the bills. At the railroad station three good-looking -girls of the Y. W. C. A. met us and told us just where to go. At the -college another girl took a suitcase and walked off with it to show my -daughter’s room. The express business and the trunks were all handled -by a fine-looking woman who gave points on good-nature to any express -agent I ever saw. The sale of furniture, the bureau of information, the -handling of money—the complete organization was conducted by women and -girls. It was all well done, in a thoroughly business-like manner and -with rare courtesy. True, the girls who conducted the information bureau -stopped now and then to eat popcorn or candy. College boys of equal rank -would probably have smoked cigarettes. There was just one other man in -the hall, who, like me, had brought his daughter there to plant her in -the garden of education. I caught his eye, and knew that our thoughts -were twins. I fully expected at any time to see “two stalwart daughters -of the plow” approaching to do their duty. - -The spirit of this college seemed excellent. It may be a debatable -question with some as to whether a school taught, organized and -conducted entirely by women is more desirable than one taught by men or -where co-education is permitted. There is no debate in our family, since -the ruling spirit, whose instincts are usually right, has decided the -question. It seemed to me that the training at this school is sure to -give these girls responsibility and dignity. My two girls went into a -store to buy furniture for the room, and I stayed outside until the time -came for my part of the deal—paying for it. Across the campus and up the -street came a beautiful woman walking slowly and thoughtfully on. Tall -and shapely, but for her years she might have represented Tennyson’s -Princess. Every movement of her body gave the impression of power. Her -face seemed like a mask of patient suffering with an electric light of -knowledge and faith behind it. I remember years ago to have seen another -such woman walking across the village green in a country town. A rough -man a stranger to me, took off his hat and said: - -“Some woman—that!” - -Yes, indeed—“some woman!” It is possible that some of these “daughters -of the plow” had an eye on the Hope Farm man for watching ladies walking -across the campus, but had they arrested me I should have told them the -story of Billy Hendricks. Billy was apprentice in a printer’s shop in -England. The boss offered a prize and a raise in wages to the apprentice -who could set up a certain advertisement in the best form. Billy needed -the money. He went to the foreman and asked: - -“How can I make this ‘ad’ so it will show true proportions?” - -“Look at me!” said the foreman. - -There he stood, big and broad-shouldered, a true figure of a man, and as -Billy studied him he found the words of that “ad” shaping themselves in -his mind. The others were mechanical. Billy had vision and won. Some of -us who must admit that we have neither beauty nor shape are glad to have -before our children an example of what the coming woman ought to be. - - - - -THE SLEEPLESS MAN - - -Some of our people are telling us about the best or the most satisfying -meal they ever ate. This question of food seems to depend on habit, -hunger and personal taste. I saw a man once in a lumber camp eat plate -after plate of a stew made of meat, potatoes and carrots—cooked in a -big iron kettle over an open fire. At home, this man would have growled -at turkey or terrapin, but here he was pushing back his plate again and -again asking the cook to put more carrots in. “Why,” he said, “I thought -carrots were made for horses to eat. I didn’t know human beings ate -them!” He never had been a real human before—not until hunger caught him -and pulled him right up to that iron pot. At his club in the city he -could not have eaten three mouthfuls of that stew. - -It is different with sleep. The man with no appetite can get on after a -fashion, but if he cannot sleep he is a pitiable object. I met one once—a -rich man who had worked too hard—starved himself for sleep in order to -get hold of rather more than his share of money and power. He had passed -the limit of nerves and was denied the power of sleeping. A few snatches -of rest were all he could get, but through the long still nights he lay -awake, thinking, thinking with the constant terror that this would end in -a disordered mind. - -We sat before this man’s fire late at night, and he told me all about -it. To you sleep seems like a very common and simple thing. The night -finds you tired and you shut your eyes and before you know it you are -sailing off into a peaceful, unknown country. Here was a man who could -not sleep. He must remain chained to the cares and terrors of his daily -life, and the bitterness of it was that all the money he had slaved so -hard to obtain could not buy him what comes to you and me with the mere -closing of the eyes. It seemed to me the most despairing mockery for this -man to repeat Sir Philip Sidney’s “Ode to Sleep”: - - “Come sleep; O Sleep! the certain hour of peace, - The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, - The poor man’s wealth, the prisoner’s release, - The indifferent judge between the high and low; - With shield of proof, shield me from out the prease - Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth throw; - O make in me these civil wars to cease - I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. - Make thou of me smooth pillows, sweetest bed, - A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light, - A rosy garland and a weary head.” - -“That’s it,” said my friend, “_A weary head, a weary head_. Mine is -weary, but sleep will not come.” He sat looking at the fire for a long -time, and then he turned suddenly with a sort of haunted look in his eyes. - -“I wish you would tell me about the _best sleep_ you ever had. Men may -tell of their best meal, but I want to know about rest—the best sleep.” - -It was a strange request, but as I sat there, my mind went back to -a hillside near the New England coast where the valley slopes away -to a salt marsh with a sluggish stream running through it. A low, -weatherbeaten farmhouse crouches at the foot of the wind-swept hill. It -is a lonely place. Few come that way in daylight, and at night there are -no household lights to be seen. - -It had rained through the night, and the morning brought a thick heavy -fog. It was too wet to hoe corn, and Uncle Charles said we could all go -gunning. He was an old soldier, a sharpshooter, and a famous shot. So -we tramped off along the marsh following the creek until it reached the -ocean. What a glorious day that was for a boy! I carried an old army -musket that kicked my shoulder black and blue. We tramped along the shore -and through the wet marsh, hunting for sandpipers and other sea fowl. -Now and then a flock of birds would seem to be lost in the fog, and -Uncle Charles would whistle them to where we lay in ambush. It all comes -back,—clear and distinct,—the cries of the sea fowl and dull roar of the -ocean as it pounded upon the beach. Late in the afternoon we tramped -home wet and tired, but with a long string of birds. The ocean roared on -behind us louder than ever as the wind arose. - -It was not good New England thrift to eat those birds—the guests at the -Parker House in Boston would pay good money for them. While we had been -hunting, Aunt Eleanor and the girls in the lonely farmhouse had been busy -with a “New England Dinner.” There was a big plate of salt codfish, first -boiled and then fried crisp with little cubes of browned salt pork mixed -with it. There were boiled potatoes which split open in a rich dry flour, -boiled onions and carrots and great slices of brown bread and butter. -Then the odor from the oven betrayed the crowning act of all—a monstrous -pan-dowdy, or apple grunt! Ever eat a genuine pan-dowdy in a New England -kitchen as a wet dreary night is coming on after a tiresome day? No? I -am both sorry and glad for you. You have missed one of the greatest joys -of life, but you have much to look forward to. When Uncle Charles began -to cut that pan-dowdy, we boys realized that we could not do it full -justice, so we went out and ran around the house half a dozen times to -make more room for the top of the feast. - -After supper the dishes were washed, the house cleaned up, and we washed -out our guns. The old musket had kicked my shoulder so that I could -hardly raise the arm, but no human being could have made me admit it. -We got Uncle Charles to tell us about the time he shot at the officer -at Port Hudson during the war, and about the humpbacked man who carried -the powder from Plymouth to Boston during the Revolution. Then through -the gloom and fog came two young men to call on the girls. In those days -it seemed to me very poor taste for one to listen to the conversation -of girls rather than war stories. True, the war stories were time-worn, -but the girl conversation was older yet. Soon the little melodeon was -talking up and a quartette was singing the old songs of half a century -ago. It may have been the day’s tramping, the old musket, the last plate -of pan-dowdy or the tap of the rain on the windows, but sitting there by -the warm kitchen stove, I felt a delicious drowsiness stealing over me. - -Bed is the place for sleep, and we boys climbed the stairs past the great -center chimney, and quickly tumbled into bed. In the room below that -quartette had started an old favorite: - - “Along the aisles of the dim old forest - I strayed in the dewy dawn - And heard far away in their silent branches - The echoes of the morn. - - “They stirred my heart with their low, sweet voices, - Like chimes from a holier land, - As though far away in those haunted arches - Were happy—an angel band.” - -There was one great booming bass voice which had unconsciously fallen -into the key of the dull roar which the distant ocean was making. The -rain was gently tapping on the roof, and all the joys and pleasant -memories of youth were whispering happy things in our ears as we sailed -off on the most beautiful voyage to dreamland. - -I told this as best I could before the fire while my weary friend -listened, leaning back in his easy-chair with his hand shading his face. -And when I stopped sleep had come to him at last—sweet and blessed sleep. -There are very few of us who would stand for a photograph taken while we -were asleep, but this man’s face was free from care. An orator might not -think it a high tribute to his powers that he sent his audience to sleep, -but I am not an orator, and I would like to be able to give my friends -what they consider the blessed things of life! And Peace, blissful Peace, -had put her healing hand upon my poor friend’s head. - - - - -LINCOLN’S BIRTHDAY - - -It brought the worst storm we have had this Winter. This season will pass -on into history as about the roughest we have had in 20 years. There came -a whirl of snow which filled the air and sifted in through every crack -and hole. We let the storm alone, and got away from it. Merrill sorted -out seed corn at the barn. Philip had some inside painting to do, the -women folks kept at their household work, and the children got out into -the storm. They came in now and then to stand by the fire—with faces the -color of their hair. As for me, I cannot say that I hurt myself with hard -labor. We piled the logs in the open fireplace and started a roaring -fire. With a pile of books on one side and a pen and paper at the other, -my big chair gave a very good foundation for a Lincoln celebration. I -presume we all have our personal habits of reading. Some people read only -one kind of books, and stick to the one in hand until it is finished. -My plan is different. Right now I am reading Dante, “Rural Credits,” -“Manufacture of Chemical Manure,” Whittier’s Poems and Lowell’s essay on -Abraham Lincoln. A poor jumble of stuff for a human head you will say, -but I turn from one to another, so that instead of a mixed-up jumble I -try to have these different thoughts in layers through the mind. In this -way one may get a blend which is better than a hash. It may seem absurd -to think of putting poetry into rural credits or fertilizers, but unless -you can do something of the sort you can never get very far with them. - -That was the great secret of Lincoln’s power. As judged by knowledge or -training or what we call “education,” there were many abler men in the -country at his time, but Lincoln knew how to appeal to the imagination -of the plain, common people. Read his speeches and papers and see how -he framed a fact with a mental picture which the common people could -understand. There were some wonderful pictures at the World’s Fair in -Chicago. Some were called masterpieces of fabulous value. People stood -before them and went on with something of awe in their heart—not quite -grasping the artist’s meaning. One less pretentious picture was named -“The Breaking of Home Ties,” and day by day a great throng stood before -it, silent and wet-eyed. It was a very simple home scene, picturing a boy -leaving his country home. Men studied it, walked away and then turned and -slowly came back that they might see it once more. As long as they live -people will remember that picture, because the poetry of it appealed to -them as the higher art could not do. I think Lincoln held the imagination -of the plain people much as that picture did. He was one who had suffered -and had been brought up with plain and simple family habits which were -fixed. - -The children have come running in to warm their hands. They are lined -up in front of the big fire, rosy-faced and covered with snow. They -stand looking at me as I write. Dinner is nearly ready, and there is no -question about their readiness for it. Here comes Mother to look out at -the storm, and she forgets to remember that this group of snowbirds by -my fire have forgotten to stamp the snow off their feet. There will be a -puddle of water when they move off—but it will soon dry up. As I watch -them all it seems a good time to pick up Lowell’s essay on Lincoln: - -“_He is so eminently our representative man, that, when he speaks, it -seems as if the people were listening to their own thinking aloud.... He -has always addressed the intelligence of men. Never their prejudices, -their passion or their ignorance._” - -Now I think that intelligence and power to speak as people think can only -come out of good family relations. Do I mean to say that the family group -is superior to the college, the school or the other great institutions -for training human thought? I do, wherever the family group is bound -together as it should be by love, good will, ambition and something of -sacrifice! - -This nation and every other is ruled by the family spirit. All public -government is based on self-government, and the family is the training -school for all. What could the college or the school do with a great -crowd or mob of students who have never known the restraints of good -family life? Ask any teacher to tell you the difference between children -reared in a clean, careful family and those reared where the family -relations are much like a cross-cut saw. Line up the adults you know, -make a fair estimate of their character and see whether you can select -those who in their childhood had a fair chance in family life. There are, -of course, exceptions to all rules, but generally the boy or girl will -carry through life the habits and the human policies which are given him -in the family. As a rule these will be carried into the new family which -the boy or girl may start, and thus be handed on like those qualities -which are transmitted through blood lines. No use talking—the family unit -is the most important element in human society. A nation’s fame rests -upon the nation’s family. - -I think a man may fairly be judged by the way he treats his parents, his -children and his wife. I do not care how he gets out and shows himself -off as a great man and a good citizen. He might get an overwhelming vote -for Congress or Governor, but God will judge him more by the votes of -father, mother, son, daughter, wife! To me there can be nothing more -beautiful than the best relation between a man of middle years and his -aged parents. Perhaps the latter are feeble and not well-to-do. When -they can sit in their son’s home happy and comfortable, knowing that -the entire family has been taught to put them first of all in family -regard, you have struck about the finest test of a man’s character that -good citizenship can offer. When the children chase their father about -and, out of their own thought, run to anticipate his wants, you can -make up your mind that in that family are being trained men and women -who can go out and absorb education and financial power which will be -used for the true benefit of humanity. Most of us can never hope to be -great men or to handle large public affairs, but we can make our family -a training school for good citizenship. I have no thought that in this -group of bright-eyed youngsters lined up by my fire we are to have any -great statesmen or authors or merchant princes or big folk generally. On -the whole I hope not, as it would seem to me that the great man has a -rather lonely life. I do expect, however, that these children will always -remember Hope Farm, and that in future years when the world may turn a -very cold side to them they will remember this stormy day and will feel -the warmth of this kindly fire. - -I have wandered away from what I wanted to say about Lincoln and his -power over the people. It was this family feeling which made him strong, -and if you want your boy or girl to be really worth while you must give -them and their mother the best family surroundings you can possibly -secure. The man who taps the spring or the well and sends the water -running through his house does far more for his country than he who runs -for Congress and taps the public pocket-book. - -But here comes Mother again, with “Come now, dinner’s ready. Don’t let it -get cold!” Get cold? The children are already at the table! I wish you -could come right along with me. I would put two sausage cakes on your -plate and fill it up with mealy potatoes and yellow turnips. Then you -would have rice in another dish. There is a dish of thick, brown gravy -and nothing would suit me better than to have you call for an egg—fried -or boiled. The Reds are laying well now. There are two kinds of bread and -plenty of butter, and we will take a family vote as to whether we shall -take peaches, strawberries, Kieffer pears, cherries or raspberries off -the pantry shelves. I vote for Crosby peaches, but you will have a free -choice and all you can eat. Surely the table makes a very strong family -tie. Come on! - - - - -UNCLE ED’S PHILOSOPHY - - -Uncle Ed had his home in Florida, but spent the Summer working at Hope -Farm. At the time I speak of we were hoeing corn at the top of our hill. -We had just planted the apple orchard, and we both realized the long -and weary years of toilsome waiting before there could be any fruit. It -was a hot day, and at the end of the row we stopped to rest under the -big cherry tree where the stone wall is broad and thick. It was a clear -day, and far off across the rolling country to the East we could see -the sparkle of the sun on some gilded-top building in New York. It gave -one a curious feeling to stand in that shady retreat on $50 land in a -lonely neighborhood, practically untouched by modern development, and -glance across to the millions and the might crowded at the mouth of the -Hudson. Most of us feel a sort of pride on viewing the evidence of wealth -and power, even though we have no share in it, or even when we know it -means blood money taken from our own lives. I felt something of this as -I pointed it out to Uncle Ed, and told him how probably the overflow of -that great city would some day make an acre of our orchard worth more -than a farm in Florida. - -This did not seem to impress him greatly. He ran his eye over the glowing -prospect and then slowly filled his pipe for a smoke. I am no friend of -tobacco, but I confess that sometimes I enjoy seeing a man like Uncle Ed -slowly fill his pipe. I feel that some sort of homely philosophy is sure -to be smoked out. - -“The trouble with you folks up in this country,” said Uncle Ed, “is that -you work too hard. You get so that there is nothing in you but work and -save. And for what? How many of you ever get the benefit of your own -work? Down where I live we don’t exist for the mere sake of working. I -have known the time when I got up determined to do a good day’s work -cultivating. I got the horse all harnessed, only to find that my neighbor -on the south had borrowed the cultivator, and I couldn’t do that. Then -I thought I’d hoe, but the boys lost the hoe in the brush and couldn’t -find it. Then there was the woodpile to be cut up, but my neighbor on the -north had borrowed the ax. - -“Now up in this country if fate challenged a man like that he would -start picking up stones and making a stone wall. Here is one now that -we are resting against. I’ll bet some old owner of this farm piled up -this heap of stones because he was determined that the boys never should -play or go fishing. It is now the most useless thing you have on your -farm. If, instead of picking up stones and building this useless wall, -that old-timer had quit when fate gave him the sign, taken a day off and -let the boys go fishing or play ball, this farm would be worth far more -than it is today. Down in my country when the cultivator and the hoe and -the ax all get away from us we accept it as a voice from some higher -authority, and we _drop everything and go fishing_. After that I notice -things straighten out and work goes right. You fellows work too hard, and -don’t know it. But this won’t buy the woman a dress—we must hoe this -corn out.” - -The rows ran to the south, and as we hoed on I could see, far away, that -bright sparkle on the gilding of the big city. And I answered with the -old familiar argument: - -“You have just told in a few words why there are more savings of the poor -and middle-class people in that big city yonder than there are in the -entire State of Florida.” That was 16 years ago and the statement was -probably true at the time. Florida has gained since then. - -“Up in this country we believe that the Lord gives every man of decent -mind and reasonable body a chance to provide for himself and family -before he is 45. If he doesn’t do it by that time, he isn’t likely to do -it at all. We think that there are three ways of getting money. You can -earn it through labor, steal it, or have it given to you. For most of -us there is only one way—that is to dig it out by the hardest work, and -then practice self-denial in order to hold it. Up in this country the men -who quit and go fishing when conditions turn against them, spend their -declining years without any bait. That money off there where you see that -sparkle was produced by men who did not go fishing when conditions turned -against them.” - -As I look back upon it now that seems pretty cheap talk, but it was the -way we looked at it in those days. - -“I know,” said Uncle Ed, “but how much better off are they when you sum -it all up? I claim that the man who goes fishing gets something that the -man who built that stone wall never knew. Who piled up all that money -in the big city? Some of mine is there. The interest I have paid on my -mortgage has come into one of these big buildings for investment. The -profit on many a box of oranges I shipped before the freeze never got -away from New York. It stuck there and you can’t get it out. And that’s -just what I mean. You fellows work your fingers stiff and make a little -money, and then you put it into some bank or big company or into stocks -or bonds. In the end it all gets away from you and runs down hill to that -big city. The hired man took $25 to the county fair. Ten dollars of it -went for beer and rum. The local saloonkeeper passed the $10 on to the -wholesaler, he to the brewer and he sent part of it to Germany and the -rest to Wall Street. The other $15 mostly went in chance games or petty -gambling. He lost $5 betting that he could find the little red ball under -the hat. The man who won his $5 lost it that night playing poker. The -gambler who won it lost it a few nights later in a gambling house. The -gambling house man bought bogus oil and mining stocks and lost it that -way. The oil stock man had sense enough to salt it down in respectable -securities, and there it is now under that bright sparkle in the big -city. You and the rest of you do pretty much the same. This man who built -your stone wall did it. The money he made was not invested here. If it -had been you never could have bought this farm. It is off there under -that bright sparkle—and the boys and girls run after it. _You fellows -work too hard!_” - -I undertook to come back with that text about the man who provideth -not for his family—but I never was good at remembering texts. That is -probably because I do not study them as I ought to. But at any rate I -undertook to argue that it is a man’s first duty to provide for his -family and also for his own “rainy day.” “_The night cometh, when no man -can work._” - -“Down where I live,” said Uncle Ed, “we don’t have such rainy days as you -do up here. Life is simple and straight and old people are cared for. -We want them to live with us—we are not waiting for them to pass off -and leave their money. Off in that big city where your money is turning -over and over, thousands of human lives get under it and are crushed -out of all shape. Down there under that sparkle only the poor know what -neighbors are. Many a man lives his life in some tenement or apartment -house never knowing or caring what goes on in the room on the other side -of the wall. There may be joy or sorrow, death or life, virtue or crime. -He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care, because this never-ending grind of -work has changed sympathy into selfishness. And in the end that is what -all those dollars which you folks dump into the big city come to. If -the habit is so strong that you’ve got to work and try to catch up with -the man who has a little more than you have, why not invest your money -at home and in the farm? Those fellows off under that sparkle will come -chasing after your money if you invest it here, and you would be boss -instead of servant! _Am I right?_” - -That was 16 years ago, and many things have happened since then. Uncle Ed -has passed away—after many troubles and misfortunes. The world has been -shaken up by the war and by great discoveries, so that we hardly know it. -Yet there is a brighter sparkle than ever on the gilded roofs of the big -city—greater wealth and more blinding poverty crouching beneath it. The -hill where we hoed corn is now covered with big apple trees. Where then -Bob and Jerry toiled slowly along with half a ton of fruit the truck now -flashes down the hard, smooth road with two tons. But sitting on the old -stone wall of a Sunday afternoon in late August I look across the valley -and wonder how much there really is in Uncle Ed’s philosophy after all. -What do _you_ think? - - - - -A GOD-FORSAKEN PLACE - - -James and William Hardy were twins—born and bred on a New Hampshire -farm. The family dated far back to pioneer times, when John Hardy and -Henry Graham, with their young wives, went into the wilderness as the -advance guard of civilization. It came to be a common understanding that -a Hardy should always marry a Graham, and through four generations at -least this family law had been observed until there had been developed -one of those fine, purebred New England families which represent just -about the highest type of the American. As the father of these twins -married a Graham girl you had a right to expect them to be as much alike -as two peas in the family pod—both in appearance and in character. Here -you surely might expect one of those cases where the twins are always -being mixed up, when not even their mother could be sure which was Jim -and which was Bill. In truth, however, the boys were distinctly different -from the day they were born—different in size, in appearance and in -character. - -These twins innocently brought to the surface a sad spot of family -history which both the Grahams and the Hardys hoped had been buried too -far down ever to show itself. Far back in the French and Indian war a -band of raiders from Canada burst out of the forest and carried off -a dozen prisoners. Among them was the pride of the Graham family—a -beautiful girl of 16. The settlers, hiding in their blockhouse, could -only look on and see their relatives start on the long march to Canada. -The next year some of these prisoners were ransomed, and came back to say -that the girl had married a young Frenchman. She was happy, and sent word -to her parents that she preferred to stay with her husband. Years went -by, until one night there came to Henry Graham’s house a Canadian ranger -and a young girl. It was their granddaughter and her father. The mother -had died and had begged her husband to take her daughter back to the old -folks as her offering of love. The father delivered his message, bade his -daughter farewell and silently vanished into the forest. They never saw -him again, but they realized that he had given full measure of devotion -to his dead wife. The girl grew up to be a beautiful creature much like -her mother, only darker, and at times there was a bright glitter in her -eyes. She married a Hardy and settled down as a farmer’s wife. She was -dutiful and kind, but sometimes her husband would see her standing at -the door—looking off into the Northern forests with a look which made -him shake his head. Years went by, and this spot on the family history -had been forgotten until these twins uncovered it! Their mother knew in -her heart that the spirit of the restless Frenchman was watching her -from the cradle through the black shiny eyes of her strange baby. James, -the light-haired, steady, purebred infant, slept calmly or acted just -as a good Hardy should, but the wild spirit of the forest had jumped -three generations right into the cradle, where this black-haired little -changeling stared at her! - -There never were two children more unlike than these twins. Jim was -solid, sound, a little slow, but absolutely trustworthy—“a born Hardy” as -they said. Bill was bright, quick, restless, full of plans and visions. -He did not like to work, and had no respect for the family skeleton. This -was a mortgage, which for many years had sunk its claws into the rocky -little farm. The truth was that this farm never should have been cleared -and settled. It was rocky and sandy; farther out of date than the old -mill rotting unused by the old mill pond. The mortgage hung like a wolf -at the back door, demanding its due, which came out of the little farm -like blood money. Jim Hardy, like his father and grandfather, grew up to -regard that mortgage as a fixed and sacred institution. It was a family -heirloom or tradition—something like the old musket which an older Hardy -carried at Bunker Hill, or like grandmother’s old spinning-wheel. As for -the poor, rocky farm, Jim and his father would stay and grind themselves -away in a hopeless struggle just because the Hardys who went before them -had done so. It was different with Bill. He had no use for the mortgage -or for the rocky pastures, for the dash of French blood had put rubber, -or yeast, into the covering of the stern New England thought. His father -never could understand him and one day, when Bill was 17, the blood of -the “changeling” burst into open mutiny. The father knew of only one way -to act. He ordered the boy around behind the barn and took the horsewhip -to him. As a Hardy, Bill was expected to stand and take his punishment -without a murmur. As the descendant of a wild forest ranger he could only -resent the blows. What he did was to catch his father’s arms and hold -them like a vice. Neither spoke a word. They just looked at each other. -The older man struggled, but he was powerless—he knew that his son was -the master. He dropped the whip from his hand and bowed his head. The boy -released him, broke the whip in two, and threw it away. The father walked -to the house, a dazed and broken man. Bill watched him and then walked -out to the back lot where Jim, the steady and faithful, was building a -fence. - -“Good-bye, Jim,” he said. “I’m off. It had to come. I’m different, and -yet the same, as you will see. You stay here and look after father and -mother. I will help some day.” It was the Hardy in both the boys which -made it impossible for them to come any closer in feeling. Bill walked on -over the pasture hill; at the top he paused to wave his hand. Then he was -gone. - -Bill was clean and sound at heart, and the French blood had given him -a quick active brain. Instead of striking for the wilderness he headed -for New York and he prospered. The old French ancestor drove him on -with tireless energy, and the long line of clean farm breeding kept him -true to his purpose to go back some day and show the old folks that he -was still a Hardy. Years passed, until one day there came to Bill an -uncontrollable longing to go home. Just a few brief, unresponsive letters -had passed between him and Jim, but the time came when Bill longed with -a great longing to see the old farm once more. And so, the next day, a -well-dressed, prosperous man walked into the old yard and looked about -him. There was Jim, the same old Jim, walking in from the barn with the -night’s milk. Father was cutting wood at the wood pile and mother stood -at the kitchen door—just the same home picture which Bill knew so well. -Bill did great things during his short stay. He paid that mortgage, -ordered a new barn built and left capital for Jim to improve the farm. -He did everything that a Hardy ought to do—and more—and yet he could not -satisfy himself. It all seemed so small and narrow. He had hoped to find -great music in the wind among the pines, but it filled him with a great -loneliness, which he could not overcome. He had hoped to find peace and -rest, but these were for the untried farm boy—not for the restless and -worried business man. It broke out of him at night on the second day, -when he and Jim were on the pasture hill looking for the sheep. The -loneliness of the early Fall day fairly entered his heart. - -“_Jim_,” he said, “_old fellow, I don’t see how you live in such a -God-forsaken place_!” - -“Why, Bill,” said Jim, “New York must be like Paradise to beat the old -homestead.” - -“Better a week on Broadway than a lifetime on these lonely hills.” - -“I’d like to try it and see!” said Jim. - -So Jim Hardy, the plain farmer, went to New York to visit Brother Bill. -He had everything he could call for. Bill lived in a beautiful apartment, -and he gave Jim a white card to see and do what he wanted. Bill was too -busy to go around much, but Jim made his way. For a couple of days it -was fine—then somehow Jim, just like Bill at the old farm, began to grow -lonesome and oppressed. Right through the wall of Bill’s apartment house -was a family with one child. The janitor told him the child was sick, -so Jim knocked at the door to sympathize with the neighbors. They froze -him with a few words and got rid of him. He saw a man on the street and -stopped to converse with him. “Get out!” said the stranger. “You can’t -bunco me.” Day after day Jim Hardy, the farmer, saw the fierce, selfish -struggle for life in the big city. The great buildings, the theaters, -Broadway at night—they were all splendid, but behind and under them lay -the meanness, the selfish spirit, the lack of neighborly feeling, which -galled the farmer to the heart. On the third night Bill took his brother -to a great reception. Just as they walked into the brilliant room Jim -glanced from the window and saw a policeman throw a weak and sickly man -out of a public room where he was trying to get warm. - -“What did I tell you, Jim?” said Bill. “Isn’t this worth a year on your -old hills?” And Jim could only think of one thing to say: - -“_Bill, old fellow, I don’t see how you can live in such a God-forsaken -place!_” - -What do you make of it? One brother thinks God has forsaken the country, -while the other says He has forsaken the city! To me they prove that God -is everywhere. Some may not find Him, since they look for Him only in -things which are agreeable to them, and those are rarely the places in -which to look. I think, too, that, like Jim and Bill, all children come -into the world with natural tendencies and inclinations which, if worthy, -should be encouraged rather than repressed. Both Jim and Bill are needed -in American life. - - - - -LOUISE - - -“_How is Louise now?_” - -“_She seems a little better!_” - -That message came over the ’phone on Friday evening, just as the members -of the Hope Farm family were separating for the night. Early in the year -we had a letter from a woman in the West who came back to the paper after -15 years’ absence. As a girl she lived in New York State. Father took the -paper and she remembered the talks about the Bud, Scion and Graft. “What -has become of those children?” she asked. “Since I left home I have lost -track of them. Now that I have a home and children of my own I would like -to know what they came to.” - -These were the names given to the four children of our first brood. We -had one little girl of our own whom I called the Bud. Her mother did not -want her brought up alone, so we took in a small boy—a little fellow of -an uncertain age. We did not adopt him, but he was treated just like -our own child, and “grew up” in our home. I called him the Seedling! A -noted botanist argued with me to prove that these names should have been -transposed—but I let them go, for we tried to graft good things upon the -Seedling. Then came two other little ones—Mother’s niece and nephew, -needing home and protection. We took them in, and I called them Graft -and Scion. These names may not have betrayed any great knowledge of -botany, but they seemed to fit the children, although as the little ones -grew up we were glad to let those names drop. - -This quartette of little ones grew and thrived. It was at times rather -hard sledding for the Hope Farmers in those early years, but youth -greases the runners with hope, and kids never know the true taste of -tough mutton. They grew on through sickness, the wilfulness of childhood, -powers of heredity and all the things which confront common children. For -they always seemed to me just kids of very common clay, though Mother -would at times come back from places where other children “behaved” and -say: “You must understand that we have some very superior youngsters!” Of -course I realized that the “Bud” would most likely be pretty much what -her parents were, and it was a long-time hope that she would throw out -our many undesirable qualities and concentrate upon the few good ones. -Now comes our friend asking what has become of them—and I will try to -answer for all! The Bud is a senior at one of the great Women’s Colleges; -the Graft is with an engineering party running a new railroad through the -Arizona wilderness; the Seedling is a captain in the Salvation Army—the -Scion! ah! That is why I am writing this! - -Louise grew up a small, rather delicate young woman, ambitious, -clear-brained and with a quick, active mind. There came a time when -greater family responsibilities came upon us all. Her father died, and -her mother became hopelessly ill, and four younger brothers and sisters -came to us to form what we call our second brood. Even as a young girl -Louise began to realize the stern responsibilities of life for those -little ones. When she finished high school her ambition to be of service -to this family group became fixed. She wanted to become self-supporting -and to have a hand in helping with these younger children. Teaching -is the great resource of educated women who are naturally fitted for -the work, and Louise saw in the schoolroom her best chance for useful -service. I think this was one of the rare cases where women are willing -to work and prepare themselves for true unselfish service. Louise was -timid and naturally nervous—not strong or with great dominating power. I -do not think any of us understood how much it really meant to her to face -direct responsibility and force her way through. - -Mother and I have always felt that if any of our children show real, -self-sacrificing desire for an education we will practise any form -of needed self-denial that the child may be college-trained. For an -education worked out in that way will become a glory and an honor to all -who have to do with it. So we felt it no burden, but rather a privilege, -to send Louise to the Normal School. How well and faithfully she worked -no one can ever realize. I often think that most reputations for bravery -in this world are not fairly earned. Some strong, well-bred, naturally -optimistic character, with health and heritage from a long line of -dominating ancestors pushes and smashes his way through obstacles and -acquires a great reputation for courage. I think such are far less -deserving than women like Louise, small and delicate and nervous, who -conquer natural timidity and force themselves to endure the battle. -It is even harder to win confidence in yourself—to conquer the inside -forces—than to fight the outside ones. - -Louise did this. She did it well, without boasting or great complaint -and without flinching. At times she was depressed, for the task seemed -too much for her, but she rose above it and won. She won honors at her -school, and long before she expected it, on her own little, honest record -in the schoolroom, she was employed to teach at a good salary. It was to -be only four miles from home—amid the best surroundings—and there was -no happier woman on earth than was Louise when she wrote us the first -news about it. It came just before Christmas. There are many women who -could not see any cause for Christmas joy in the thought of long years of -monotonous and wearying service, but Louise saw in this something of the -joy of achievement, for through honest, trained labor, the outcome of her -own patience and determination, she was to become self-supporting and a -genuine help to the children. I presume no one but a conscientious and -ambitious woman can realize what that means. I know women who would look -upon such power of self-support simply as selfish freedom. Louise saw -in it the power of greater service. We have tried our best to train our -children for that view of a life work. - -You may therefore imagine that the holidays at Hope Farm seemed like holy -days indeed. They were all there except the Seedling and the Graft, and -_they_ sent messages which left no regret, no sadness to creep in out of -the past. Somehow I hope all you older people may know before you pass on -something of what Mother and I did about our two broods as the old year -passed on. - -Yet there it comes again—the old question. I came home a little later -than usual on Friday night. The night was wet and foggy, and Mother met -me at the train. One of the little boys who usually comes for me had gone -to meet Louise. Her first week of school was over, and she was coming -home—a teacher! As we drove into the yard the family ran out to meet -us—“Something has happened—they want you on the ’phone at once!” Ah! -but these country tragedies may flash upon us without warning. Halfway -home Louise had been stricken desperately ill, and she now lay at the -parsonage—three miles away—helpless. Just as quickly as fingers could put -the harness on our fastest horse, Mother and “Cherry-top” were driving -off into the fog and rain. We waited until they reached the parsonage -and then we kept the ’phone busy. The poor girl, riding home after her -first fine week in the schoolroom, had been stricken with an internal -hemorrhage—and it was doubtful if she could rally! At nine o’clock came -the message: “She seems to be better.” The little boys were coming -home—and they soon appeared, white and troubled. Mother was to stay all -night and she sent a hopeful message about coming in the morning with -Louise. We went to bed to get strength and nerve for any emergency. In -the early morning Mother walked into my room and turned up the light. We -looked at each other for a moment. Then there were six words: - -“_How is Louise?_” - -“_She is gone!_” - -We said nothing more, but we were both thinking the same thing! - -“_The first break in our big family has come. How is Louise now?_” - -There was no way of saving her. Human skill and human love had failed. -She was dead! - - * * * * * - -It was a beautiful service. There were only our own family and perhaps -a dozen friends. We all wanted it so. We do not like the wild grief and -public curiosity so often displayed at large funerals. There was just -a great bank of flowers, a white casket and a simple service over this -brave and loyal girl. I do not say “poor” girl, nor do I dwell upon the -sadness of it. I thought that all out as Mother and I sat at the head of -the casket. She died gloriously—like a soldier at his duty. She died when -life was young. She had just won her little battle in the great world of -affairs. She died in the joy of victory and in the faith that all things -are possible. The wine of life was full. She never knew the sting of -defeat, the shame and meanness of false friendships and ambitions, which -has come to those of us who linger on the way. And so at the end of it -all I ask the old question once more: - -“How is Louise now?” - -“She is better! Thank God! She is better!” - - - - -CHRISTMAS EVERY DAY - - -It is well enough to keep the Christmas tree standing until Spring -cleaning at least. There may be those who open the closet door once a -year and let the Christmas spirit out—somewhat like the family skeleton, -to food and water—and then lock it up again. That does not suit me, for I -would like to keep the door open so that Christmas may be with us every -day in the year. The celebration just closed is about the best our family -and community ever had, and it will do us permanent good. - -On Wednesday evening the children had their celebration at the church. It -was a cold clear night, with good sleighing, so we hitched the two big -grays to the bob sled and filled the box with straw, and the children -cuddled down into this nest and pulled blankets over them. The Hope Farm -man drove, with Mother on the seat beside him to direct the job and tell -him when and where to turn out. Tom and Broker seemed to feel that they -were, in their way, playing the part of reindeer, for they trotted off -in great shape—a little clumsy on their feet, perhaps, but with strength -enough to pull down a house. Broker is inclined to be lazy, and Tom did -most of the pulling unless we stirred his partner up with the stick. -Through the clear starlight we went crunching and jingling on over the -hills and through the narrow level valleys, for our country has a badly -wrinkled face. - -Part of the way lies through the woods, and then a stretch along the -banks of a little river. There was just enough wind to make a little -humming in the trees. Now and then a rabbit jumped out of the shadow and -went hopping off across the snow. There was no danger—it was Christmas, -and we do not carry firearms. I think I can tell you much about a -person’s character and circumstances if you will tell me what comes into -mind on a lonely road, when the wind is playing its wild tunes among the -trees. - - “Over the chimney the night wind sang, - Chanting a melody no one knew.” - -To some this melody brings sad memories or fear of trouble, but the -happy group in our big sled heard nothing of these in the sound. As Tom -and Broker pulled their load on beneath the trees I think each one of -us heard in the wind’s singing something of the song which the angels -sang when the shepherds listened long years ago. This may be but a fancy -of mine, yet I think our little group came nearer to understanding what -Christmas means—on that lonely road—than we had before. - -You know how pleasant it is to come trotting along a country road on a -cold starry night and see the lights of the church burst into view far -ahead. Our church is an old stone structure, full of years and honorable -history. It was here, at least part of it, during the Revolution, -and at one time Hessian prisoners were confined in it. There were no -prisoners except those of hope inside the church that night. The boys -and I made Tom and Broker comfortable and then we went inside to find a -big Christmas tree and a crowd of happy children. Surely Christmas is -children’s day, and they owned the church that night. Mother marshaled -her big primary class for one chorus, and it seemed as if the entire end -of the church was made of children. A couple of our Cherry-tops lent a -little color to it. The Hope Farm man was escorted up to a front seat, -where he was expected to look the part of prominent citizen. They ran him -into the programme too for a Christmas story, so he got up and told the -company about “Pete Shivershee’s Miracle”—a little Christmas memory of -life in a lumber camp many years ago. Finally the simple presents were -distributed, the sleepy little ones aroused, good wishes spoken and we -all piled in once more for the home trip. Broker takes life as it comes, -but Tom was chilly and disposed to be a trifle gay over the prospect of -barn and cornstalks once more. He proceeded to pull the entire load, -Broker trotting on with dangling traces! It was a sleepy and happy crowd -that finally turned off the road into Hope Farm. “_We had a big time!_” - -In two of the villages near us the people organized community Christmas -trees. These trees were placed in the public square or some prominent -spot, the electric wires were connected, and colored bulbs hung all over -to take the place of candles. These were lighted on Christmas Eve and -kept going all through the holiday week. It was a great success, for it -brought people together, made a better community spirit, and helped us -all. In addition to this community tree arrangements were made to have -singers go about the town singing the old Christmas carols. This revival -of the old English custom was a beautiful thing and a great success. - -Shortly after three on Christmas morning our folks were awakened by -music. I think the Cherry-tops thought it was Santa Claus, as it probably -was. Out in front of our house a motor car carrying six young men had -turned in from the road. There in the frosty morning they were singing: - - “O come, all ye faithful, - Joyful and triumphant, - O come ye! O come ye - To Bethlehem. - Come and behold Him - Born the King of angels, - O come let us adore Him, - O come let us adore Him, - O come let us adore Him, - Christ the Lord.” - -They were beautiful singers and our folks will never forget that -Christmas morning. - - “Silent night! Holy night, - All is calm. All is light. - ’Round young Virgin mother and child - Holy infant so tender and mild, - Sleep in heavenly peace.” - -Finally the car started off, moving slowly down the road with the music -creeping back to us through the clear air: - - “Hark, the Herald angels sing.” - -Our folks heard them at the next neighbor’s, far down the road. I have -no doubt many a weary and troubled soul waking in the night at the sound -went back to happier dreams of a better tomorrow. It was a beautiful -thing to do, and never before did Christmas morning come to us so happily -as this year. - -I thought of these things all day, and the conviction has grown upon me -that what we people who live in the country need more than anything else -is something of this spirit which binds people together and holds them. -We need it in our work, our play and in our battles. It is another name -for patriotism, which means the unselfish love of country. The Duke of -Wellington said the battle of Waterloo was won on the playgrounds of -England, where boys were trained in manly sports. He told only half of -it, for the spirit which turned that play into war came from the singers -who in English villages sang Christmas carols or English folk songs. In -like manner the wonderful national spirit which the German nation has -shown has been developed largely through the singing societies which have -expressed German feeling in song. In 1792 a band of Frenchmen marched -from the south of France to Paris dragging cannon through a cloud of -dust and singing the Marseillaise hymn, and even to this day the loyal -spirit of France traces down from those dusty singers. Do I mean to say -that farmers can come together and sing their troubles away? No, for some -of the troubles have grown so strong and penetrated so deep that they -must be pulled out by the roots. What I do say is that before we can -hope to remove these troubles and make our conditions what they should -be we must feel toward our friends and neighbors the sentiments which -are expressed in these beautiful old songs. The time has gone by when -we can hope to obtain what we should have from society as individuals -playing a cold, selfish game of personal interest. We have tried that for -many years and steadily lost out on it. The only hope for us now is in -a true community spirit of loyalty and sacrifice, instead of the effort -to get all we can for ourselves. That is why I say that there should be -something of Christmas in every day of the year, and why I give these -holiday memories. - - - - -“THE FINEST LESSON” - - -It is the privilege of youth and old age to make comparisons. One has -little or nothing of experience to use as a yardstick—the other has -everything life can offer him. One compares with imagination, the other -with fact, and youth, having a wider pasture for thought, usually finds -pleasanter places for feeding. My children have spent nearly every -Christmas thus far before this open fire, while I have ranged far and -wide, from Florida to the Great Lakes, and from Cape Cod to Colorado. As -we sit in silence before our fire the boys can imagine themselves in some -hunter’s camp, or with the soldiers in France, while the girls can drop -themselves down from the wings of fancy in Cuba or Brazil. I might try -that, but stern fact drags me down to other days, and old-time companions -come creeping out of the past to say “Merry Christmas” and stand here, a -little sorrowful that they cannot give the children something of their -story. So I must be their spokesman, it seems, and the children give me -a chance when after dreaming a while they come and ask me to tell about -the real Christmas. “What was the finest Christmas lesson you ever had?” -They do not put it in quite these words, but that is the sense of it. -So there comes to me a great desire to live up to the highest test of -story-telling—that is, so to interest your audience that they will forget -to eat their apples. - -The room seems full of the shadowy forms of men and women who have -stepped out of the past to bring back a Christmas memory. Which of these -old life teachers ever gave me the best lesson? They were all good—even -that big fellow who tried to kick me out of a lumber camp—and failed—or -that slimy little fraud who beat me out of a week’s wages! I think, -however, that those two women over by the window lead all the rest. One -is an old woman—evidently a cripple; the other younger—you cannot see -her face in the dim light, but she stands by the older woman’s chair. -Yes, they represent the best Christmas lesson I have had. So come up to -the fire, forget the wind roaring outside, and listen to it. I was a -hired man that Winter in a Western State. Some of the farmers who read -this will remember me—not for any great skill I showed at farm work, but -because I spent my spare time (that meant nights) going around “speaking -pieces.” I am greatly afraid that as an agriculturist I did better work -at keeping air hot than I ever did at heating plowshares through labor. - -You see, it was this way. I was a freshman at an agricultural college, at -a time when these institutions were struggling hard to live. The average -freshman thinks he is the salt of the earth, forgetting that he is salt -which has not gained its savor through losing its freshness. A man gets -very little salt in his character until he goes out and assaults the -world! At any rate, I had no money salted down and no fresh supplies -coming in. I had to get out during the Winter and earn the price of -another term at college. I tried canvassing for a book. We will draw the -curtain down over that act. Some men tell me of making small fortunes -as book agents. From my experience I judge these men to be supermen or -superior prevaricators, to put it mildly. I worked the job for all I was -worth in spite of all obstacles, such as the wrath of farmers who had -been cheated through signing papers, the laughter of pretty girls and -the teeth of dogs, and sold four books in two weeks! At last I struck a -farmer who offered me a job digging a ditch. I made him a present of my -“sample copy” and went to work. - -A dollar makes an interrogation point with a barb on it. About all a farm -produced in Winter, those days, was enough to eat and drink and something -to sell for the taxes. The farmer I worked for had a red colt that was to -settle with the tax man, but just before the taxes were due the colt ran -away and broke his neck. I cannot say that my labor was worth much, but -education is not one of the few things which come to us without money or -price. Then I suddenly made the discovery that I was “a talented young -elocutionist.” At least that is what the local paper stated, and do we -not know that all we see in print must be true? I suppose I could tell -you of one Christmas long ago that I spent as “supe” in a big theater and -what befell us behind the scenes. At any rate, I could “speak pieces,” -and I had a long string of them in mind. So what was a rather poor mimic -in a city became a “talented elocutionist” far back over muddy roads. You -want to remember that this was a long time before the bicycle had grown -away from the clumsy “velocipede.” There were few, if any “good roads.” -No one dreamed of gasoline engines or automobiles. During an open Winter -the mud was 10 to 20 inches deep, and every mile of travel was to be -multiplied by the number of inches of mud. Amid such surroundings it is -not so hard to be known as a “talented elocutionist” when your voice is -strong, your tongue limber, your memory good, and you have had a chance -to see and hear some of the great actors from behind the scenes. - -I made what they called “a big hit” at night, with audiences all the -way from four or five up to 200. When life was dull and blue a neighbor -would come with his family to our farmhouse and I would sit by the -kitchen fire and entertain them. Once a farmer had a little trouble with -his mother-in-law, who seemed to hold the mortgage. On his invitation -I dropped in one night and a few of my “funny pieces” made this good -lady laugh so that she forgave her son-in-law. Then I was called into -the chamber of a very sick man to recite several “religious pieces.” I -shall not soon forget that scene. The poor sick man lying there with eyes -closed, the entire family and some of the neighbors grouped around like -a company of mourners, and the “talented elocutionist” standing by the -head of the bed in the gray light of the dying day. Yes, sir, the man -recovered! They have a famous saying here in New York. “It’s a great life -if you don’t weaken!” I found it so that Winter, and as life was young -and full ambition had not been severely wounded, I did not weaken. - -But all this, of course, was mere practice for larger occasions. Whenever -I could work up a crowd I would go about to schoolhouses and churches, -entertain as best I could and then “pass the hat”! What evenings they -were! They were usually in old-fashioned schoolhouses with the big iron -stove in the center of the room. Such houses were rarely used at night, -and there would be no light except as some of the audience brought lamps -or candles. The room was usually crowded and the stove red-hot. In most -cases the meeting would be opened with prayer and some local politician -might make a speech. Then the “talented elocutionist” would stand up near -the stove. He never was an “impressive figure” at his best. In those -old days the best he could afford was a pair of thick cowhide boots, a -second-hand coat which came from a long, thin man, and trousers evidently -made originally for a fat man. Still, the light was dim and the speaker -remembered hearing James E. Murdock say that if you could only put -yourself into the _spirit_ of your talk the audience would follow you -there and forget how you looked. I had seen a great actor play the part -of Fagin in “Oliver Twist,” and at these entertainments I tried giving -an imitation of him, until a big husky farmer tried to whip me. I had a -job to explain to my friends that he was trying to punch Fagin—not me. -The audiences knew no middle ground. They wanted some burlesque or some -tragedy of their own lives which would tear at their heartstrings. Now -and then as I recited in those hot, dim schoolhouses the keen humor of -the thing would come to me, or like a flash the poverty and pathos of my -own struggle would sweep over me with overwhelming force. Then I could -feel that audience moving with me and for a brief moment I got out of the -ditch of life and knew the supreme joy of the complete mastery of one -who can separate the human imagination from the flesh and compel it to -walk with him where he wills. - -These moments were all too brief. Back we came finally to the dim, -stifling room, and the rather ignoble and commonplace job of trying to -measure the value of a thrill by a voluntary contribution. I have had -many a high hope and many a dream of a new suit of clothes blackballed -on “passing the hat.” At first, when a man got up and said: “Gents, this -show is worth a dollar, and I will pass the hat,” I took him at his word -and expected a hat full of bills. Yet even when I shook out the lining I -could find nothing larger than a dime. During that Winter I made a fine -collection of buttons. It may be that most men want to keep the left hand -from knowing what the right hand is up to, but evidently you must have -one hand or the other under public observation if you expect much out of -the owner. I have learned to have no quarrel with human nature, and I -imagine after all that the hire fitted the value of the laborer’s efforts -fairly well. - -Christmas came to us in that valley with the same beautiful message which -was carried to all. It was a cold Christmas, and as we went about our -chores before day and at night the stars were brilliant. The crinkle of -the ice and snow and the hum of the wind over the fences and through -the trees came to me like the murmur of a faraway song. It touched us -all. We saw each other in something of a new light of glory. The woman -of the house, I think, regarded me as a sort of awkward hired man. Now -she seemed to see a boy, far from home, struggling with rather feeble -hands against the flood which swept him away from the ambition to earn an -education. I am sure that it came to her that the Christmas spirit must -be capitalized to help me on my way. So she organized a big gathering -for Christmas Eve at which I was to “speak” and accept a donation. It -was to be over in the next district, and that good woman took the sleigh -and drove all over that county drumming up an “audience.” I am sure -that there never was a “star” before or since who had such an advance -or advertising agent as I did on that occasion. She was a good trainer, -too. The day before Christmas I husked corn in the cold barn, and this -delicate woman ran through the snow with two hot biscuits and a piece of -meat. There I worked through the day husking corn with my hands while I -“rehearsed” a few new ones with my brain and sent my heart way back to -New England, where I knew the folks were thinking of me. - -In these times there would have been a fleet of automobiles moored near -the farmhouse, but in those days no engine had yet coughed out the -gasoline in its throat. We came in sleighs and big farm “pungs.” Standing -by the barn in the clear moonlight you could see the lanterns gleaming -along the road, and hear the tinkle of the sleighbells and the songs -which the young people were singing. Far down the road came a big farm -sled loaded with young people who were singing “Seeing Nellie Home.” -Sweet and clear came their fresh young voices through the crisp, frosty -air:— - - “Her little hand was resting - On my arm as light as foam - When from Aunt Dinah’s quilting party, - I was seeing Nellie home. - - “I was seeing Nellie. I was seeing Nellie. - I was seeing Nellie home, - ’Twas from Aunt Dinah’s quilting party, - I was seeing Nellie home.” - -The old farmer on the front seat sat nodding his head to the music, and -his wife beside him took her hand out of the muff and slid it under his -arm. These were the fine old days of simple pleasures, when the country -entertained itself and was satisfied. The other night my young folks -took me off to a moving picture theater where we saw a great actress -portraying human emotion in a way to make you shudder. My mind went back -to my own feeble efforts as a star performer, and I was forced to admit -that the usual Sunday school entertainment could have but a small chance -in competition with this powerful exhibition. The thing to do is to carry -this strong attraction to the country and not force our young people to -travel to the city after it. - -Each sleigh brought not only its load of human freight, but a big basket -of food, for there was to be a feast of the body with food as well as of -the spirit with oratory. As the guest of honor I rode over with one of -the school trustees, and he proved a good local historian. - -“This farm we visit tonight is owned by the Widder Fairchild. A nice -woman, but homely enough to stop a clock. Her father left her the farm, -and she got to be quite an old maid. We all thought she had settled -down for such when she up and married the hired man, a nice man, but -no farmer, and no property except a cough and an old aunt mighty nigh -bed-ridden. Then the husband died and left the old lady on her hands. She -might have sent the old thing to the poorhouse—ain’t no kin of hers—but -just because her husband promised to keep her, Mrs. Fairchild has kept -the old lady on. There the two women live on one of the best farms in the -county.” - -“It’s the best because the Lord has blessed it.” That came from the wife -on the back seat. She had tried to get in a word before. - -“No, no! Farms are made good by hard work and judgment. The minister went -and talked to her about it, but all he got out of her was ‘And Ruth said, -Entreat me not to leave thee or to return from following after thee: for -whither thou goest I will go.’” - -“But, Henry, ain’t you ’shamed to call her homely?” - -“No, because it’s the truth. It wouldn’t be about you, now, but I told -the minister that once. He has to be diplomatic and he hemmed and hawed -and finally said, ‘She has a strong face.’ He’s right! Mighty strong!” - -If you ever acted in the capacity of _donatee_ at such a party you know -the feeling. The big house was filled. Out in the kitchen the women -sorted out the food and arranged it for supper. In the front room, beside -a little table, sat “the hired man’s old aunt,” a beautiful old lady with -white hair and a sweet, patient face. On the table stood a few house -plants in pots. One geranium had opened a flower. - -“The only one in the neighborhood for Christmas,” said the old lady. -“You don’t know how proud I am of it. It has been such a joy to me to -see it slowly grow, and, oh, think of what it means to have it come at -Christmas!” - -But the donatee has little time for small talk. He always earns his -donation, and whatever happened to it later, I earned it that night. -They finally stopped me for supper. The minister alluded to it as “the -bounteous repast which we are now asked to enjoy.” My friend the trustee -stood by the door and shouted: - -“Hoe in—help yourself!” - -It was getting on toward Christmas Day when I stood up in the corner -to end the entertainment. I had intended to end with Irwin Russell’s -“Christmas Night in the Quarters,” with negro dialect, but as I was about -to start my eye fell upon a group by that little table. The “old aunt” -sat looking at me, and by her side stood the “homely” woman, her hand -resting upon the older woman’s shoulder. I wonder if you have ever had a -vision come to you at Christmas—or any other time! A great, mysterious, -beautiful vision, in which you look forward into the years and are given -to see some great thing which is hidden from most men until too late. It -came to me as I watched those women that the finest test of character, -the noblest part of the Christmas spirit, was not the glory of caring for -helpless childhood, but the higher sacrifice of love and duty for the -aged. - -And so, almost before I knew it, I found myself reciting Will Carleton’s -poem, “Over the Hill to the Poorhouse!” What a sentiment to bring into a -happy Christmas party—by the donatee at that—one who had been hired “to -make them laugh”! - -I knew it all, yet my mind jumped across the long miles and I thought -of my own mother growing old and waiting in silence that I might have -opportunity! - - “Over the hill to the poorhouse - I’m trudging my weary way. - I a woman of sixty, - Only a trifle gray, - I who am smart and chipper. - For all the years I’ve told, - As many another woman - Only one-half as old. - - “Over the hill to the poorhouse! - I can’t quite make it clear; - Over the hill to the poorhouse, - It seems so horrid queer! - Many’s the journey I’ve taken, - Traveling to and fro, - But over the hill to the poorhouse - I never once thought I’d go!” - -It was a great 10 minutes. It is worth a good many years to have 600 -ticks of the clock pass by like that. Could all of us have lived, for 10 -years with that 10-minute feeling—what a neighborhood that would have -been. I was looking at those two women by the table. I saw their hands -come together. It is true that the trustee had not done great injustice -to her appearance, but as she stood there by “the hired man’s old aunt” -there came upon her face a beauty such as God alone can bring upon the -face of those who are beloved by Him. A light from within illuminated -her life story, and I could read it on her face. A love that endures -after death—until life! And when I stopped I was _done_. The power had -all gone from me. Not so with my manager, the trustee. He could sense -a psychological moment even if he could not spell it, and he got his -hat into action before the rich spirit of that crowd could get to the -poorhouse. I saw him coming with the hat full—there were surely several -bills there. Say, did you ever spend money before you got your fingers on -it? I never have since that night. I know better. As I saw that money I -figured on several Christmas presents, a new coat and at least one term -at college. The trustee cleared his throat for a few remarks and I stood -there pleasantly expectant, anticipating a few compliments—and the money. - -“Now, friends, we thank you one and all for your generous gift, and we -thank our talented young friend here for the great assistance he has -given us. He will rejoice when he learns the full amount, for, my dear -friends, _this money belongs to the Sunday school_!” - -And he proceeded forthwith to gather up the money and stuff it into his -pockets, leaving me with my mouth half open, and my hand half extended. - -What could you do? There was a roar of protest from several farmers who -demanded their money back, though they never got it. Happily the humor of -it struck me. The first thing that came into my mind was an old song I -had often heard: - -“_Thou art so near and yet so far!_” - -There is nothing like being a good sport, and so I bowed and smiled and -took my medicine, although I am sure the party would have ended in a -fight if I had said the word. But the “old aunt” looked at me for a -moment and then cut off that geranium bloom, tied two leaves on it and -handed it to me without a word. And the woman with the shining face took -my hand in both hers and said: “Do not get discouraged. I know you will -win out.” - -I rode home with a farmer who, with his two big sons, roared profanely -at what they called the “injustice of that miser.” They vowed to get up -another donation, which they did later. They offered to go and “lick -the trustee” and take the money from him. I think they were a little -disappointed when I told them that he needed it more than I did. - -“Why, from the way you talk, anybody’d think you had fallen heir to a big -thing!” - -I had. That little flower in my pocket carried a Christmas spirit and a -Christmas lesson that the whole world could not buy. The thing paying the -largest dividend, the finest companion that ever walked with one along -the roadway of life—unselfish love, and sacrifice. - - - - -“COLUMBUS DAY” - - -I would like to know where you are tonight, and what you have been doing -all through this “Liberty Day.” With us the day has been cloudy and -wet, and just as the sun went down Nature took the liberty of sending a -cold, penetrating rain. So here I am before my big fire with a copy of -Washington Irving’s “Life of Christopher Columbus.” That seems the proper -way to end Columbus Day, for in trying to tell the children about him I -found that I did not really know much more than they do about the great -discoverer. So here I am back some 400 years in history wondering if -any of these pompous and bigoted ways of seeking for new worlds or new -methods can be applied to modern life in New Jersey. - -My back aches, for I have been digging potatoes all day—and I thought I -had graduated from that job some years ago. Perhaps you will say that we -should have been out selling Liberty bonds or parading. Personally, I am -a poor salesman, and we all subscribed for our bonds some days ago. There -are eight bondholders in this family. The influenza has left us without -labor except for the children while the school is closed. There are -still over 100 barrels of apples to pick, potatoes to dig, plowing and -seeding to be done, and a dozen other jobs all pressing. So I decided to -celebrate Liberty Day by digging those Bible School potatoes. We planted -a patch of potatoes between rows of young peach trees and promised the -crop to the Bible Teachers’ Training School. Last year we tried this, and -I put in a few of the latest scientific touches which the experts told -us about. The plant lice came in a swarm and ruined the patch. We had a -few potatoes about the size of marbles. This year we avoided scientific -advice, and just planted potatoes in the old-fashioned way. They were not -cultivated in the best possible manner, but they made a good crop. So -when Liberty Day dawned with a thick, gray mist over the land I decided -to get those potatoes out instead of going on the march or singing “The -Star Spangled Banner.” From what I read of Columbus I imagine he would -have chosen the parade and left the digging to others. The world has -taken on new ideas about labor since then. - -So, after breakfast, Cherry-top and I took our forks and started digging. -The soil was damp and the air full of mist and meanness which made me -sneeze and cough as we worked on. Happily, out on our hills we are not -fined $20 for sneezing outside of a handkerchief, as is the case in New -York. If anyone has discovered any poetry or philosophy in the job of -digging potatoes he may have the floor. I call it about the most menial -job on the farm, and therefore fine discipline for “Liberty Day.” While -we were working Philip and the larger boy went by with the team to seed -rye. They have thrashed out enough grain by hand, and this is not only -ideal weather, but about the last limit for seeding. The land was plowed -some two weeks ago, a big crop of ragweed and grass being turned under. -If we only had the labor this ground would have been disked twice and -then harrowed. As it is, we can only work it once with the spring-tooth. -Then Philip goes ahead seeding in the rye by hand, while the boy follows -with the Acme harrow to cover the grain. It is rough seeding and would -not answer for wheat, but rye is tough and enduring, and it will imitate -Columbus and discover a new world in that decaying mass of ragweed. So -I watch the seed sowers travel slowly along the hillside as I dig, and -wonder what was doing on this farm 427 years ago, and what will be doing -here 100 years hence! Such reflections were the most cheerful mental -accompaniment I could find for digging potatoes. They are impractical, -while digging is the most practical thing on earth! - -As we dug on a man and woman came up the lane. They came after apples, -having engaged them before. The boy went down to attend to them, while I -kept on digging. Then the boy came back with two more apple customers. -The trouble with us is that we have more customers than apples this -year, but these were old patrons, and they were served. The boy finally -came back with $41.80 as a result of his trading, and we went at our -job with new vigor. As we dug along we noticed a curious thing about -those potatoes. Here and there was a vine large and strong, and still -perfectly green. The great majority of the hills were dead, but those -green ones were as vigorous as they were in June. The variety was Green -Mountain, and we soon found that on the average these big green vines -were producing twice as much as the dead hills. Some of these living -vines carried three or four big potatoes. Others had a dozen, with seven -or eight of market size, while others had about 16 tubers, mostly small. -Just why these vines should act in this way I do not know. There are so -many possible reasons that I should have to guess at it, as Columbus -did when, as his ship sailed on and on into the west, the compass began -to vary. The boy and I decided that here was where we might discover a -good strain of Green Mountain on Columbus Day. So we have selected 15 -of the best hills. They will be planted, hill by hill, next year and -still further selection made. We discarded the hills with only a few big -potatoes and also those with many small ones, and selected those with a -good number of medium-sized tubers. It may come to nothing, but we will -try it. Experience and careful figures show that an ordinary crop of -potatoes in this country does not pay. The same is true of a flock of -ordinary poultry, or a drove of scrub pigs. There is no profit except -in well-bred, selected stock. That’s what we think we have in pigs and -poultry—perhaps we may get something of the same thing in potatoes. - -But there is one sure thing about digging potatoes—you work up a great -appetite. At noon there came a most welcome parade up the lane. It was -not a woman suffrage procession, but Mother, Aunt Eleanor, Rose and the -little girls bringing the picnic dinner in baskets and pails. The boy had -built a fire up above the Spring and piled stones up around it. By the -time I had washed my hands and face in the brook Mother had a frying pan -over this fire with slices of bacon sizzling and giving up their fat. -When this bacon was brown the slices were taken out and the fat kept on -bubbling and dancing. Then Aunt Eleanor cut up slices of Baldwin apples -and dropped them into this fat. They tell me Ben Davis is best for this -fried-apple performance, but I found no fault with Baldwin as it jumped -out of that fat. The chemist will no doubt explain how the bacon fat -combined with the acid of the apple, etc., etc., etc. Let him talk; it -does him good—but have another fried apple! Men may come and men may go, -but they will seldom find more appetizing food or a more perfect balanced -ration than the Hope Farmers discovered around that fire. There were -bread and butter, fried bacon, fried apple, pot cheese and several of our -choice Red hen’s eggs boiled hard and chopped fine with a little onion. -Of course, eggs are worth good and great money just now, but nothing -is too good for an occasion like this. And so, on that cheerless day, -sitting around our fire, we all concluded that Columbus did a great thing -when he discovered America. - -But our job was not to be ended by eating fried apples and bacon, -pleasant as that occupation is, and when I put out my hand I was obliged -to admit that the first faint evidence of rain was beginning. The larger -boy went back to his rye seeding, and very soon Tom and Broker could be -seen on the lower farm pounding back and forth over the field like gray -giants hauling up the guns. All hands went to picking up potatoes. Mother -picked two bushels and then had to go back to her housework. Little Rose -claimed that she picked up 20 potatoes. Her chief job was to hold on to -her throat and ask if it was not time to eat one more of those sweet -throat tablets I had in my pocket. The rain slowly developed from mist to -good-sized drops. I know what it means to get wet, and in any other cause -I would have left the job, but we were there to finish those potatoes, -and we stayed by it until they were all picked up. The last barrel or two -came up out of the mud, and our hands and feet were surely plastered with -common clay—but we finished our job. Then came the boys with Broker and -the fruit wagon to carry the crop to the barn. One of these boys had on -a rubber coat—the other a sack over his shoulders. They went on up the -hill to get a load of apples and on their way back brought down the Bible -potatoes, where they will dry out and be ready for delivery. When we got -to the barn there was another party after apples. - -We finished it all at last, dried off before the fire and found ourselves -none the worse for the day. In the present condition of my back I would -not from choice go to a dance tonight, but that will limber out in time. -The fire roars away, the rain taps at the window, and we are safe and -warm. We have had our supper, and I suppose I could tell where Aunt -Eleanor has hidden a pan of those famous ginger cookies. I will make it a -one to five chance that I can also find a pan of baked apples. I think I -will not reveal the secret publicly at this time. The Food Administrator -might accuse her of using too much ginger or sweetening! School has been -closed on account of the influenza, but the children are still working -their “examples,” and I give them a few original sums to work out. Little -Rose listens to all this, and finally proposes this one of her own: - -“If a woman paid three cents at a hospital for a baby, how much would a -horse cost?” - -Personally, I will give that up, and go back to the “Life of Columbus.” -The most interesting thing to me is the account of the council of wise -men to whom Columbus tried to explain his theories. They told him that -since the old philosophers and wise men had not discovered any new world, -it was great presumption for an ordinary man to claim that there remained -any great discovery for him to make. Seems to me I have heard that same -argument ever since I was able to read and understand. Perhaps it is well -that all who come, like Columbus, with a theory and vision of new worlds -must fight and endure and suffer before the slow and prejudiced public -will give them a chance. But here comes a message for me to come upstairs -and see a strange thing. Little Rose cannot have her own way, and she has -gone into a passion altogether too big for her little frame. She will not -even let me come near her, and back I come a little sadly to my book and -my fire. They are not quite so satisfying as before. But who comes here? -It is Mother carrying a very pink and repentant morsel of humanity—little -Rose. She hunts up my electric hearing device and with the ear piece at -my ear I hear a trembly little voice saying: - -“_I’s awful sorry!_” - -And that is a fine ending for Liberty Day. Perhaps, like Columbus on that -fateful night at the end of his voyage, this little one sees the first -faint light of a new world! Who knows? - - - - -THE COMMENCEMENT - - -You could hardly have crowded another human into the great hall. From -the gowned and decorated dignitaries on the stage to the great orchestra -in the upper gallery every square foot of floor space was packed, as the -president of the great woman’s college arose to open the commencement -exercises. This followed one of the most impressive scenes I have ever -witnessed. The great audience had been waiting long beyond the appointed -time for starting, when suddenly the orchestra started a slow and stately -march and we all rose. A dignified woman in cap and gown, with soft gray -hair, marched slowly up the aisle, and following her came long lines of -“sweet girl graduates,” as Tennyson puts it. The woman walked to the -steps which led to the stage, and standing there reviewed the long lines -of girls as they filed silently in and occupied the seats reserved for -them. In their black gowns and white bands they seemed, as they were, -a trained and steadfast army. As they seated themselves and rose again -it seemed like the swelling of a great ocean tide. And following them -came men and women who had gained distinction in education or public -life. They, too, were in cap and gown, with bands of red, purple, white, -green or brown, to designate their college or their studies. The bright -sunshine flooded in at the open windows. Outside, the beautiful green -college campus stretched away in gently rolling mounds and little -valleys. I noticed a robin perched on a tree with his head on one side, -calmly viewing the great professor who with the bright red band across -his breast was delivering the address. Very likely this wise bird was -saying, “You should not be too proud of that dash of red on your gown. -There are others! Your red badge is man made. It will not appear on your -children, and it may even be taken from you. The red on my breast is a -finger-print of Nature, and cannot be removed.” - -I know that there are those who would call this impressive service -mere pomp and vain parade, yet, to the plain man and woman sitting in -the front row of the balcony, it all seemed a noble part of a great -proceeding, and a great pride for them. Just where the balcony curved -around like a horseshoe this gray-haired couple sat—just like hundreds of -other men and women who, in other places, with strange thought in mind, -were watching their boys and girls pass out of training into the race of -life. The Hope Farm man is supposed to be a farmer, and “as the husband -so the wife is.” He worked out as hired man for some years and otherwise -qualified for the position, while Mother probably never saw a working -farm before she was married. But at any rate there they were—like the -hundreds of other plain men and women, while down below them the best -work of their lives was coming to fruition. For the daughter was part of -that army in cap and gown and was about to receive her certificate of -education! - -To me one of the most interesting characters in the universe is “the -hen with one chicken”! These women with one child of their own! Having -added just one volume to the book of life it is their duty and privilege -to regard it as a masterpiece. When you come to think of it, what a day, -what a moment, that must have been for a woman like Mother. Here was her -only child, a girl who, from the cradle, had never given her a moment’s -uneasiness or a single lapse of confidence, now standing up big and -straight and fine to take her college degree. It had been the dream of -Mother’s girlhood to go through this same great college, but that had -been denied her. Yet the years had swung around in their relentless march -and here was her daughter, big, trained, fine and unspoiled, making noble -use of the opportunity which failed to knock at her mother’s door! Many -of you women who read this will know that there can be no prouder moment -in a woman’s life. Is it any wonder that there was a very suspicious -moisture on Mother’s glasses as the minister read the 25th chapter of St. -Matthew? - -“_And I was afraid and went and hid thy talent in the earth._” - -Would you not, as she did, have sung with all your power when that great -audience rose like a mighty wave to sing “The Star Spangled Banner”? The -members of the orchestra stood up to play the tune. As you know, a group -of musicians will usually show a large proportion of European faces, but -all these markings of foreign blood faded away as they played, and there -came upon each countenance the light of what we call _Americanism_. - -But what about “father” at such a time and place? Where does _he_ -come in? At a woman’s college he stays out—he is a mere incident, and -properly so. If he is wise he will accept the situation. For this big -girl marching in line has his shoulders and head; she walks as he does, -and people are kind enough to remark, “How much your daughter looks like -you!” Now this is no fly in the ointment of Mother’s pride and joy, -unless you refer to it too much. Far better take a back seat and let the -good lady take full pride in her daughter. I confess that when those 200 -girls sat together at the front of the room, all in cap and gown, and -most of them with their hair arranged alike, I could not be sure of my -own girl until her name was called! My mind was back in the years busy -with many memories. More than a full generation ago at an agricultural -college I walked up to receive my “certificate.” I remember that I had on -some clothes which had been discarded by two other men. I played the part -of tailor to clean and press them into service. There were no be-gowned -and decorated dignitaries on the platform—just a few farmers, several of -them right out of the harvest field. I remember how two of these tired -men fell asleep through our class “orations.” I had in my pocket just -enough money to get me to a farm where I had agreed to cut corn. And -this proud and happy lady beside me! At just about the same time she was -graduating from a normal college at the South. She was then a mere slip -of a pretty girl, not out of her ’teens, with a plain white dress and a -bright ribbon, and no “graduation present” but the bare price of a ticket -home. And within a few weeks she was off, giving the acid test to her -certificate of education by teaching school in Texas! What a world it all -is anyway! The years had ironed out the rather poor scientific farmer and -the smart girl teacher into the parents of this young woman who, as we -fondly hope, has adopted the good qualities of both sides of the house -and cast out the poor ones. A great world, certainly a good world, and -probably a wise one! - -The orator of the day made an impressive speech. He made a powerful -comparison between Crœsus, the rich Persian king, and Leonidas, the -Greek hero. Then he compared the life of the Emperor Tiberius with that -of Jesus. It was a powerful plea for a life of service—for making full -use of training and culture. I saw my old friend the robin on his perch -outside regarding the orator critically. I take him to be one of these -exponents of a “practical” education. Very likely he was saying: - -“Very fine! Very fine! ‘Words, my lord, words.’ But if I had a daughter -I would want more of housekeeping and practical homemaking in her -education. With all your culture and literature you cannot build a house -as my daughter can. You cannot tell when it is time to go South, as we -can, nor can you defend yourself against enemies as we are able to do. -All very fine, no doubt, for human beings, but if birds were educated -with any such ideas the race would be extinct in three generations. -Reading, writing and housekeeping are the only things that women need to -know.” - -I have heard human robins talk in just exactly that way, and for many -years the world listened to them and believed what they said. Their talk -was about like the song of the robin, only not 10 per cent as musical. -They were opposed to the “educated” woman, and most of all to the woman’s -college. There are still some of these pessimists left. I thought of -one in particular as one by one those girls stood up to receive their -diplomas—and the robin flew away in disgust. Woman can never again be set -aside as a slave or underling or inferior partner of man. She has a right -to the best there is in life. Some of those who read this will say, “What -will become of farming if our country women get the idea that they are -entitled to education and culture, as others are?” Farming will be better -off than ever before, because when our women get this idea firmly in mind -we shall all proceed to demand the things which will enable us to give -opportunity to every country girl. - -Of all the wonderful changes in the past 25 years, few have been so -remarkable as the growth of opportunity for women. The full ballot is now -to be given them, and the war opened many a door of industry. Those doors -cannot be shut. They have lost their hinges. A new element is coming into -business and political life. I do not think we need new development of -science or mechanical skill half as much as we need vision, poetry and -the finer imagination. It must be said that while man alone has done -wonders in developing material power he has failed to combine it with -spiritual power. That is what we need today more than anything else, and -I think the finely educated women are to bring it. I was thinking about -this all through that great day. Suppose my daughter and the 200 other -graduates had all been trained as lawyers, doctors, business women, etc.; -would they really benefit the world more than they will now do with -broad, strong culture and with minds stored with the best that literature -can give them? I doubt it. No matter what they may do hereafter, their -lives and their influence will be strong for this sort of training. I can -hardly think of any better missionary to go into a country neighborhood -to live than one of these hopeful, trained and useful young women. Mother -selected the college for her daughter before that young person was out -of her cradle. I thought some more practical training would be better, -but I never had a chance to argue. I now conclude that Mother was right. -She knew what she was doing, and evidently sized up the spirit of her own -flesh and blood. If you ask me what I think is the finest thing about a -college education I can quickly tell you. It is having a son or daughter -go through a great college with credit and come out wholly unspoiled by -the process. It seems to me that most people use the college as a trading -place in life. They bring away from it knowledge and culture, but they -leave behind too much of youth, too much of the plain home life, too much -of the simple, homely, kindly things which the world needs and longs for. -So that we may all pardon Mother her pride and satisfaction as she looks -down upon this big girl in cap and gown and knows that her daughter has -mastered the course at a great college and still remains _her daughter_, -with a sane and fine understanding of her relations to the home and to -society. - -Ideals are what count. One of the most beautiful ceremonies of this -commencement was the placing of the laurel chain. The senior class, -dressed in white, marched to the grave where lies the founder of the -college, carrying a great chain or wreath of laurel. While the students -sang, these seniors draped the laurel around the little fence which -enclosed the grave. It was as if the youngest daughter of the college had -come to pay reverence to the founder. A beautiful ceremony, and after it -was over I went back and copied the inscription on one side of the little -monument. I have seen nothing finer as a message to educated youth. - -“_There is nothing in the universe that I fear but that I shall not know -all my duty or shall fail to do it._” - - - - -“ORGANIZATION” - - -The other day a city man came to the farm after apples. He loaded up -his car and, rendered good-natured by eating three mellow Baldwins, -he proceeded to tell us where farmers were behind the times. It -is a pleasure for many city men to do this and the average farmer -good-naturedly listens, always glad to have his customers enjoy -themselves. This man said he wondered why farmers have never organized -properly so as to defend and control their business. It is quite easy for -a man of large affairs to see what could be done if all the farmers could -get together in a great business organization. - -“The trouble with you folks is that you don’t know how to do team work,” -said my city friend. “Suppose there are twelve million farmers in the -country. Suppose they all joined and organized and pledged by all they -hold sacred to each put up $5.00 every month as a working fund. Suppose -they hired the greatest organizing brain in the country and instructed -its owner and carrier to go to it. It would simply mean world control by -the most patient and deserving class on earth. Why don’t you do it?” - -That’s the way your city business man talks, and he cannot understand -why our farmers do not promptly carry out the plan. Of course that word -“suppose” takes the bottom out of most facts, but it is hard for the -business man to realize why farmers have not been able to do full team -work. This man said that large business enterprises in the city were -controlled by boards of directors. There might be men on the board who -personally hated each other with all the intensity of business hatred. -Yet when it came to a matter of business policy for the company they all -got together and put the proposition through. He said it was different -with a farmer, who if he had trouble with his neighbor over a line fence -would not under any circumstances vote for him even if he stood for a -sound business proposition. - -That is the way many of these city men feel. It is largely a matter of -ignorance through not understanding country conditions. Those of us who -spend our lives among the hills can readily understand why it is hard for -a farmer to surrender a large share of his individuality and put it into -the contribution box of society. Many of us, I fear, would dodge or cheat -the contribution box in church unless we felt we were under the watchful -eye of our wives. Possibly we shall contribute more freely to society now -that our wives and daughters have the privilege of voting. When a man -has lived his life among brick and stone with ancestors who have been -constantly warned to “keep off the grass” he comes to be incapable of -understanding what is probably the greatest problem of American society. -That is the effort to keep our country people contented and feeling -that they are getting a fair share of life, so that they will continue -cheerfully to feed and clothe the world. You cannot convince a man unless -you can understand his language or read his thought. One of the worst -misfortunes of the present day is the fact that city and country have -grown apart, so that they have no common language. - -Those of us who live close to Nature realize that in order to know the -truth we must find - - “Tongues in trees, Books in running Brooks, - Sermons in stones, and good in everything.” - -The trouble with the city man is that he has been denied the blessed -privilege of studying that way. Therefore, if you would make him know why -in the past it has been so difficult for farmers to organize thoroughly -you must go to the primary motives of life and not to the high school. - -When our first brood of children were small, I thought it well to give -them an early lesson in organization. There were four children, and as -Spring came upon us there was a great desire to start a garden. So we -proceeded in the most orderly manner to organize the Hope Farm Garden -Association. We had a constitution and full set of rules and by-laws. -These stated the full duties of all the officers, but somehow we forgot -to provide for the plain laborers. The largest boy was President and the -smaller boy was Vice-President. My little girl was Secretary, and the -other girl Treasurer. It was an ideal arrangement, for each one held an -important office, and all were directors. I had a piece of land plowed -and harrowed. I bought seeds and tools and the Association voted to start -the garden at once. They started under directions of the President and I -went up the hill to work in the orchard. It proved to be a case where the -controlling director should have remained on the job. Halfway up the hill -I glanced back and saw the Hope Farm Garden Association headed for the -rocks. The President and Vice-President were fighting and the Treasurer -and Secretary were crying. No one was working except the black hen, and -she was industriously eating up the seeds. - -I came back to save the Association if possible and the Secretary ran -to meet me with the minutes of the meeting on her cheeks. Her hands had -been in the soil and she had succeeded in transferring a portion of it -to her face. Through this deposit the tears had forced their way in a -track as crooked as the course of the Delaware River, in its effort to -carve the outline of a human face on the western coast of New Jersey. The -poor little Secretary came up the lane with the old industrial cry which -has come down to us out of the ages, tearing apart the efforts of men to -combine and improve their condition. - -“_Oh! Father, don’t the President have to work?_” - -The minutes of the meeting clearly revealed the trouble. It seemed -that the President of the Association made the broad claim that his -duty consisted simply in being President. There was nothing in the -constitution about his working. Of course, a dignified President could -not perform manual labor. The Secretary followed with the claim that her -duty was to write in a book; how could she do that if she worked? Then -came the Treasurer proving by the by-laws that her duty was to hold the -money; if she tried to work at the same time she might lose the cash. So -naturally she could not work. Thus it happened that there was no laborer -left except the Vice-President. He had resigned and the President was -trying to accept his resignation in italics. - -These were the same children who had settled a debate on the previous -Sunday afternoon. The question was whether they would rather have the -minister read his sermon or talk off-hand. The vote was 3 to 1 in favor -of having him read it. The prevailing argument was that when the minister -read his sermon he knew when he got through. The one negative vote was -passed on the hope that when he talked off-hand he might be a little -off-head, forget one or two pages and thus get through sooner. You may -learn from that one reason why it has been so hard in the past for -certain farmers to organize. - -And one reason why there has grown up an industrial advantage in the town -and city may perhaps be learned from another sermon in stones. Some years -ago we had two boys on the farm. Largely in order to keep them busy their -mother made a bargain with them to wash windows. They were to be paid so -much for each window properly cleaned. Of course their mother supposed -that the work would be done in the good old-fashioned way of scrubbing -the glass by hand with a wet cloth. The object was more to keep them busy -than to have any skilled work performed. One boy was a patient plodding -character who did not object seriously to hand labor. He took a cloth -and a pail of hot water and slowly and carefully rubbed off the glass in -the old-fashioned way. The other boy never did like to work and after -some thought he went to the neighbor’s and borrowed a small hand-pump -with a hose and fine nozzle. He filled this with hot water with the soap -dissolved in it and sprayed his windows with the hot mixture. He got them -just as clean as the other boy did, but he did three windows while his -companion was doing one. Then there arose an argument as to whether this -boy with the pump should be paid the same price per window as the other -boy who did the work by hand. These boys both went to the Sunday school -and the boy with the pump was able to refer to the parable of the man -who hired the workmen at different hours during the day. When they came -to settle up the men who had worked all day grumbled because they got -no more than the men who had worked half a day. The answer of the boss -applied to this window washing. “Did I not agree with thee for a penny?” - -Now in a way the city man with his advantage in labor is not unlike the -boy with the pump. The city workman has been able to take advantage of -many industrial developments of much machinery which has not yet reached -the country. Some day there will be an adjustment and then the countryman -will have his inning. - -Some years ago I spent the night with a farmer far back in a country -neighborhood. After supper he described in great detail a plan he had -evolved for organizing all American farmers in one great and powerful -body. His plan was complete and he had worked out every detail except -one which he did not seem to think essential. I looked out of the window -through the dark night and saw a light far down the road. Some neighbor -was at home. I thought it a good time for action. - -“There,” I said, “is a chance to start this big scheme of yours. Down the -road I see the light from your neighbor’s window. Put on your hat, take -the hired man and your boys and we will go right down there and organize -the first chapter of this organization. No time like the present.” - -The farmer’s face clouded. “Why, I haven’t spoken, to that man for three -years. He would not keep up the line fence and I had to go to law and -make him do it.” - -I looked out of the window once more and saw another light to the north -of us dimly visible in the darkness. “Well, then let us go to this other -neighbor. I saw several men there as I came by.” - -“That man! I wouldn’t trust him with fifty cents, and he would be sure to -elect himself Treasurer.” - -“Well, far across the pasture I see still another light. Shall we go -there?” - -“No, that man doesn’t know enough to go in the house when it rains.” - -The farmer’s wife looked up from her sewing as if to speak, but the man -answered for her. - -“Oh, the women meet at the sewing circle and church, and while they talk -about each other they keep together and do things for the neighborhood, -but somehow the men folks don’t get on.” - -Yet here was a man who planned to bring all the farmers of the country -together and yet could not organize his own neighborhood, because men -were kept apart by little prejudices and fancied wrongs. The women -combined because they knew enough to realize that these petty things were -non-essential, while the great community things could only be remembered -by forgetting the meanness of every-day life. - -Your city men will smile at this sermon in stones, and say that those -farmers never can forget their differences and organize. Yet city life is -worse yet. Many a man lives for years within a foot of his neighbor, yet -never knows him. There may be only a brick wall between the two families, -yet they might as well be 10 miles apart, so far as any community feeling -is concerned. If dwellers on any block in the city could combine as a -renting or buying association they would quickly settle the High Cost -of Living burden, but while their interests are all in common they are -unable to play the part of real neighbors. Farmers are coming to it -largely through their women and children and the great National Farm -Organization is by no means impossible for the future. - - - - -THE FACE OF LIBERTY - - -I suppose every person of middle age wears a mask. It is his face, and as -the years go by it settles into an expression of the man’s chief aim in -life, if he can be said to have one. That is why a shrewd observer can -usually tell much of a man’s character by looking keenly in his face and -observing him under excitement. One of the most observing dairymen I know -of says he can tell the quality of a cow by looking at her face. I notice -that the expert hen men who select birds for the poultry contest spend -considerable time looking at the hen’s eye and face! There she seems to -show whether she is a bad egg or a good one! Lady Macbeth put it well -when she said to her terrified husband: - - “Your face, my thane, is as a book - Where men may read strange matters.” - -We all go about wearing a mask, and those who care how they look may well -ask how the mask is made. - -I once roomed with a young man who used to get before a mirror and -practise a smile and a laugh. He was a commercial traveler, and thought -it paid him to laugh at the jokes and smile as he talked. So he trained -the muscles of his face and throat into a machine-made twist and noise -which represented his stock in trade! He wore a mask. I have heard people -say that the face powders and massage and tricks of rolling the eyes -about gave them a mask of beauty. Not long ago I talked with a great -business man who had simply given his life up to the accumulation of -property. He had succeeded, but this success had stamped his face with a -mask as hard and flinty as steel. This man sat and told me that a good -share of his money had been made by his ability to read character in the -face. When he found a man showing indecision or fear in his features this -man knew he could handle him as he saw fit. He claimed that thought or -sentiment had little to do with it; it was simply what a man did or did -not do which made the mask of life. As for this theory that character or -sentiment “light a candle behind the face and illuminate it,” he said -that was simply “poetic nonsense.” “If a woman wanted to be thought -beautiful after she got to be forty she must rub the beauty in from the -outside.” - -This seemed to me a mighty cynical theory, for the most beautiful women I -know of are over fifty and never use anything but soap and water to “rub -the beauty in.” They wear a mask which seems like concentrated sunshine, -and it comes from within. Yet my friend sat there and spoke with all the -conviction of a man who has only to write his name on a piece of paper -to bring a million dollars to support his word. And he had come to think -that is about the only support worth having. I asked him if he had ever -read Hawthorne’s story of “The Old Stone Face.” No, he had never heard of -it before—had no time for fiction or dreaming. So I told him the story -briefly; of the boy who grew up among the hills, within sight of the -“old stone face.” This was a great rock on the side of a high mountain. -The wind and the storm had slowly eaten it away until, when viewed from -a certain angle, it bore a rude resemblance to a human face. It was a -stern, gloomy, thoughtful face, and it seemed to this boy to have been -carved out of the rock by the very hand of God to show the world an ideal -of power and majesty on the human countenance. To most of the neighbors -it was merely “the old man of the mountain”—merely a common rock with an -accidental shape. But this boy grew up to manhood believing in his heart -that God had put on the lonely mountain his ideal of the mask of noble -human character. And the boy went through life thinking that if he could -only find a human being with a face like that on the mountain he would -find a great man—one carrying in his life a great message to mankind. -And so, whenever he heard of any great statesman or poet or preacher -appearing anywhere within reach this man traveled to see him in the -hope of finding the mask of the “stone face” upon the celebrity. He was -always disappointed. These great men all showed on their faces the marks -of dissipation or pride or some weakness of character, along with their -power. He would come back and look up at the face on the mountain—always -showing the same calm dignity and strength whether the happy June -sunshine played over it, or whether the January storm bit at its rude -features. So this man lived his simple life and died—disappointed because -he had never been able to find God’s ideal character worked out in a -human face! One by one men who were considered great came to the valley, -only to disappoint him, but finally, after long years of waiting and -searching, the neighbors suddenly found that their friend, who had -carried the ideal so long in his heart, also carried on his face the -nobility and grandeur of the figure on the mountain. Search for the ideal -in others had brought it home to his own life. - -To my surprise, the rich and strong man who, I supposed, had no poetry or -sentiment in his heart, listened attentively and nodded his head. - -“I have seen that stone face in the White Mountains. Your story of course -is a mere fancy. There might have been some idle dreamer to whom that -happened. I will not deny it, because I know of a case which is somewhat -in the same line. I confess that I would not believe it had I not seen it -myself.” - -So he told his story, and I give it as nearly as possible in his own -words: - -“It must have been fifteen years ago that I was returning from a -business trip to Europe. On the boat I met a college man from my city, -an expert in modern languages. We were much together on the trip, and -one day we went down into the steerage to look over the immigrants. My -friend figured that this group of strange human beings talked with him -in fifteen different languages or dialects. One family in particular -interested me. They were from the south of Poland; a man and woman of -perhaps thirty-five, with two little boys. They were of the dull, heavy, -ox-like type—mere beasts of burden in their own country. The woman seemed -to me just about the plainest, homeliest creature I had ever seen. Low -forehead, flat features, small eyes and great mouth, with huge hands and -feet, she seemed, beside the dainty women of our own party, like some -inferior animal. I offered her a good-sized bill—they looked as if they -needed it—but the woman just pulled her two black-eyed boys closer to her -and refused to take it. - -“They passed out of my mind, until one fine, sunny morning old Sandy Hook -seemed to rise up out of the water, and we headed straight for New York -Harbor. I stood with my college friend in front, looking down upon the -steerage passengers as they crowded forward to get their first view of -America. Strangely enough that little Polish family that had interested -me stood right below us, and my friend could hear what they were saying. -The ship crawled up the harbor, past Staten Island, and then came to -the Statue of Liberty. Most of us have become so familiar with this -bronze beauty that we do not even glance at it. I think her strong, fine -face and uplifted torch mean little more than old-time habit to many -Americans. Not so with that flat-faced, plain Polish woman. As we came -even with the ‘bronze goddess’ this woman tore off the little shawl she -had tied around her head, reached out her hand and talked excitedly to -her husband. My college friend listened to the conversation and laughed. - -“‘What is she saying?’ I asked. - -“‘Why, the poor, homely thing is telling her husband that it would be -the pride and joy of her life if she could only be as beautiful as that -statue—if her face were only like that.’ - -“‘That is the limit. What is _he_ saying?’ - -“‘Just like every other husband. He is telling her that to him she is -handsomer than the old goddess, and for good measure he tells her that -under freedom in America she will come to look like “Miss Liberty.”’ - -“In all my life I had never heard anything so ridiculous, and I laughed -aloud. The little family below us looked up at the sound and saw we were -laughing at them. A great shadow fell over their day dream and they were -silent until we docked, though I noticed that they stood hand in hand all -the way. The story seemed so good that I told it everywhere, and it was -called the standard joke of the season. - -“It faded out of mind and I never thought of it again until about ten -years later one of the foremen in the factory died suddenly. I asked the -manager who should be put in his place. - -“‘Well,’ he said, ‘there is a man out in the shop just fitted for it. I -can’t pronounce his name, but I will bring him in.’ - -“He did; a great black-haired man who looked me right in the eye as I -like to have people do. - -“‘How long have you been in this country?’ I asked. - -“‘Ten years. You may not remember, but I came in the ship with you; in -the steerage, with my wife and two boys.’ - -“It flashed into my mind at once; this was what America had done for the -man. I smiled as I thought of the flat-faced woman who wanted to look -like the Goddess of Liberty, and the man whose faith in America was such -that he told her this dream could come true. - -“The man more than made good. It is wonderful how things happen in this -country. Those two black-eyed boys were at school with my boy and played -on the football team with him. They were all three to go to college -together. - -“Then you know how, before we entered the war, the women organized to do -Red Cross work? One day my wife came home and told me how a Polish woman -had made the most wonderful talk before her society. Before we knew it -America had entered the war, and we were all at it. You couldn’t keep my -boy here. He volunteered the first week after war was declared, and these -two black-haired boys belonging to my foreman volunteered with him, and -they all went over the sea to fight for America. - -“I had not seen their mother, and I was curious to see what she looked -like after American competence and success had been rubbed in. We had a -big parade in our town during one of the Liberty Loan drives, and there -was one division of women who carried service flags. I stood in the -window of my club watching the parade, and as it happened within six feet -of me on the sidewalk stood John, my foreman. I did not laugh this time, -nor was he shamed into silence for what he thought of his wife. - -“Oh, how that war did stir up and level the elements of American society! -There passed before us in parade, side by side, my wife with a service -flag of one star and John’s wife with two stars in her flag! And as they -passed they turned and looked at us. My wife told me later that they had -been talking as they marched. My wife had asked her comrade if she did -not feel dreadfully to think of her two great boys far away in France. -And the woman with the flat, homely face had answered: - -“‘No, I feel glorified to think that I, the poor immigrant woman, can -offer my boys in part payment for what America has done for me and my -people.’ - -“And it was just then that I saw her face. I give you my word that at -that moment it was the most beautiful face I ever saw. There was a calm -beauty and dignity, a light of joy upon it which made me forget the flat -nose, the narrow forehead and the great mouth. They passed on, and John, -the foreman, looked up at me. We were both thinking the same thing, -master and man though we were. I couldn’t reach him with my hand, but I -did say: - -“‘John, she has had her life wish. She has come to look like the Goddess -of Liberty. It was a miracle.’ - -“And John answered in his slow, thoughtful way: - -“‘No, not a miracle—always she has had that great spirit in her heart; -always that great love in her soul. She has kept that love and spirit -pure all through these hard years, and now at the great sacrifice it -shone out through her face. Said I not right that my wife would come to -be the most beautiful woman on earth?’” - -My friend told the story in a matter-of-fact way, and then fell into a -silence. I did not ask him how he reconciled this experience with his -statement that beauty is rubbed in from the outside. It wasn’t worth -while; we both knew better. The face of mature years is a mask. It is the -candle behind it that gives it character and beauty. - - - - -CAPTAIN RANDALL’S HOUR - - -Uncle Isaac Randall was the last Grand Army man in our town. All the -other old comrades had passed on. As a boy I used to try to imagine what -“the last Grand Army man” would be like. Poets and artists have tried to -picture him, but when he actually appears you know how far the real must -travel to reach the ideal. For poet and artist would have us look upon -some calm, dignified man, carried by the wings of great achievement far -above the mean and petty things of life which surround us like a thick -fog in a narrow valley. For that, I fear, is what most of us find life -to be unless the memory of some great sacrifice or some great devotion -can lift our heads up into the perpetual sunshine. Those who knew Uncle -Isaac saw little of the hero about him. He was just a little, thin, -nervous man, very deaf, irritable and disappointed. No one can play the -part of a deaf man with any approach to success unless he be a genuine -philosopher, and Uncle Isaac was unfitted by nature for that. Sometimes -in Summer, when the sun went down, you would see the old man standing in -the barn looking off to the crimson West, over the purpling hills where -the shadows came creeping up from the valley. A man with some poetry and -philosophy would have seen in the darkening notch where the hills gave -way, to let the road pass through, an approach to the beautiful gate -through which wife and children and old comrades had passed on, to wait -for him beyond the hills. But Uncle Isaac was cursed with that curiosity -which is the torture of the deaf—he saw the hired man up on the hill -talking to the neighbor’s boy, and his burning desire was to know what -they were talking about as they stood in the twilight. - -The Great War came, and Uncle Isaac’s two grandsons volunteered. Before -they shipped overseas they came back to the farm—very trim and natty -in their brown uniforms. It irritated the old man to think that these -boys—hardly more than babies—hardly to be trusted to milk a kicking -cow—should be sent to fight America’s battles. And those little rifles! -They were not much better than popguns, compared with his old army -musket. The old man took the gun down from the nail where it had hung for -years. He had kept it polished, and the lock with its percussion cap was -still working. He would show these young sniffs what real warfare meant. -So they went out in the pasture—the old soldier carrying his musket, -carefully loaded with a round bullet—pushed in with the iron ramrod. In -order to show these boy soldiers what real warfare might be, the old man -sighted the musket over the fence and aimed at a board about 300 yards -away. The bullet went at least five feet wide, while the old musket -kicked back so hard that Uncle Isaac winced with the pain. Then one of -the boys quietly raised his “popgun” and aimed at a bush at least half -a mile away across the valley. In a fraction of a minute he fired half -a dozen bullets which tore up the ground all around that bush. Then the -boys hung one of their brown uniforms on the fence across the pasture, -and put Grandpa’s old blue coat beside it. You could hardly distinguish -the brown coat against the background, while the blue coat stood out -like a target. It was hard for the old man to realize that both he and -his musket belonged to a vanished past. The boys looked at the gun and -at Grandpa marching home—trying to throw his old shoulders back into -military form—and smiled knowingly at each other as youth has ever done -in the pride of its power. They could not see—who of us ever can see?—the -spiritual forces of patriotism which walked beside the old man, waiting -for the time to show their power. - -The weeks went by, and day by day Grandpa read his paper with growing -indignation. You remember how for months the army in France seemed to -stand still before that great “Hindenburg line” which stretched out like -an iron wall in front of Germany. It seemed to Uncle Isaac as if his boys -and the rest of the army were cowards—afraid to march up to the line and -fight. One day he threw down his paper and expressed himself fully, as -only an old soldier can. - -“I told you those boys never would fight. At the Battle of the Wilderness -Lee had a line of defense twice as strong as this Hindenburg ever had. -Did General Grant sit still and wait for something to happen? Not much! - -“‘Forward by the left flank!’ - -“That was the order, and we went forward. Don’t you know what he said -at Fort Donelson? ‘I propose to move on your works at once.’ If General -Grant was in France that’s what he’d say, and within an hour you’d -see old Hindenburg coming out to surrender! My regiment fought all day -against a regiment from North Carolina. I’ll tell you what! Let me have -my old regiment and that North Carolina regiment alongside and I’ll -guarantee that we will break right through that Hindenburg line, march -right across the Rhine, hog-tie the Kaiser and bring him back with us.” - -“But, father,” said his daughter gently, “don’t you remember what Harry -writes? They don’t fight that way now. The cannon must open a way first. -Harry says they fire shells so large and powerful that when they strike -the ground they make a hole so large you could put the barn into it. -Suppose one of these big shells struck in the middle of your regiment?” - -“I don’t care,” said Uncle Isaac. “_We’d start, anyway! We’d move on -those breastworks and take our chances!_” - -And mother wrote about it to her boys in the army over in France. The -young fellows laughed at the thought of those old white-haired men, -with their antiquated weapons, lined up before the death-dealing power -of Germany. It seemed such a foolish thing to youth. The letter finally -came to the grey-haired colonel of the regiment—an elderly man who had -in some way held his army place in the ocean of youth which surrounded -him. His eyes were moist as he read it, for he knew that if that group of -wasted, white-haired men had lined up in front of the army they would not -have been alone. Down the aisles of history would have come a throng of -old heroes—the spirit of the past would have stood with them. They would -have stilled the laughter, and if these old veterans had started forward -the whole great army would have thrown off restraint, broken orders and -followed them through the “Hindenburg line.” - -But Uncle Isaac, at home, humiliated and sad, went about the farm with -something like a prayer in his old heart. - -“Why can’t _I_ do something to help? Don’t make me know my fighting days -are over. What can _I_ do?” - -And Uncle Isaac finally had his chance. Perhaps you remember how at one -time during the war things seemed dark enough. Our boys were swarming -across the ocean, and submarines were watching for them. Food was -scarce. Frost and storm had turned against us. Money was flowing out -like water. Spies and German sympathizers were poisoning the public -mind, and the Liberty Loan campaign was lagging. Uncle Isaac, reading -it all day by day in his paper, felt like a man in prison galled to -the soul by his inability to help. There came a big patriotic meeting -at the county town. It was a factory town with many European laborers. -They were restless and uneasy, opposed to the draft, tired of the war -and not yet in full sympathy with America. Uncle Isaac determined to go -to this meeting, though his daughter did all she could to dissuade him. -There was no stopping him when he once made up his mind, so his daughter -let him have his way, but she sent old John Zabriski along with him. -Old John was a German Pole who came to this country as a young man out -of the German army. He had lived on Uncle Isaac’s farm for years, and -just as a cabbage or a tomato plant seems the stronger and better for -transplanting, so this transplanted European in the soil of this country -had grown into the noblest type of American. So the daughter, standing in -the farmhouse door with eyes that were a little dimmed, watched these two -old men drive away to the meeting. - -They had the speaker’s stand in front of the court house. The street -was packed with a great crowd. Right in front was a group of sullen, -defiant foreigners who had evidently come for trouble. The sheriff was -afraid of them, and inside the court house out of sight, but ready for -instant service, was a squad of soldiers. A young man who was running -for the Legislature caught sight of Uncle Isaac and led him through the -court house to the speaker’s platform, and John went, too, as bodyguard. -The old veteran sat there in his blue coat and hat with the gold braid, -unable to hear a word, but full of the spirit which had come down to him -from the old days. - -Something was wrong. Even Uncle Isaac could see that, and John Zabriski -beside him looked grave and anxious. That solid group of rough men in -front began to sway back and forth like the movement of water when the -high wind blows over it, and a sullen murmur, growing louder, came from -the crowd. A small, effeminate-looking man was making a speech. Very -likely his ancestors came originally to this country two centuries ago, -but somewhere back in the years this man’s forebears had made a fortune. -Instead of serving as a tool to spur the family on to finer things it had -been spread out like a soft cushion to carry them through life without a -bruise or bump. And these rough men, whose life had been all bruise and -turmoil, knew that this soft little American was here talking platitudes -when he should have been over in France. Perhaps you have never heard the -angry murmur of a sullen crowd grow into a roar of rage, until the crowd -becomes like a wild beast. The sheriff had heard this, and he was frankly -frightened. He started a messenger back into the court house to notify -the soldiers, but old John Zabriski stopped him. - -“Wait,” he said, “do not that. You lose those men by fighting. We gain -them.” - -Then, before anyone could stop him, old John stepped up in front and -barked out strange words which seemed like a command. Then a curious -thing happened. The angry murmur stilled. The crowd stopped its movement, -and then every man stood at attention! Almost every man there had in -former years served in one of the European armies, and what old John -had barked at them was the old army command which had been drilled into -them years before. And through force of habit which had become instinct, -that order, for the moment, changed that mob into an army of attentive -soldiers. The bandmaster was a man of imagination, and as quickly as -his men could catch up their instruments they began playing “The Star -Spangled Banner.” Poor old Uncle Isaac heard nothing of this. He could -only guess what it was all about until John Zabriski laboriously wrote on -a piece of paper: - -“Dey blay der Shtar Banner!” - -Then there came into Uncle Isaac’s sad life the great, glorious joy of -power and opportunity. He walked down to the front of the stage, took off -his gold-braided hat and bowed his white head before them all. And old -John Zabriski, the transplanted European, came and stood at his side. A -young woman, dressed all in white, caught up a flag and came and stood -beside the two old men. Then a wounded soldier with one empty sleeve -pinned to his breast followed her. And there in that sunlit street a -great, holy silence fell over that vast crowd. For there before them on -that platform stood the glory, the pride, the precious legacy of American -history. The last Grand Army man, the European peasant made over into -an American, and the young people who represented the promise and hope -shining in the legacy which men like Uncle Isaac and John Zabriski have -given them. - -When the band stopped playing a mighty cheer went up from that great -crowd, and one by one the men of that sullen group in front took off -their hats and joined in the cheering. They made Uncle Isaac get up again -and again to salute, and no less a person than Judge Bradley shook both -hands and said: - -“We all thank you, Captain Randall. You have saved this great meeting and -made this town solidly patriotic.” It was a proud old soldier who marched -into the farmhouse kitchen that night, and in answer to his daughter’s -questioning eyes he said: - -“Annie, I want you to write those boys all about it. Tell ’em they are -not doing it all. Tell ’em Judge Bradley called me cap’n and said I saved -the meeting. I only wish General Grant could have been there!” - -All of which goes to show that those of you who have come to white hair -should not feel that you are out of the game yet. Material things may go -by us, but the spirit of the good old days is still the last resort! - - - - -“SNOW BOUND” - - -This is the one night of the year for reading “Snow Bound.” Every man -with New England blood in his veins should read Whittier’s poem at least -once a year. That becomes as much of a habit as eating baked beans and -fishballs. For two days now the storm has roared over our hills and shut -us in. It must have been on just such a night as this that Emerson wrote: - - “The sled and traveler stopped; the courier’s feet - Delayed; all friends shut out, the housemates sit - Around the radiant fireplace enclosed - In a tumultuous privacy of storm.” - -Of course, Emerson lived at a time when the telephone and the electric -light and the steam-heated house were dreams too obscure even for his -great mind to comprehend. So, in spite of this fearful storm, the strong -arm of the electric current still reaches our house, and while the -telephone is slow, we can get our message through, after a fashion. But -we are shut in. The car and the truck are useless tonight. The horses -stamp contentedly in the barn—not troubling about the head-high drifts -which are piled along the roadway. A bad night for a fire or for a hurry -call for the doctor; but why worry about that as we sit here before the -fire? - -I got my copy of “Snow Bound” in 1872, and I have read the poem at least -once each year since, and I have carried it all over the country with -me. It is a little shabby now, but somehow that is the way I like to see -old friends: - - “Shut in from all the world without - We sat the clean winged hearth about, - Content to let the north wind roar - In baffled rage at pane and door, - While the red logs before us beat - The frost-line back with tropic heat. - - ... - - “Between the andiron’s straddling feet - The mug of cider simmered low, - The apples sputtered in a row - And close at hand the basket stood - With nuts from brown October’s wood. - - ... - - “What matter how the night behaved? - What matter how the north wind raved? - Blow high, blow low, not all its snow - Could quench our hearth fire’s ruddy glow.” - - ... - -There is no finer picture of the old-time Northern farm home, and we -Yankees are bound to think that with all her faults New England did in -those days set the world an example of what a farm home ought to be. So I -lay aside the book and look about me to see how close New Jersey can come -on this fearful night to matching this old-time picture. - -Here we are before the fire. Great logs of apple wood are blazing up -into the black chimney. In Whittier’s day the open fire produced all the -light, but here we have our electric light blazing, and I think as I sit -here how miles away the great engines are working to send the current -far up among the lonely hills to our home. For supper we had a thick -tomato soup, a big dish of cornmeal mush—the grain ground in our little -grinder—pot cheese, entire wheat bread and butter, baked apples and -all the milk we could drink. Just run that over and see if it does not -furnish as fine a balanced ration and as good a lot of vitamines as any -$2 dinner in New York—and nearly 80 per cent of it was produced on this -farm. Now the girls have washed the dishes and planned breakfast, and -here we are. Mother sits in the first choice of seats before the fire. -That is where she belongs. She is mending a pair of stockings, and as -her fingers fly, no doubt she is thinking of those warmer days back in -Mississippi. My daughter has just put a new record into her Victrola. The -music comes softly to us—“Juanita.” - - “Soft o’er the fountain - Lingering falls the Southern moon.” - -I wonder what Whittier’s folks would have said to that! Two of the little -girls are looking over some music, trying to get the air in “I dreamt -that I dwelt in marble halls!” There is no “frost line” in this house for -the fire to drive back, for there is a good hot-water radiator in the -corner. The pipe from the spring seems to have frozen, but the faithful -old windmill, standing over the well at the barn, has stretched out its -arms to catch this roaring gale and make it carry the water up to the -tank. Thomas and three of the boys are playing parchesi, while the rest -of the company give them all advice about playing from time to time. I -have a big chair by the corner of the fireplace—where grandfather is -supposed to sit—and little Rose is curled up on my lap eating an apple. I -wish you were here. We could easily make room for you right in front of -the fire, and we would surely call on you for a new story. - -The wind is howling on the outside. As we sit here in comfort there comes -an eager, pitiful face at the window pleading to be taken in. No, it is -not the old story of the wayward child coming back to the lights of home. -The nearest we can come to that at Hope Farm is the black cat with the -dash of white at her face and throat. She and her tribe are expected to -stay at the barn and catch rats, but there she is out in the cold looking -in at the window. Mother is as stern as a Spartan mother when it comes to -cats in the house. She _will not_ have them there. But, after all, they -are Hope Farm folks, and the little girls plead so hard that the good -lady looks the other way when the baby opens the door. In comes the black -cat and, though they were not invited, three of her brothers and sisters -run in with her! So now I shall sit with little Rose on my lap, while on -her lap is a cushion on which the white-faced kitty purrs contentedly. In -the original “Snow Bound” the mug of cider simmered between the andirons. -No hot drinks for us. A little of that cold pasteurized apple juice goes -well. We see no use in cooking apples before the fire. There is that -big basket of Baldwins by the table. Help yourself—we like them cold. -Cherry-top was ahead in the game, but Thomas has just taken his leading -“man” and sent him back to the starting point. The boy is a good sport. -He takes a big bite out of a fresh Baldwin and goes after them again. -The nearest we can come to “nuts from brown October’s wood” is a big bag -of roasted peanuts. We have all been eating them and throwing the hulls -at the fire. They have accumulated so that Mother’s idea of neatness -compels her to get up and brush them all into the blaze. I did not tell -you that we are starting up our little Florida farm again. Jack will grow -a crop of sugar cane and peanuts. - -And so, here in New Jersey, as well as in old-time New England, we care -not how the wind blows or how the storm roars. This is home, and we are -satisfied with it—all of us, from the white-faced kitty up to the Hope -Farm man. We have all worked to make this home. It is a co-operative -affair. None of us could be called rich or great, yet nothing could ever -buy what we see in our big fire. Every now and then Mother looks up from -her work and glances across the room at me with a smile. I know what she -has in mind. Some of us rise to the power of animals in our ability to -communicate thought without words. Life has been very much of a fight -with us, but it seems worth while as we look at this big room full of -eager young people, content and happy with the simple things of life. -As little Rose snuggles up closer to me and pulls the kitty with her I -begin to think of some of the complaining fault-finding people I know. -I _do_ know some star performers at the job of pitying themselves and -magnifying their own troubles. On a night like this I will wager an apple -that they are pouring out the gloom and trouble like a man tipping over -a barrel of cold water. It’s their rheumatism or their debts or the -Administration or the Republican party, or something else that they hold -responsible for their troubles. I wish I could have some of those fellows -here tonight, and also some of you folks who know the joy of looking on -the bright side. We would do our best to rub some of the gloom out of -them. I will guarantee that any one of us could, if we wanted to, tell -the truth about our own troubles so that these gloomy individuals would -look like “pikers” in their poor little self-pity! I would like to read -extracts from two new books to them. One is “A Labrador Doctor,” by W. T. -Grenfell; the other, “The Great Hunger,” by John Bojer. - -I have just been reading these books, and I shall read them over again. -Dr. Grenfell has given his life to service in the far North among the -fishermen of Labrador. A man of his ability could easily have gained -fame and wealth by practising his profession in some great city. He went -where he was most needed—into the cold, lonely places where humanity -hungers and suffers for help. It has always seemed to me just about the -noblest thing in life for a man of great natural ability to gain what -science and education can give him and carry that great gift out to those -who need it most. Grenfell did that, and this modest story of his life -is wonderful to anyone who can get the message. I have always thought -that the greatest teachers and preachers and wise men generally are -not so much needed in the big cities as in the lonely country places. -The city owes all it has in men and money to the country, but it will -seldom acknowledge the gift. The city itself is able to offer as a gift -knowledge, science and training. Yet those who receive this gift desire -for the most part to remain in the city, when they should carry their -gift out into the lonely and hard places where the city must finally go -for strength. The storm seems hard tonight, but it is a mere zephyr to -the Winters which Dr. Grenfell’s people endure. I wish I could tell you -some of the wonderful things which have happened in that lonely land. At -one place the doctor found a girl dying of typhoid. There was no way of -saving her, and as soon as she was buried it was necessary to burn the -rude bunk and the straw in which she lay. They carried it to the top of -a hill and built a fire. For several days one of the fishing boats had -been lost at sea in the fog, and had been given up for lost with all on -board. The despairing men in that boat—far out at sea—saw the light when -that hideous bed was burned and were able to get to land! Some of you -self-pitying people ought to read how Dr. Grenfell organized a little -orphans’ home to care for the little waifs of this lonely place. In one -case a little girl of four, while her father was away hunting, crawled -out into the snow, so that both legs were badly frozen. Gangrene set in -halfway to the knee, and the father actually chopped both legs off to -save her life! Think of such a child in the frozen North. I think of -her as little Rose hugs the kitty close. Dr. Grenfell took this child, -operated on her, obtained artificial legs, and now she can run about like -other children. I wish I could tell you more about this book. At one -time two men came together after medicine. One took a bottle of cough -mixture, the other a strong turpentine liniment for a sprained knee. By -mistake they mixed up the medicine. One rubbed the cough medicine on -his knee, the other drank the liniment. If I had some fellow who thinks -the Lord has put a special curse on him before our fire tonight I would -tell him what others have endured. The chances are we could make him -contribute something to the cause before we were done with him. - -The other book I mentioned, “The Great Hunger,” is a story of Norwegian -life and, as I think, very powerful. A boy born to poverty and disgrace -grew up with a great hunger in his heart—he knew not what it was. He felt -that power and material wealth would bring him the happiness he sought. -He gained education, power, wealth and love, yet still the great hunger -tortured him. Poverty, sickness, the deepest sorrow fell upon him, and -at last the great hunger was satisfied by doing a needed service for the -man who had done him the most hideous wrong! I wish I could tell you more -about it. It is a powerful book; but it is time for little Rose to go to -bed. Off she goes with a hug for all, and the children follow her one by -one. I am not going to put more logs on that fire. Let it die down. The -end of the day has come. Let the storm howl through the night like a pack -of wolves at the door. They cannot get at us. Even if they did they can -never destroy the memory of this night. - - - - -“CLASS” - - -The other day the papers announced the death of the ex-Empress Eugénie. -She lingered along, feeble and half-blind, until she was nearly 95 years -old. She has been called “the Queen of Sorrows,” for few other women have -lived a sadder life. Very few of this generation knew or cared anything -about her. I presume most of our young people skipped the details of her -life as given in the papers. Yet when I was a boy, shortly before the -war between France and Germany, the women of the world regarded this sad -empress as the great model of beauty and fashion. I suppose it would -be hard for women in these days to realize how this beautiful empress -dictated to people in every land how they should arrange their hair and -wear their dresses. At that time most women wore their hair in short nets -bunched just below the neck, and it was the age of “hoopskirts”—most of -them, as it seemed, four to five feet wide. Just how this woman managed -to put her ideas of fashion into the imagination of her sisters I never -could understand. From the big city to the little backwoods hamlet women -were studying to see what “Ugeeny” advised them to wear. I have often -wondered if in her last days the poor, blind, feeble woman remembered -those days of power. - -Her death brings to mind an incident that had long been forgotten. I -had been sent to one of the neighbors to borrow some milk, since our -cow was dry. In those days, any caller—even a little boy—was like a -pond in which one went fishing for compliments. The woman of the house, -an immense, fat creature, with the shape of a barrel, a short, thick -neck and a round moon face, had arrayed herself in glad clothes of the -latest style—several years, I imagine, behind Paris. She wore an immense -hoopskirt, which gave her the appearance of walking inside of a hogshead. -Her hair was parted in the middle and brought down beside her wide face -to be caught in a net just below her ears. I know so little and care so -much less about style in clothes that I can remember in detail only two -costumes that I have ever seen women wear. This outfit is one of them. - -“This is just what Ugeeny is wearing,” said the fat lady as she poured -out the milk. “You can tell your aunt that you have seen one lady dressed -just like Paris.” - -It did not strike me as very impressive, but I was glad to have the -experience. - -“You can tell her, too, that a very fine gentleman came here today and -said I looked enough like Ugeeny to be her half-sister—dressed as I am -now. He has been in Paris, too.” - -“It was a book agent,” put in her husband, “and sold her a book on the -strength of that yarn. Say, Mary, you don’t look any more like Ugeeny -than old Spot does—and you don’t need to.” - -“The trouble with you, John Drake, is that you have no idea of beauty.” - -“I know it. I may not have any soul, but I’ve got a stomach, and I know -that you can make the best doughnuts and Indian pudding ever made in -Bristol County. That’s more than Ugeeny ever did, or ever can do. You are -worth three of her for practical value to the world, and I think you a -handsome woman—but you can’t look like her, because you haven’t got the -shape, and I’m glad of it.” - -But where was there ever a woman who could be satisfied with such evident -truth, and who did not reach out after the impossible? She turned to old -Grandpa, who sat back in the corner, away from the light. - -“Now, Grandpa, you seen a lot of the world. What do you say? Don’t I look -like Ugeeny?” - -Old Grandpa nodded his white head and looked at her critically. - -“You’re in her class, Mary—that’s what I’ll say—you’re in her class!” - -“You’re in her class,” repeated Grandpa. “The people in this world are -divided into two classes—strung together like beads on different strings. -Some strings are like character, others like looks or shape or thinking -or maybe meanness. You can’t get out of your class—for the Lord organized -it and teaches it. You look at me; I’m in the class with some of the -finest men that ever lived on earth!” - -“Now, Mary, see what you’ve done,” said John Drake. “You’ve got Grandpa -started on that class business. He’s worse than Ugeeny.” - -But Grandpa went right ahead. “Ain’t I in the class with the old and -new prophets? Here I have for years been telling what is coming to the -world. Folks won’t always be down as they are now. My wife killed herself -carrying water and fuel to get up vittles and keep the house clean. -Some day or ’nuther every farmhouse will have water and heat and light -right inside. There’ll be power to do all this heavy work. In those days -farmers will be kings.” - -The old man’s face lighted up as he talked. - -“You don’t believe me now, but it will all come. I’m out ahead of the -crowd. So was Wendell Phillips and William Lloyd Garrison and Charles -Sumner on the slavery question. Folks hooted at them, laughed them down -and did all they could to stop their ideas. But you can’t stop one of -these ideas when there’s a man back of it. Those men lived to see what -the world called fool notions made into wisdom. They just had visions -which don’t come to common men. That’s what I’ve got now, and what I ask -is, _Ain’t I in their class?_” - -“If I was in your place I wouldn’t mind, Grandpa,” said Mary, as she -shook out that great hoopskirt. “That’s not good talk for boys; it makes -them discontented!” - -“But that’s why they’ve got to be if the world is going ahead,” put in -Grandpa. “What’s the matter with farming today, I’ll ask? Education has -all gone to other things. Farmers think the common schools are plenty -good enough for farmers, while the colleges are all for lawyers and -such like. You mark what I say—some day or ’nuther there will be _farm_ -colleges as big as any, where farming will be taught just like lawing or -doctoring. Then people will see that farming is _agriculture_, and the -difference between the two will change the world. This Ugeeny doesn’t -amount to much as a woman, and I don’t believe this Prince Imperial will -ever rule France, but Ugeeny has put women like Mary _in her class_. -These clothes look foolish to me, but every woman who follows Ugeeny in -dress gets into her class, and it’s like a schoolgirl passing from one -grade to another, for some day they’ll pass out of that hoopskirt and -that bob net for their hair and rise up to better things, and it will -be Ugeeny that started them. She may be only a painted doll, but she -has given the women ideas of beauty and something better than common. -Sometime or ’nuther you will see the result of her idle life. That’s -why I say Mary’s in Ugeeny’s class. She’s got the vision of beauty and -something far ahead of you, John. You are smart and strong, but Mary’s -getting _class_. That hoopskirt and that net are not prisons—they help to -set her free.” - -“Well, Grandpa,” said John, good-naturedly, “I suppose, according to you, -I ought to put on a swallow-tailed coat every time I milk.” - -“No; not when you milk, John, but if you shaved every day and put on your -best clothes once a day for supper, you would get in the upper class, -and carry your boys with you. But I ask this boy here, _ain’t I in their -class_?” - -I was sure of it, but just then we heard the horn sounding far down the -road. I knew that Uncle Daniel had grown tired of waiting for the milk, -so he blew the horn to remind me that I was still in the class of errand -boys. - -In August of that year I went up on Black Mount after huckleberries, -and ran upon Grandpa once more. He sat on a rock resting, while Mary and -three children were picking near by. The hill was thick with a tangle of -berry vines and briars, with snakes and woodchucks as sole inhabitants. -Old Grandpa sat on the rock and waved his stick about. - -“In my younger days this hill was a cornfield. I have seen it all in -wheat. Farmers let education and money get away, and, of course, the -best boys chased out after them. But it won’t always be so. Some day or -’nuther this field will come back. It won’t pay in these coming days to -raise huckleberries in this way. They will be raised in gardens like -strawberries and raspberries. This hill will have to produce something -that is worth more—peaches or apples.” - -“But how can they make peaches grow on this sour hill, Grandpa?” asked -one of the boys. “There’s a seedling now—10 years old and not four feet -high!” - -“They will bring in lime for the soil as they will coal in place of wood. -I don’t know how it will be done, but some day or ’nuther they will use -yeast in the soil as they do in bread to make it come up, and they’ll -harness the lightning to ’lectrify it. You wait till these farm colleges -give us knowledge. And farmers, too. They won’t always stand back and -fight each other and backbite and try to get each other’s hide. Some day -or ’nuther grown-up men and women are going to see what life ought to be. -They will come together to live, instead of standing apart to die. I may -not see it, and people laugh at me for saying what I know must come true. -But didn’t they laugh at Columbus? Didn’t they try to kill Galileo? -Wasn’t Morse voted a fool? Hasn’t it always been so with the men and -women who looked far over the valley and saw the light ahead? And, tell -me this: _Ain’t I in their class?_” - -That was 50 years and more ago. I had forgotten it, and yet when I read -the headlines announcing the death of Empress Eugénie I had to put the -paper down, for there rose before me a picture of that sunny Summer day -on the New England hills. On the rock in that lonely pasture sat old -Grandpa pointing with his stick far across the rolling valley, far to the -shadow on the distant hills, where he knew the immortals were awaiting -him—as one who had kept his soul clean and his faith undimmed. I wish I -could look across the valley to the distant hills with the sublime hope -with which he asked his old question: - -“_Ain’t I in their class?_” - -A year or two ago I went back to the old town. Ah, but if Grandpa could -see it now! The old house with its “beau” windows and new roof seemed -to be dressed with as much taste as Eugénie would be if she were still -Empress of France. There were power and light and heat all through it. -Two boys and a girl were home from an agricultural college—one of the -boys being manager of the local selling organization. Black Mount was a -forest of McIntosh and Baldwin apple trees, the old swamp was drained and -lay a thick mat of clover. Grandpa’s vision had come true—all but one -thing. Education and power had brought material things, which would have -seemed to be miracles to John and Mary. Yet farmers were not “kings,” -after all, as Grandpa said they would be, for there was still discontent -and talk of injustice. But, after all, that is what Grandpa said—“That’s -what they’ve got to be, if the world is going ahead.” - -Perhaps, after all, a “divine discontent” is the noblest legacy of the -ages. - -But in the churchyard back in one corner I came upon Grandpa’s grave. It -was not very well cared for. It had not been trimmed. A bird had made -her nest and reared her brood right by the side of the headstone. It was -a lonely place. As I stood there a cow in the adjoining pasture put her -head over the stone wall and tried to gnaw the grass on that neglected -grave. And this was what they had carved on the stone: - - “_The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away!_” - -If I could have my way I would put up another stone with this inscription: - - GRANDPA. - - “_He has entered their class._” - - - - -“I’LL TELL GOD” - - -Just at this time many people seem to be concerned about what they call -“the unseen world.” That means the state of existence after death. Many -of our readers have written asking what I think or know about this. Most -of those who write me seem to be living in lonely places or under rather -hard conditions. They have all lost wife or husband, parent, child, or -some dear friend. Now like most other reasoning people, I have tried to -imagine what really happens to a human being after what we call death, -and I have had some curious experiences which you might or might not -credit. When I was a boy, I was thrown much into the society of avowed -spiritualists. I knew several so-called “mediums” and attended many -“séances.” The evident clumsy and vulgar “fakes” about most of those -things disgusted me, yet I must admit that some of these “mediums” did -possess a strange and peculiar power which I have never been able to -understand. - -Most of these sincere “mediums” seemed to be people who had suffered -greatly and had carried through life some great affliction or trouble -over which they constantly brooded. I have come to believe that the blind -and deaf and all seriously afflicted see and understand things which most -others do not. An afflicted person is forced to develop extraordinary -power in order to make up for the loss of the missing limb or organ or -faculty. The blind man must learn to see with his fingers and his ears. -The deaf man must hear with his eyes or develop a sort of quick judgment -or instinct of decision. The man plunged into grief or despondency at -the loss of fortune, friends or health must rise out of it through some -extraordinary development of faith and hope and will-power. Someone has -said that the blind or deaf man is “half dead,” and in his efforts to do -anything like a full man’s work in the world, he must borrow power from -the great “unseen world.” For example, I will ask you this question: Take -a woman like Helen Keller, without sight or speech or hearing. Take a man -who is totally deaf and also blind—_how would they know physically when -they are dead_? I think I can understand why it is that real advancement -in true religion and Christian thought has for the most part been made by -some “man of sorrows,” or people who through great affliction have been -forced to go to the “unseen world” for help! - -Years ago, in a Western State, there lived a farmer. I do not know -whether he is living now or not. Perhaps he will read this. Perhaps he -has gone into the silent country to learn what influence the little -child had with the Ruler of the universe. This man was deaf. Through -long years, his hearing had slowly failed and its going left a dark -discouragement upon him. He owned his farm and was moderately well-to-do. -A hard worker and honest man, he went about his work mechanically, -through habit, with a great hunger in his heart. He did not know what it -was; a longing for human sympathy and love. His wife was a good woman -but all her childhood had been starved of sympathy and poetry and she -could not understand. She made her husband comfortable and loved him -in her strange, inexpressive way, but it is hard, after all, to get -over the feeling that the afflicted are abnormal and strange. They had -no children, their one little girl had died in babyhood. Sometimes at -night you would see the deaf man standing in the barnyard at the gate, -looking off over the hills to the west where the clouds were glorious -in the sunset. And his practical wife would see him standing there with -the empty milk pail on his arm. She could not understand the vision and -glory, the message from the unseen world which filled her husband’s soul -at such times. So she would go out to the barnyard, shake her dreaming -husband by the arm and shout in his ear: - -“_Wake up and get that milking done._” - -She meant well, and her husband never complained. She meant to save his -money, but he knew in such moments that money never could pay his passage -off through the purple sunset to the “unseen land.” - -Some day, I think I will tell some of the “adventures in the silence,” -which fall to the daily life of the deaf man. One Saturday afternoon -this man and his wife drove to town together. While his wife was doing -her shopping the man walked about to meet some of his old friends. As he -stood on the street, a sharp-faced woman came out of the store followed -by a little child. It was a little black-haired thing with great brown -eyes which carried the look of some hunted wild animal. A poor thin -little thing with a shabby dress and tattered shoes. As she passed, the -child glanced up at the farmer and saw something in his face that gave -her confidence, for she smiled at him and held out her little hand. The -woman turned sharply and the frightened child stumbled over a little -stone. - -“You awkward little brat,” shrilled the woman, “take that,” and with her -heavy hand she slapped the thin little face. Then something like the love -of a lioness for her cub suddenly started in that farmer’s heart. Many -fool jokes have been made about “love at first sight,” but it is really -nothing short of a divine message when two lives are suddenly welded -together forever. Under excitement, the deaf are rarely dignified, but -they are strangely and forcibly emphatic. The woman quailed before the -roar of that farmer and the little girl ran to him and held his hand for -protection. A crowd gathered and Lawyer Brown came running down from his -office. - -“I want this child,” said the farmer. “You know me; get her for me.” - -It was not very hard to do. The woman had married a man with this little -girl. The man had run away and left her (I do not much blame him), and -this “brat” had been left on her hands. - -“Take her, and welcome,” said the sharp-faced woman. “A good riddance to -bad rubbish.” - -So Lawyer Brown fixed it up legally and the deaf man walked off to where -his wagon stood, with the little girl hanging tight to his big finger. - -When the woman came with her load of packages, she found her husband -sitting on the wagon seat with the little girl sitting on his lap. She -had found that she could not make him hear, so she just sat there -looking into his face, and they both understood. But the good woman did -not understand. - -“What do you mean by picking up a child like you would a stray kitten? -Put her down and leave her here.” - -But that was as far as she got. Her husband looked at her with a fierce -glare, and there was a sound in his throat which she did not like. I can -tell you that when these good-natured and long-suffering men finally -assert themselves, there is a great clumsy force about it that cannot be -resisted. And when they got home and the little child sat up at the table -between them, something of mother-love stirred in the woman’s heart. She -actually tried to kiss the little thing, but the child trembled and ran -to the farmer and climbed on his knee. The woman paused at her work to -watch them as they sat before the fire, and something that was like the -beginning of jealous rage came into her heart, for it came to her that -this little one had seen at once something in her husband’s life and soul -that _she_ had not been able to understand. - -There was something more than beautiful in the strange intimacy which -sprang up between the deaf farmer and the little girl. In some way she -made herself understood and she followed him about day by day at his work -or on his lonely walk of a Sunday afternoon. You would see her riding -on the wagon beside him, standing near as he milked, or holding his -finger as he came down the lane at sunset. On a sunny Sunday afternoon, -you might come upon them sitting at the top of a high hill with the -old dog beside them, looking off across the pleasant country. And as -the shadows grew longer, they would come home, the farmer carrying the -little one, and the old dog walking ahead. I cannot tell you the peace -and renewed hope which the little waif brought to that farmer’s heart -through the gentle yet mighty force of love. And the farmer’s wife would -look out of the window and see them coming. She could not walk with -her husband through lonely places and make him understand, because she -had never learned how. Yet the little one was drawing the older people -closer together and was showing them more of the greatest mystery and the -greatest meaning of life. But there came a Sunday when the little one -could not walk over the hills. The day was bright and fair, the farmer -stood looking at the cool shadows of the blue pines sadly and the old -dog put his head on one side and regarded his master curiously. They -could both hear the voice of the hills calling them away. And the voices -came to the little one, hot and weary with fever, tossing on her little -bed upstairs. The doctor shook his head when they called him in. The -child was done with earthly things,—surely called off into the Country -Unseen just as love and home had come to her. The farmer went up into the -sick-room where his wife sat by the little sufferer. This man had never -regarded his wife as a handsome woman, but he was startled at her face as -she bent over the child. For at last in the face of death and sacrifice, -love had really come to that woman’s lonely heart, and the joy of it -illuminated her face like a lamp within. - -The farmer was left alone with the child. She knew him and beckoned him -to come near and moved her lips to speak. The man lay on the bed beside -her and put his ear close to the little mouth, but try as he would, he -could not hear her message. I suppose there can be no sadder picture in -the book of time than this denial by fate of the right to hear the last -message of love from one passing off into the long journey from which -there comes no report. Hopeless and bitter with disappointment, the man -found pencil and paper and a large book and gave them to the child. -Sitting up in bed with a last painful effort the little one painfully -wrote or printed a single sentence and gave it to him with her little -face aflame with love. He hid the note in his pocket as his wife and the -doctor came in—for the message from the unseen world seemed to him too -sacred for other human eyes. - -The woman watched her husband closely and wondered why he felt so -cheerful as the days passed by. The little one was no longer with him, -yet he went about his work with cheerfulness and often with a smile. -She could not understand, but now and then she would see him take from -his pocket an envelope, open it and read what seemed to be a letter. He -would sometimes sit before the fire at night, silent and thoughtful. -As she went about her work, she would see him take out this mysterious -letter and read it over and over, as one would read a message from a -friend very dear of old and happy days. And she wondered what it could -be that brought the happy, beautiful smile to his face, and then there -came the time when one evening in June the sun seemed to pass behind -the western hill with royal splendor. It seemed as if there had never -been such gorgeous coloring as the western sky put on that night, and the -practical wife looked from her back-door and saw her husband standing in -the barnyard gate like one in a glorious vision. The cows stood in the -lane, the empty milk pail hung on a post, yet the farmer stood gazing -off to the west unheeding the call to his work. And as the woman waited -she saw her dreaming husband take that mysterious letter from his pocket -and read it once more. She could see the look of joy which spread over -his face as he read it. And this plain, practical woman, moved by some -sudden impulse, walked down to the gate and put her hand gently on her -husband’s shoulder. He started out of his dream and looked guiltily at -the empty milk pail, but she only smiled and pointed to the paper he had -in his hand. He hesitated shyly for a moment, and then he passed it to -her. It was just the scrawl which the little child had written after her -failure to make him hear. It was the last message from one who stood on -the threshold of the unseen country, and was permitted to look within. -And this was what the woman read, written in straggling childish letters: - -“_I’ll tell God how good you are._” - -And the shy, unresponsive man and woman, starved of love and sympathy -through all these years, standing in the lonely silence of that golden -sunset knew that God’s blessing had fallen upon them out of the unseen -country through the influence of that little child. - - - - -A DAY’S WORK - - -“Well, boys, I’m going to quit and call it a day!” As the Hope Farm man -spoke he got up from his knees in the strawberry patch and proceeded to -straighten out his back. It was half past four on Saturday, September 4. -Our week’s work was done—all but the chores. Our folks had picked and -packed and shipped four big truckloads of produce, with a surplus of -nearly 100 bushels of apples and 60 baskets of tomatoes ahead for next -week. This in addition to regular farm work—and one day off fishing for -the boys. It does not seem possible that September has come upon us! I do -not know how she even got here—yet the big hand on the clock’s calendar -points to that date. When the foolish finger of “daylight saving” appears -on the clock we can discount it, but there is no discounting the mark on -the calendar. That is like the finger of fate. Yet it seems out of date. -We have not finished picking Gravenstein apples. In former years Labor -Day found us clearing up the McIntosh. This year we have not even touched -them! Last year the Mammoth sweet corn was about cleaned out in August. -Now we are beginning to pick. The season and the calendar are fighting -this year. Now if they will both turn in and hold Jack Frost up for a -couple of weeks later than usual we will forgive the season. - -This morning I took this strawberry job from choice—surely no one -else wanted it. Thomas had not come back from his night on the market. -Philip cleaned up the chores, while the rest went to picking apples and -tomatoes. My daughter goes across the lawn with 100 or more chickens -at her heels. They are black Jersey Giants and R. I. Reds going to -breakfast. Out on the cool back porch Mother is playing the part of -family “Red.” That is, she is canning tomatoes. This porch is screened -in, and there is an oil stove to put heat into the canning outfit. The -lady is peeling a basket of big red fruit; her hands and arms are well -smeared with the blood—not of martyrs, but of tomatoes! This job of mine -would make one of those model gardeners too disgusted for comment. We set -out the strawberry plants in April, in rows three feet apart, the plants -two feet in the row. The soil is strong, and we wanted to push it hard. -So in part of the patch we planted early peas between the rows, and in -the rest early potatoes. The theory of this plan is sound enough. You get -a big crop of peas and potatoes, and take them out in time for the berry -plants to run out and cover the patch. In practice this does not always -work. While the pea and potato vines stood up straight we kept the patch -clean. Then came a time when these vines fell down and refused to get up. -Then came the constant rains and the crab grass, and weeds came from all -over to seek shelter under these vines. Before we could interfere the -patch was a mass of this foul stuff, and the long rains kept it growing. -The richness of the soil delayed ripening of the potatoes, and by the -time we got them out the strawberry plants seemed lost in the tangle. -Here I am cleaning up this mess. Most of the work must be done with the -fingers—a hoe would tear up too many runners. You have to get down on -your knees and pull. As I crawl across the patch I leave a pile of weeds -behind me like a windrow. I hold up my fingers and it seems surprising -that they are not worn down at least half an inch. If I had kept those -peas and potatoes out of here the berries would be far better, and I -would not have this crawling job. I am not to be alone here after all. -That big black chicken leaves his crowd on the lawn and comes over here -to scratch beside me. The Jersey Giants are very tame and enterprising. -This one stays right at my elbow for hours—the only member of my family -to take this job from choice. He will have all the worms I can dig out! - -There is a rattle and a sputter on the driveway and the truck comes -snorting into the barnyard. At the same time Tom and Broker, the big -grays, come down the hill with a load of apples. Tom scents the gasoline -and pricks back his ears with a snort. You can see him turn his head as -if talking to sober old Broker: - -“That fellow thinks he’s smart, but what fearful breath he has! For years -we went on the road like honest horses and did all the marketing on the -farm. Why does this man keep such a great awkward thing around? It may -have speed, but I’ll bet it eats him out of house and home!” - -“Well, now,” said old Broker, “every horse to his job. Working right on -this farm is good enough for me. Let that truck do the road work, says I. -No place like home for an honest horse like me.” - -“Not much. I like a little life now and then. I want to get out on the -road among horses and see what is going on. That great, lazy, smelling -thing has got us farm-bound where nobody sees us or knows what we are -doing. And look at the gasoline that thing eats up, and its keep—my -stars!” - -“Well, you have something of an appetite yourself. A gallon of oats costs -something, too. I’ll bet this man can’t feed and shoe and harness you for -less than $200 a year! Let’s be glad this thing takes some of the work -off our shoulders!” - -“But I saw this man’s bill for repairs”—but there came a jerk on the -lines and “Get up!” and Tom put his mighty shoulders into the collar and -pulled the load up to the shed, while the truck with a snort that sounded -like a sneer moved on into the barn—just as if a repair bill for $273 was -a very small matter. - -Thomas was tired—as you might expect after a night on the market. The -load sold for $106.95. It was a mixture of corn, apples and tomatoes. -That looks right at first thought, but one year ago the corresponding -load of about the same class of goods brought $143. That is about the -way they have gone this season. Our prices are certainly lower, and -every item of cost is higher. There can be no question about that, yet -our friends who buy food are paying as much as they ever did. But for -the truck we would be worse off than we are now. We never could handle -our crop with the horses. It is more and more necessary to get the goods -right into market promptly and with no stop. While the truck has become a -necessity, let no man think that it works for nothing. Old Tom is right -in saying that I have a bill for $273 for refitting the truck this year -and putting it in shape for the season. That item alone will add quite -a few cents to the cost of carrying each package. Some of the smaller -farmers on well-traveled roads are selling at roadside markets. This is -a hard life, and includes Sunday work, and I understand that for some -reason people are not buying such goods as they did. The retail trade is -rarely satisfactory when one produces a fairly large crop. I think the -plan for the future will mean a combination of farmers to open a store in -the market town and retail and deliver their own goods co-operatively. - -My back feels as if there were three hard knots in it. I must straighten -them out by a change of occupation. I am going up on the hill to look at -the apple picking for a time. Little Rose, barefooted and bareheaded, -dressed in a pair of overalls, trots along with me. She eats two tomatoes -on the way up, and then I find her a couple of mellow McIntosh. The dirt -on the tomatoes has been transferred to her little face, and I think some -of it follows the apple into her mouth. Oh, well, these scientists will -probably find vitamines in dirt before they are done. We are picking -Gravensteins today—big rosy fellows—some of the trees running 15 bushels -or more. I planted a block of these trees as an experiment. Now I wish I -had more of them. The last lot brought $5.25 per barrel. I do not care -much for them for eating, but as baking apples they sell well. This year -any big apple brings a fair price. For instance, that despised Wolf River -has been our best seller. The boys own several trees of Twenty Ounce, -which are bringing about $20 per tree this year. Cherry-top is going to -Paterson this afternoon to put some of his apple money into a bicycle. I -have told in past years how I gave my boys a few bearing apple trees and -how they have bought others. These trees have given surprising returns. -The larger boy is just starting for college, and his trees will go a long -way toward paying expenses. The objection to giving such trees or selling -at a low price is that the boy finds the income very “easy money.” It -would be better for him to plant the young tree and stay by it till it -comes in bearing. The only chemical I know of for extracting character -out of money is warm sweat. I’d like to spend the day on the hills—here -in the sunshine with the apples blushing on the trees and the grapes -purpling on the walls and the clouds drifting over us. But that would -never clean up those strawberries, and so little Rose and I go down on a -load of apples—big Tom and Broker creeping down the steep hillside as if -they realized that here was a job which the truck could not copy. - -I got at those weeds once more. Philip had carried several bushels to the -geese, and these wise birds make much of them. The big sow, too, stands -chewing a big red root as a boy would chew candy. Nearby on a grassy -corner little Missy has been tied out. She is a very proud little cow, -for just inside the barn her yellow daughter lies in the straw—pretending -to chew her small cud. We shall have to call this young lady Sippi to -complete her mother’s name. Missy has given us a taste of real cream -already. But here is a pull at my shoulder, and little Rose, her face -washed and hair brushed, comes to lead me in to dinner. There will be 14 -of us today. I wish you could make it 15. The food is all on the table, -so we can see what there is to start with. Have some of this soft hash. -That means a hash baked in a deep dish, with considerable liquid in it. -You may think we live on hash, but a busy Saturday is a good time for -working up the odds and ends. Then you can have boiled potatoes, boiled -beets, sweet corn, tomatoes, bread and butter, baked apples and all the -milk you want. We are all hearty eaters, and I figure that if I took my -family to the restaurant in the city where I sometimes have my dinner, -the bill would be about as follows: - - Hash $4.20 - Potatoes 1.40 - Beets 1.40 - Sweet corn 3.60 - Tomatoes 1.40 - Milk .90 - Bread and butter 1.40 - Baked apples 2.30 - ----- - $16.60 - -That is a very low estimate of what this dinner would cost us. Now what -would a farmer get at wholesale for what we have eaten? Not quite $1.30 -at the full limit. Last week I ordered a baked apple and was charged 30 -cents for it! But no matter what this dinner would cost elsewhere, it -is free here, and I hope you will have another baked apple. Try another -glass of milk. Our folks have a way of pouring some of that thick cream -in when they drink it. - -That dinner provided heart and substance to all of us. I am back at those -berries, and Philip has come to help me. Our folks have stopped picking -apples for the day and will cut sweet corn fodder—where the ears have -been picked off. That will have to be our “hay” this winter. The women -folks and a couple of the boys have started for town to do a little -shopping. Philip and I have a pile of weeds here as large as a henhouse, -and the strawberry plants as they come out of the tangle look better than -I expected. A car has just rolled in with a family after apples. One -well-groomed young man is viewing me appraisingly over his glasses. He is -talking to the soft, fluffy young woman at his side. “Is _that_ the Hope -Farm man? A rather tough-looking citizen! Why does he do that very common -work? He ought to hire that job done and get up out of that dirt!” - -This young man will never know what it will mean next Spring when the -vines are full of big red berries to know that he saved them and with his -own labor turned them from failure to success. He probably never will -know any such feeling—and that is his misfortune. This weed-pulling gets -to be mechanical. It doesn’t require much thought and I have a chance to -consider many things as we work. A short distance away is that patch of -annual sweet clover. The plant we have been measuring is now 60 inches -tall and still growing. The plants are seeding at different dates—some of -them earlier than others. What a wonder this clover will be for those of -us who have the vision to make use of it. - -But my day’s work is over—I’m going to adjourn. I am quite sure that I -could have picked 50 bushels of Gravenstein apples from those low trees -instead of working here, but this seemed to be my job for the day. What -now? I’m going to make an application of hot water and get this soil off -my hands and arms, shave, put on some clean clothes and take my book out -on the front porch until the girls come home. What book? Well, I found in -an old bookstore a copy of James G. Blaine’s “Twenty Years of Congress.” -As I had just read Champ Clark’s book I wanted to read Blaine’s. I can -well remember when about 40 per cent of the people of this country -considered James G. Blaine a hero. The trouble was that about 60 per cent -thought otherwise. His book is a sound and serious discussion of the -legislation which covered the Civil War and 20 years after. As I worked -here today I have been thinking of what Blaine says of Senator Matt -Carpenter. This man was a brilliant student, but suddenly went blind. -For three years he sat in darkness. Yet this affliction proved a great -blessing, for he forced himself to review and analyze and prove what he -had read, so that when sight came back to him his reasoning powers were -remarkable. This book contains the best statement I have ever read of the -reasons for trying to impeach President Andrew Johnson, and how and why -the effort failed. What’s that got to do with farming? Well, I think the -political events which clustered around that incident came about as near -to smashing the Constitution and wrecking the Government as anything that -has yet happened. But here comes Cherry-top on his new wheel. He actually -got home ahead of the car. I must hurry, or our folks will not find that -literary reception committee waiting for them. Better come along with -me. I have some other books that will make you think, and I’ll guarantee -that thinking will do you more good right now than a day’s work. - - - - -PROFESSOR GANDER’S ACADEMY - - -Our Thanksgiving turkey this year will be a goose—or rather a pair of -geese. As you read this they will be browning and sizzling in the oven, -with plenty of “sage and onion” to stuff in the desired quality. They -will come to the table flanked by half a dozen vegetables and backed -by several big pumpkin pies. I shall resign the position of carver, -remembering my old experience with the roast duck and the minister. The -duck got away from my knife, and slid all over the table, ending by -upsetting the gravy in front of the minister’s plate. After the usual -objections Mother will apply the carving knife to the geese, secretly -proud of her skill as an anatomist. She can do everything with a roasted -goose except provide white meat. Since Nature decided not to implant that -delicacy in the breast of a goose, man cannot supply it. Therefore the -lady must content herself with brown meat. I’ll guarantee that most blind -men eating the white breast of a turkey and then the brown breast of a -goose would call for more of the latter. It is something like this rather -foolish preference for white-shelled eggs. Like “the Colonel’s lady and -Judy O’Grady,” they are sisters under the shell! Anyway, a goose, well -stuffed and roasted, is a thank-offering well suited to the Hope Farm -table. - -No doubt as we pour the thick brown gravy over Mother’s generous slices -Mr. Gander will lead his family across the lawn and find something to -be thankful for. I have learned, this Summer, to have great respect for -Gander and his wife, the gray goose. Nature may have left the white -meat out of the goose in order to prepare a finer delicacy, but she put -an extra quantity of gray matter into the goose brain. It seems to me -that Mr. Gander and his able assistant are about the most successful -teachers of youth I have ever known. To many a learned educator I would -say, “Go to the goose, thou wise man, and learn how to train the young -for a successful life.” Take this young bird, whose meat is rapidly -disappearing from the Thanksgiving altar. Mother has scraped the bones -nearly clean. What little remains will be boiled out as soup. This bird -has lived what I may call an eminently successful life. He ends his -career in the highest place possible to be conceived of in the philosophy -of a goose. He was trained and educated from the start, and as I look at -Gander and goose on the lawn I cannot think of any human teachers who -have had any greater success in training their charges into just what a -man or woman ought to be. - -In the Spring the gray goose selected a place in the old barn and laid 21 -eggs. We rather expected more, but the goose was master of ceremonies. -She came back to the same place each day, and finally we found her there -hissing like the steam escaping from a broken pipe. It was her signal -that she was ready to serve as incubator. So we put 13 eggs under her -and eight more under a big Red hen. This big hen was a great failure as -a layer, but as nurse and incubator she had proved a wonder. She had -raised three broods of chicks with great success. Surely she ought to be -a better guide and teacher of youth than a young goose with her first -brood! If you were selecting teachers for your children would you not -choose those who have had experience? In due time, and on the same day, -the goose walked out with 10 goslings, while the Red hen sat on her nest -and compelled five to stay under her. The two broods kept apart. The -hen was evidently disappointed with the way the goose handled children, -and she punished her brood whenever they tried to mingle with their own -brothers and sisters. They all lived, but after about eight weeks I -noticed a strange thing. The hen’s brood, though eating the same food, -would average at least 30 per cent lighter than the goslings which ran -with the goose. There was no question about it—the hen’s charges were -inferior in size and weight and in “common sense,” or the art of looking -out for themselves. - -There being no chance for an argument about it, I concluded that it was -very largely a matter of education, and we began to study the methods -of teaching employed by Mr. and Mrs. Gander and Mrs. Red Hen. The first -thing we noticed was the influence of the male side of the family. Roger -Red, the big rooster, paid no attention to his wife’s family. All he did -was to mount the fence and crow, or go gallivanting off after worms or -seeds. If one of the goslings got in his way he kicked it to one side and -gave not even a suggestion to his busy wife. He was like one of those men -who will not even wheel the baby carriage, but make the wife carry the -child. On the other hand, Mr. Gander was a true head of the family. He -kept right with the goose, brooded part of the flock at night, fought off -rats and even a weasel, and was ready to battle with a hawk or a cat. In -time of danger the rooster ran for shelter, but the gander stepped right -out in front of his brood with his wing extended like a prizefighter’s -arm, and that great bill open to nip a piece of flesh out of the enemy. -He taught his children to graze on weeds and grass. When anyone forgot to -feed them the gander wasted no time in complaint. He led his family right -into the garden, where they picked up their share. He led the goslings -through the wet grass and into the brook, where they cleaned out all the -watercress and weeds. On the other hand, the hen hung around the barnyard -and cried if breakfast did not come on time. She would not let her -children wade through the wet grass or get into the water, and she did -not know that a young goose can eat grass like a calf. The hen worried -herself insane when her family followed the natural instincts of geese -and headed for the brook. - -Now, Mrs. Hen is not the first teacher who has failed to understand the -first law of education—to train a child properly you must understand -his natural instincts and tendencies and build upon them. For many -generations the hen has feared water, and has been taught that all -feathered young must be kept away from it. I have no doubt that a race -of swimming hens could be developed, provided the fear of water could -be taken from the mind of the hen. _For the hen must swim with her mind -before she can swim with her feet!_ I have seen many cut-and-dried -teachers as much afraid of the truth as this big Red hen was afraid of -water. At any rate, we learned why one set of goslings was far superior -to the other. One set had the benefit of father’s example and influence. -Their teacher knew from long experience just what a young goose ought to -know. The teacher knew that because she had been a goose herself, and -could remember her youth. The hen’s brood knew nothing of their father’s -example—no more than some little humans who only seem to know there is a -man in the world who claims to be the detached head of the family. The -hen’s goslings were brought up in one of these beheaded families. Their -teacher ranked as a successful educator, but as she had never been a -young goose herself she could not teach her children what they ought to -know. It was not unlike trying to make a blacksmith out of a poet, or -a drygoods salesman out of a natural farmer. These feathered children -were fed and warmed and defended, but they could not make perfect geese -because they were not trained to work out a goose job. - -The result was clearly evident. The young geese under the hen were -undersized and fell into the hen character. After centuries of -domestication or slavery the average hen loses the independence of the -wild bird. Now and then a nobler specimen will feel some dormant brain -cell thrill within her, remember the freedom of centuries ago and fly -into the trees, but for the most part the modern hen is a selfish, -fawning, tricky creature. She drives her family away as soon as the -children become tiresome, and there is little or no real community -life among hens. When their usual food is not forthcoming all but a few -adventurous spirits stand slouching about waiting for help. Thus the -goslings were taught to fawn upon man for their food and reject their -brothers and sisters in the other brood. It was an unnatural life for a -goose, and these little ones could not thrive under such training. On -the other hand, Mr. Gander’s pupils were taught by an expert on goose -training. They were taught to swim, to bathe in the wet grass, to eat -grass or hay, to get out and find their own breakfast if man did not do -his duty. As a result they grew up with strong independence of character. -While the others might fawn and beg for food, the gander’s class were -taught to scorn such subservient behavior. And they were taught family -life and co-operation. While the hens separate and lead their selfish, -separate lives, the geese live in a group. There they go now in a solid -bunch across the lawn. Throw a stick into a flock of hens or let a dog -run at them, and they will scatter in all directions. Try the same with a -flock of young geese, and they will line up in solid array “all for each -and each for all.” I do not know of anything finer in the education of -geese or children than this thorough idea of co-operation. In the future -those groups which are taught like the geese will rule the nation. Those -which are taught to fear strange things or live the selfish life of a hen -will always serve. In other words, the future of this country depends on -its teachers and their wisdom? You are right! - -But the real, final test of a goose’s education is made with the -carving-knife. Judging from the empty plates I think this one will -pass a good examination. If I am not mistaken this was one of the hen’s -goslings. When we saw that their teacher was a failure we put them into -Mr. Gander’s class. He looked them over and knocked them down with his -wing a few times. Then he put his wise head to one side as if to say: - -“I’ll do my best with them. They have been spoiled, and I must take -some of the conceit out of them first. If the law forbidding corporal -punishment holds in New Jersey I will resign the task, because no -goose can ever live a successful life unless those foolish hen ideas -are whipped out of him. And another thing: I won’t have that Red hen -bothering around me. The influence of a foolish mother is the worst thing -a teacher has to contend with. I’ll try to make geese out of them, but -keep that hen away!” - -The Red hen put up a great cry for a time. She ran out and called for her -“darling children” to leave those low companions. The goose took those -“darling children” right by the tail feathers and pulled them back. The -gander waddled up to the hen and took one nip which sent her squawking to -the barnyard, where the big rooster was challenging the world. - -“I’ve been insulted!” she screamed, “and my dear children have been -stolen from me. If you have the courage of a mouse you will defend your -wife!” - -“Where is he?” roared the rooster, and he started on a run for the -orchard. There was the goose with all her children at school, and right -in front was the gander with his great beak open and that right wing all -unslung for a blow. The rooster got within about six feet of him and -then halted. He didn’t like the looks of that sharp beak. - -“Good-morning, Mr. Gander! I saw you over in the next field, and I came -to ask how the worms are running over there!” - -As he went back the rooster, after the manner of husbands generally, -sought to pacify his wife. - -“After all, your children are in a good school, and you will now have -more time for your neglected household duties. Nursing those children has -been a hard strain on you. Now for a little recreation!” - -From my own experience I can testify that Professor Gander is right. -No one can train a child properly if the mother is foolish naturally, -and seeks to interfere with the child’s education. Those who undertake -to “take a child” into their family may well take heed from Professor -Gander. It were far better that such a child never saw his mother again. -She may easily ruin the life which she brought into the world. - -But at any rate, this bird on the table was well educated to live the -perfect life of a goose. Have another slice! I know you can eat another -helping of this dressing. Pass back your plate. Of course I know Mother -would like to hold that other goose back for a later meal, but that is -not the true Thanksgiving spirit. Pass back for another slice and I will -use my influence with the housekeeper to carve the second goose. Its -education has been finished. - - - - -COLONEL O’BRIEN AND SERGEANT HILL - - -I imagine that most of us, at one time or another, expect to set the -world on fire. So we start what we consider a nice little blaze and stand -back to see it spread. For we think the world is as dry as a stack of hay -in a drought—only needing our little flare of flame to start it going. We -find the world more like a soggy swamp. It does not flare up—our little -blaze strikes the wet spots, and not having heat enough to dry out the -water it comes to an end. Missionaries who have been among the savage -tribes of Africa say that the most wonderful thing to the average savage -is the simple act of striking a match. These men and their ancestors -have for centuries obtained fire only after long and patient rubbing of -two sticks together. Often many hours of this laborious friction were -needed before they could obtain even a glow at the end of a stick, and -then nurse it into flame. Here at one scratch this “magic stick” produced -the effect of hours of hard toil! One savage stole a box of matches and -undertook to “show off” before his friends. He could start the little -flame of the match well enough, but he tried to make a fire out of big -logs or damp sticks, direct from the match. Of course, the little match -flame could only spread _to things of its own size_. You cannot jump -flame from a glimmer to a giant log unless the latter is full of oil or -gunpowder. - -Two things have brought that to mind recently. My young friend, Henry -Barkman, came the other day with an oration which he was to deliver -before some political society. When a man is well satisfied with his -own literary production, he goes about shedding the evidence of his -admiration. When you come to be as old as I am, you will recognize the -signs. I knew Henry felt that he had produced a world-beater—one of those -great bursts of mental flame which every now and then set the world -on fire. Yet no honest person, except perhaps his mother or sister or -sweetheart, would imagine that society would stumble or even pause for -an instant at its delivery. Henry would deliver it with a loud voice and -many gestures, and then wait for the world to blaze up. When there was no -blaze he would feel that he had been casting pearls before swine, when in -truth he had thrown his match into a soggy pile of large sticks, where it -sputtered for a moment and then flickered out. Youth cannot understand -how long years of drudgery are required to split and splinter those big -sticks and dry them out with the fire of faith before the match can start -the blaze, and then in after years the man who throws in the match gets -the credit which belongs to the patient workers, who have been silently -splitting and drying the wood. I tried to tell Henry that when Lincoln -delivered his speech at Gettysburg few people realized that it was to -become a classic. A new generation with the power to look back through -the mellowing haze of the years was needed to give it a full place in -the American mind. Henry could not see it. When did youth ever know the -back-looking vision of age? It is a wise thing that youth must ever look -ahead. - -I had all these things in mind as we came to the last lap of our journey -to Starkville, Miss. That pleasant town lies west of the Mobile & Ohio -Railroad—on a side road of its own. When I went there 37 years ago the -track wound on through what seemed like a wilderness, with here and there -a negro cabin. Now it seemed like one continuous stretch of farm villages -or blue grass pastures. In former years the streets of Starkville were -just ribbons of mud or dust, as the seasons determined. I knew a man who -came to town in November and bought an empty wagon. He could not haul it -home until the following April, so deep was the mud. Now the main street -was as smooth and solid as Broadway, and firm stone roads branched out -into the country in all directions. The streets were thickly lined with -cars. Here, as in Kentucky, I saw men riding on genuine saddle horses, -which shuffled quickly along like a rocking-chair on four animated legs. -It seemed like a moving-picture show taken from some old fairy tale, and -it is no wonder that the years fell away and I went back in memory to -those old days. - -It was in 1883 that I was graduated at an agricultural college and went -down to “reform and uplift the South.” Since then I have heard the motive -or spirit of such a wildcat enterprise variously called “cheek,” “gall,” -“nerve,” “assurance” or “foolishness,” with various strong adjectives -pinned to the latter! Yet, looking back upon it now, I feel that while -perhaps all these terms were appropriate, they do not cover the essential -thing. I had a smattering of such science as could be taught in those -days. I had a great abiding faith in the power of education to lift -men up and set them free. A few years before I had given up the thought -of ever being anything except an ordinary workman, because I had had no -training which fitted me to do anything well. It seemed to me that the -agricultural college had given me almost the miraculous help which came -to the man with the darkened mind. Who could blame youth for feeling that -the great joy and power of education could actually remove mountains -of depression and trouble? I had been told that the chief assets of -Mississippi were “soil, climate, character and the determination of a -proud and well-bred race to train their hands to labor!” That was surely -in line with my stock of material assets, and so I came to set the South -on fire with ambition and vision. - -Well do I remember the day I walked into the little brick building where -_The Southern Live Stock Journal_ was printed. Colonel O’Brien and -Sergeant Hill looked me over. Colonel O’Brien was tall and straight—every -inch a soldier. Sergeant Hill was short and fat. You would not think it, -but he was with Forrest when they captured Fort Pillow. Sergeant Hill’s -remark was: - -“Another one of them literary cranks, I’ll bet.” - -Colonel O’Brien was more practical. - -“Come out and feed the press and then fold these papers.” - -And almost before I knew it my job of uplifting the South was on. I -suppose you might call me a “useful citizen.” I fed the press, set type, -swept the office, did the mailing, acted as fighting editor, tried to -sing in the church choir, taught “elocution,” pitched baseball on the -town nine and filled columns of the paper with soul-stirring editorials. -At least, they stirred me if they had no effect upon any other reader. -Those were the days when living was a joy. Some days there would be a -little run of subscriptions and perhaps a big advertisement would come. -Now and then some ball club would come to town and our boys would send -them home in defeat and disgrace. These occasions were bright spots on -the calendar, but they were as nothing in the bright lexicon of youth to -the great editorials I ground out at that battered and shaky table in the -corner. Among other things I broke a labor strike in that town, alone and -unassisted. It was the talk of the town, but to me it seemed a very poor -thing beside the great editorial on “The South’s Future,” which I wrote -on that stormy day in Christmas week. - -It comes back to me now as I write this. In those days everybody “knocked -off” during Christmas week and we printed no paper. Yet we all seemed to -come to the shop a few hours each day as part of our “holiday.” It was -cold and wet, with mud nearly to your hips. Colonel O’Brien had started a -fire in the fireplace, and he and Sergeant Hill stood before it smoking -their pipes and telling war stories. Colonel O’Brien was telling how he -heard the soldiers around their fires at night saying it was “a rich -man’s war and a poor man’s fight.” Sergeant Hill told about the Indian -who went after the molasses and glue to make into printer’s rollers, and -how in consequence the Yankees captured the printing outfit. I must tell -you that story some day. And while these two old vets kept down on the -ground in thought I was up on the heights developing a glorious future -for the “Sunny South.” And at the last flourish of the pen I cleared -my throat and read it to these old soldiers. And, honestly, I did not -get the humor of it. These two men had given all they had of youth, -ambition, money and hope to their section. They must walk softly all -their remaining days amid the ruins and the melancholy of defeat. And -here was I without the least conception of what life must have meant to -the Southern people, with the enthusiasm of a boy, pouring out dreams of -a future which seemed even beyond the vision of an Isaiah. Great is youth -and glorious are its prophetic visions. At any rate, the old soldiers let -their pipes go out as they listened. - -“Fine,” said Sergeant Hill. “Splendid. I reckon you’ll have us all in -Heaven 40 years hence?” - -“Fine,” said Colonel O’Brien. “Fine. I hope I’ll be here to see it; but -today I saw that paper collector from New Orleans in town. We can’t pay -his bill. He’ll have to leave on the night train. Better shut up the -office.” And they tramped out into the mud, and I knew that as they -plowed up the street they were looking at each other as men do when -they feel a pity for some weak-minded lunatic who has stepped out in -front of the crowd with a thought or an act that is called unorthodox. -And I locked the door and sat before the fire polishing that editorial. -Collectors might pound on the door, paper and ink might run short—what -were these poor material things to one whose winged thoughts were to save -the country? Surely, I had it all planned out that night, and went home, -rising far up above the fog and rain, and bumping my head against the -stars! Do I not know just how Henry Barkman felt about his great oration? -Heaven give him the philosophy to endure with patience the day which -finally came to me when I had to realize that I was not an uplifter, -after all! And yet cursed be he who would, with a sneer, deny to youth -the glorious foolishness with which he - - “Longs to clutch the golden keys; - To mold the mighty state’s decrees - And shape the whisper of the throne!” - -And now, 37 years after, there is nothing left of all these dreams. -Colonel O’Brien and Sergeant Hill have answered the last call. - - “They know at last whose cause was right - In God the Father’s sight!” - -Old Sol, the black man who turned the press, has passed on with them. -Years ago _The Southern Live Stock Journal_ was absorbed by a stronger -publication. It is doubtful if in all the town or country you could find -an old copy of the paper. Those great editorials which I climbed into the -clouds to write were evidently too thin and light for this world. They -have all sailed away far from the mind of man. The little building where -we started the candle flame which was to burn up all the prejudice and -depression in the South seems to be occupied as a negro hotel or boarding -house. The little shop where (with Sol on the crank of the press and I -feeding in the papers) we turned out what we felt to be a mental feast, -is now a kitchen where cow peas, bacon and greens and corn bread form a -more substantial food than we ever served up in printer’s ink. It was no -longer a molder of public opinion. - -“_To what base uses we may return, Horatio._” - -And yet the sky was blue, the day was fair—the vision had come true. I -wished that Colonel O’Brien and Sergeant Hill might stand in front of the -old building and look about them. No longer a sea of mud, but smooth, -firm pavements. The sidewalks were lined with cars. Beautiful trees -shaded the streets, until the town seemed like a New England Village with -six generations behind it. Outside, stretching away in every direction, -was the thick, beautiful carpet of blue grass and clover. Here and there -was a young man in the uniform of the American Union. In the vaults of -the banks were great bundles of Liberty bonds. And a gray-haired man on -the street corner told me this: - -“_You will find that the very States which sixty years ago tried to break -up the Union will, in the future, prove to be the very ones which must -hold it together._” - -Yet let me tell Henry Barkman and the millions who felt as he did about -his oration, that no one in all that town remembered my former editorials -or the great work of the _Journal_. My literary work has been blown away -as completely as the clouds among which it was composed. At the end of -the great college commencement exercises a man came on the stage with a -great bunch of flowers and bowed in my direction. I am not much in the -habit of having verbal bouquets fired at me, but I will confess that I -thought: “Here is where my soul-inspiring editorial work is appreciated. -All things come round to him who will but wait.” - -But this orator, like the rest of them, never dreamed that I ever tried -to “uplift the South.” He said I entered into the young life of the town -and was remembered with affection because I played baseball with skill -and taught that community how to pitch a curved ball! - -And let me say to the Henry Barkmans who read this that the lesson of all -this is the truest thing I know. Many a man has gone out into life like -a knight on a crusade, armed with what he thinks are glorious weapons. -In after years people cannot remember what his weapons were, but he got -into their hearts with some simple, common thing which seemed foolish -beside his great deeds. Nobody remembered my brain children, though they -were embalmed in ink and cradled in a printing press. But I put a twist -on a baseball, overcame the force of gravity and made the ball dodge -around a corner, and my memory remains green for 40 years! Not one of my -old subscribers spoke of the paper, but seven of the old baseball club, -gray or bald, near-sighted or rheumatic, yet still with the old flame of -youth, got together. - -I think you older people will get my point. For the benefit of Henry -Barkman and his friends perhaps I can do no better than to quote the -following: - -“_God hath chosen the foolish things of the world to confound the wise; -and God hath chosen the weak things of the world to confound the things -that are mighty._” - - - - -HOW THE OTHER HALF LIVES - - -“_Then I began to think that it is very true which is commonly said, that -the one-half of the world knoweth not how the other half liveth._” - -That was written by François Rabelais over 500 years ago. It is so true -that it has entered the language as a proverb, or “old saying.” We hear -it again and again in all classes of society. It is true that the great -majority of us has no idea of the life or the life ambitions of the great -world outside of our own little valley of thought. I suppose this failure -to understand the “other half” is one of the things which do most to keep -people apart and prevent anything like fair co-operation. It is the basis -of most of the bitter intolerance which has ever been used by the “ruling -classes” to keep the great mass of the people in subjection. Years ago -some old lord or baron would build a strong castle on a hill and make the -farmers for miles around believe that he “protected” them. Therefore, -they built his castle free, gave their sons for his soldiers, and toiled -on the land that he might live in idleness. And what did he “protect” -them from? Why, from another group of farmers a few miles away, who, in -like manner, were supporting another idle gang of cutthroats in another -strong castle. These two groups of farmers did not need to be “protected” -from each other. They had the same needs, the same wrongs and the same -desires. Left to understand each other and to work together, they would -have had no trouble, but would have led happier and far more prosperous -lives. As it was they did not understand “how the other half liveth,” and -thus they fought when they should have fraternized. - -I find much of the same feeling between city people and farmers—consumers -and producers. They do not understand how “the other half liveth,” -and they find fault when they should from every point of economy work -together. Your city man thinks the farmer has a soft job, and that with -present high prices he is making a barrel of money. Either that or he -is a slow-thinking drudge—a sort of inferior being, who doesn’t know -any better than to carry the load which others strap on his back. He is -“the backbone of the country” all right in a political campaign—but the -backbone is merely a mechanical contrivance if you detach it from the -brain. And the average farmer regards the city worker or commuter as a -grafter—getting far more than he earns, and putting in short, easy days. -It isn’t all graft and ease by a long way. Many of these city workers -must travel miles to their jobs, and some of them put in longer hours -than the average farmer. Many of them save little or nothing, and the -wolf is always prowling around the door. Between these two classes it is -a case of not knowing “how the other half liveth,” and this failure to -understand has created a form of intolerance which separates two classes -about as the old barons separated the groups of farmers years ago. - -And something of the same lack of tolerant understanding has separated -classes of farmers. The grain farmers, live-stock men, dairymen, -gardeners and fruit growers all think at times that they have the hardest -lot. The labor question, the markets or the weather all seem to turn -against them. For instance, the dairymen usually think their lot is -harder than that of others. They must work day after day in all sorts of -weather and under hard conditions. I know about this, for I have worked -on a dairy farm where conditions were very hard. Yet I also know that at -this season the average dairyman has a good job compared with the life of -the market gardener or fruit grower. On our own farm it has rained each -day and night for many days. Get into a sweet corn or tomato field and -pick the crop in a pouring rain, or pick early apples while the foliage -is like a great sponge. Then sort out and pack, load the truck and travel -through the rain to market, stand out in the rain and sell the load out -to peddlers and dealers, and then hurry back home for another round of -the same work. The fruit and vegetables are nearly as perishable as milk, -and must be rushed promptly away. The dairyman knows beforehand what -his milk will bring. The price may not be what he thinks is right, but -he knows for weeks or months in advance what he can surely expect. We -never know when we start what our stuff will bring. We must take what we -can get for perishable fruit. We know what we have already spent, and -what each load must bring in order to get our money back. Thus far corn -is about equal in price to last year, tomatoes are lower, apples are at -least 30 per cent lower, and so on. The dairyman has his troubles, but -let him follow this job for a month and he would realize that “there are -others.” In much the same way I can show that the potato men, the hay and -grain farmers, the sheep men and all the rest, have their troubles—and -hard ones at that. If farmers could only understand these things better, -and realize that there are thorns and tacks in every so-called “soft -job,” there would be greater tolerance in the world, and that is the only -thing that can ever lead to true co-operation and fair treatment. - -Pretty much the same thing is true of business. We ran upon a strange -incident the other day. The city of Paterson, N. J., is a good market -town. Work is well paid and the workmen are free spenders. It is a city -of many breeds and races of men. On the market you will probably hear -more languages and dialects than were used on the Tower of Babel. A large -share of farm produce is distributed by peddlers—most of them of foreign -blood. They are shrewd and tireless workers. I never can see when they -sleep. Night after night they come on the market to buy produce, and day -after day—through heat and cold, rain or shine—you see them driving their -horses up and down the streets and lanes—always good-natured, always -with a smile. Well, we sold Spot, our black cow, to one of these men—an -Italian. Thomas had done business with him for some years. We had sold -him many goods—he had always paid for them. He made part payment for the -cow by giving about the most remarkable looking check I ever saw. It -was on a first-class bank made out in a straggling hand, and signed by -two names. We had passed several like it before through our bank, so I -deposited it, as usual. In a few days it came back unpaid. - -Thomas and I went to Paterson that night to see what was wrong. I wish -some of you whose lives have been spent entirely in the country could -see how this “other half liveth.” This man lived on a side street. The -lower part of his house had been fitted as a little store. In the small -backyard were several milk goats, a small flock of chickens and a shed, -in which were two horses. Under a small, rude shelter of boards was old -Spot, chewing away at green cornstalks. The man was a big, pleasant-faced -Italian. You would mark him for an honest man on his appearance. There -was a brood of children—eight or nine, I should say—and a pleasant-faced -little wife, who carried the latest arrival around at her work. When -confronted with the protested check, this man merely smiled and waved his -hands. He could not read it! Two small boys—the oldest perhaps 12 years -of age—seemed to be the only members of the family who could read and -write English. They read the protest paper to their father and made him -understand. He only smiled and spread out his hands as people do who talk -with their shoulders. These two little boys had made out the check and -signed it for their parents. They either did not figure out their bank -balance, or figured it wrong. There was no attempt at dishonesty, and the -check would finally be honored. That seemed to be all there was to it. -These little boys, through the public school, represented all that these -older people know of the great business life of America. - -I know a good many Americans whose pedigrees run back close to Plymouth -Rock. If some of them had let that check go in this way I should have -loaded old Spot right on the truck and carried her home. Thomas knew -this man and his reputation, and his way of doing business. He will pay, -and in a few days of peddling he will pad out his bank account and then -the check will go through. So we shook hands with him and came home. But -that is the way “the other half liveth.” This man and woman came to a -strange land too late in life to acquire a business education. They can -work and plan, but must depend upon those little boys to do business -which requires bookkeeping or banking. All the boys know about American -business is what they learn at the public schools. I wish you could have -seen the way that check was made out—yet any old piece of paper may be -worth more than a gold-plated certificate if there is genuine character -back of it. I am told that in most mill towns the banks carry a good many -accounts just like this one; in fact, a good proportion of the business -is conducted in about that way. It is said that some of the smaller -manufacturers do not keep any set of books which enable them to figure -their income tax! There are some men who could not buy a cow or a cat -from us on credit, while others could have what credit they need right on -their face and reputation. - -There is another thing about this trade that will interest dairymen. -We found old Spot giving about 18 quarts of milk per day, on a feed of -green cornstalks and a little grain. This milk will sell for 18 cents, -at least. The cow can live in that little shed until the middle of -December, or about 120 days. In that time she will give 1,500 quarts or -more, which, at 18 cents, means $270, and she can then be sold for at -least $90 for beef! That makes $360 gross income for one cow in four -months. Her feed will be mostly refuse tops and stalks from vegetables -and a small amount of grain. She will be well cared for, carded and -brushed every day, and made comfortable. Thus not half the cows know “how -the other half liveth.” Someone will take these figures, multiply them by -25, and show what tremendous incomes our dairymen are making. The fact -is this man can keep just one cow at a profit. If he kept two the extra -cost of food would about eat up his profits. So we went whirling home -through the dusk, thinking that we had had a glimpse at a little of the -life of the other half, and it made me feel something more of charity for -my fellow men. When you come to think of what the American public school -means to that family, you realize the immense responsibility that goes -with education. We can hardly be too careful about what our schools teach -and how they teach it. I wonder how many of us, if we were transplanted -to some foreign land, would be willing to turn our business over to -our children and let them conduct it as they learned to do it from the -schools! I think we would all be more tolerant and reasonable if we would -let our children bring to us more of the spirit of youth and more of hope -of the future. The rain had stopped, the sky had cleared, the wind had -dried the grass, and on the lawn in front of the house our great army -of children were dancing and playing as if there were no such thing as -tomato rot, wet corn and low prices. I think that these handicaps would -have seemed much lighter if we could have gone out and danced with the -kids. I wonder where, along the road, we gave up doing that. - - - - -THE INDIANS WON - - -Thanksgiving is a time for physical feasting and mental fasting. By the -latter I mean trying to think out some of the problems of life which come -as a sort of shade when we remember all our mercies. A bunch of these -problems came up to me through a cloud of memories as I sat with my feet -on the concrete and my collar turned up. - -It was a gray, raw, miserable day—good Indian weather as it turned out. -It seemed as if the sun had covered its face with a blanket in one of -those fits of depression when the impulse is to hide the face from human -eyes. Some 12,000 people were grouped—piled up tier above tier—around a -great field marked out with long white stripes. It was a cold crowd, for -all had their feet on a concrete floor. At one side a devoted little band -of college boys screamed and sang their songs, but for the most part this -great crowd sat cold-eyed and impartial. At one side of the field there -was a dash of bright color where a group of stolid Indians sat wrapped in -big red blankets. Just across from these was another group of men with -green blankets. Between them in the center of the field was a tangled -mass of 22 husky boys in red or green, all fighting for the possession of -a football. - -Ah, a football game! What is this so-called farmer doing, wasting part -of the price of a barrel of apples when he ought to be at work? Of -course it is my privilege to say, “That’s my business if I want to,” -but I will answer by saying that I was renewing my youth and studying -human nature. You can’t improve on either operation for a man of my age. -Up some 250 miles nearer the Canadian line the boy had been one of the -1,000 yelling young maniacs who sent these green-clad boys down to meet -the Indians. He could not come, but he wrote me, “Be sure to see the -game; it will be _a peach_.” As a peach grower, I am interested in all -new varieties, and this certainly turned out to be one. It must be said -that these green-clad boys came down out of their hills with a haughty -spirit, wearing pride as conspicuously as they will wear their first -high hat. They had not lost a game, but had trampled over two of the -greatest colleges in the country. They represented the section where -the purest-bred white Americans are to be found. One more victory and -no one could deny their boast that they could stand any other football -team on its head. So they came marching out on the field, very airy, very -confident, and fully convinced of the great superiority of the white man! - -I know very little about football. When I played it was more like a -game of tag than a human battering ram. Here, however, was a round of -the great human game which would make anyone thoughtful. Here were -representatives of two races about to grapple. The great majority of the -white thousands who watched them were unconcerned—for a New York audience -is composed of so many races and tongues that it has little sentiment. -All around me, however, there seemed standing up hundreds of swarthy, -dark men whose eyes glittered as they watched the game. You could not -realize how many there were with Indian and Negro blood until such a test -of the white and red races was presented. Then you began to realize what -a race question really means when the so-called inferior race gets a -chance to test its real manhood on terms of equality. - -It would have made a theme for a great historian as these young men lined -up for the game. The whites trotted out confident and proud. Why not? -The “betting” favored them, their record was superior, as their race was -supposed to be. The Indians slouched to their places and shambled through -their motions, silent and without great show of confidence. It came to me -as not at all unlikely that a few centuries before the ancestors of these -boys had faced each other under very different circumstances. Francis -Parkman, the historian, tells of a famous battle in the upper Connecticut -Valley. The white settlers had built a stockade as protection against -roving bands of French and Indians. One day this fort was attacked by -such a band, which had come down the valley capturing prisoners and -booty. It was a savage fight, but the white men held their own, and -finally a Frenchman came forward with a white flag for a parley. He -actually offered to buy a supply of corn, as they were out of food, and -then to retreat. In that gray mist, with my feet on the concrete, I could -shut my eyes and see the ancestors of these football players. Stern -white men, gun in hand, peering over the stockade, and silent red men -creeping noiselessly out of the forest to pile up their booty in sight—as -price for the corn. The frost on the leaves told them that Winter with -all its cold and peril was approaching. Here were the necessities of -life—a tremendous bargain. Yet back in the shadow of the woods were the -captives—men, women and children—and the white settlers held out for -_them_. For at that time, if not now, New England _knew the value of a -man_ to the nation. He was far above the dollar, even though the women -and children would be a care and a danger. - -In a way, something of the spirit of those grim old fighters lay in the -hearts of these green-clad boys who had come down from these historic old -hills. At that instant, at least, they, too, knew the value of a man. It -was expressed by their little band of singers and cheerers led by the -writhing “cheer leaders”—the glory and fame of the good old college on -the hill. You could not have bought one of these boys for $1,000,000. - -On the other hand, these shambling and big-boned Indians seemed to have -something of the same spirit in their hearts. Silent and impassive, -they seemed for the moment to have cast off their college training and -gone back to the free, wild life, only carrying the discipline which -authority and college training had given them. I wonder if any of these -red men thought as they lined up on that field that it was the lack of -just this stern discipline which lost them this country and nearly wiped -out their race? Men fitted to play this game of football never would -have given away Manhattan Island, or permitted a handful of white men to -drive them from the coast. Over 1,000 men, each with the burning drop -of Indian or Negro blood in his veins, were hoping and praying that in -this modern battle the red men would humble the pride of Manhattan, as -their ancestors had lost the island. Out of the gray mist there seemed to -stride ghosts of stout Dutchmen and thin Yankees and silent, noiseless -Indians to watch this fairer combat. - -At the signal the ball was kicked far down the field by a white man whose -ancestors may have come with Hendrik Hudson. It was caught by a red man, -whose ancestors may have been kings or chiefs while the white man’s -were European peasants. Back he came running with the ball to form the -basement of a pile of 10 struggling fighters, and the game was on. You -must get someone else to describe the game. I do not understand it well -enough. The two groups of players lined up against each other, and one -side tried to batter the other down, or send a man through with the ball. -Again and again came this fierce shock, and a strange and unexpected -thing was happening. The Indians had no band of singers or cheer leaders, -no pretty girls were urging them on, no pride of superior dominating -race, but silently and resolutely they were smashing the white men back. -It was hard. These boys in green died well. There was one light man who -took the ball and ran through the Indians as his ancestors may have run -the gauntlet, but they pulled him down. Inch by inch the white men were -battered back over the line. The air seemed full of red blankets, for -those substitutes at the side lines were back into the centuries coming -home from a season on the warpath. Yet the green singers yelled on and -shouted their defiance. Then the white men made a great rally and forced -the Indians back, grimly battling over the other line. At the end of the -first half the score stood 10 to 7, in favor of the white men. “It’s all -over,” said a man who sat next to me. “They will come back and trample -all over the Indians, for white men always have the endurance.” A man -nearby with a touch of bronze in his skin glared at us with a look in -his eyes that was not quite good to see. Back came the players, at it -again. There was great trampling, but of the unexpected kind. These -slouching and shambling Indians suddenly turned into human tigers, and -the plain truth is that they both outwitted and walked right over the -green-clad whites. There was no stopping them. All the cheering and -singing and sentiment and “race-superiority” went for nothing. For here -was where pride and a haughty spirit ran up against destruction, and -great was the fall thereof. Yet I was proud of the way these white boys -met their fate. They had been too confident, and had lost what is called -the “psychological drop” on the enemy. The Indians had them at the stake -with a hot fire burning, for no one knows what a victory right there -would have meant for the good old college far away among the hills. Yet, -face to face with fate, cruel, silent and relentless, those boys never -faltered, but fought on. I liked them better in defeat than in their airy -confidence before the game. When it was all over they got up out of the -mud of defeat and gave their college war cry. There may have been a few -cracked and corner-clipped notes in it, but it was fine spirit and good -losing. Nearby the Indians waved their blankets and gave another college -yell. And the 1,000 or more men with that burning drop of blood in their -veins went home with shining faces and gleaming eyes, with better dreams -for the future of their race. For they had made the white man’s burden of -superiority a hard burden to carry. - -My football days are over. No use for me to tell what great things I did -30 years ago. This age demands a “show me,” and I cannot give it. If I -had my way I would introduce football, baseball, basketball, pushball -and all other clean and organized games into every country town. I would -organize leagues and contests and get country children to play. Do you -ever stop to think that work, long and continuous, for ourselves and our -children, has not taught us how to organize or use our forces together -as we should? It is true. _Organized_ play will do more to bring our -children together for co-operative work than anything I can think of. -It will give discipline, which is what we need. Two of these green-clad -boys stood an Indian on his head and whirled him around like a top. It -was part of the game. He got up good-naturedly and took his place in the -line. Imagine what his grandfather would have done! One white boy was -running with the ball and two Indians butted him, while another got him -by the legs. The boy simply held on to the ball. It was discipline and -training in self-control. Step on a city man’s foot in a crowded car -and he would want to fight. Our country people need such discipline and -spirit before they can compete with organized business. If I could have -my way I would have our country children drilled in just such loyalty to -the home town or district as these college boys displayed on the field. -Tell me, if you will, how it can be gained now in any way except through -organized and loyal play for our children. You know very well what I -mean. Work is an essential of life, and it must be made the foundation -of character. Organized and clean play is another essential, as I see it -now, and I think its development and firm direction is to be one of the -greatest forces in building up life in the country. - - - - -IKE SAWYER’S HOTEL - - -It was last year, as I recall it, at about this season, one of the -children asked me a strange question: - -“_What was the thankfullest day you ever saw?_” - -Now I have seen somewhere around 20,000 days come and go, and every one -of them has brought a dozen things to be thankful for. I sometimes think -as the hands crawl around the clock at Hope Farm that the day they are -recording right now is about the best of all. I have passed Thanksgiving -Day in the mud, in the snow, in a swamp, on a mountain, in a crowded -city, on a lonely farm—under about all the conditions you can mention. I -have given hearty thanks over baked beans, salt pork, bread and cheese, -turkey and all the rest, but before the fire tonight somehow they all -burn away except that experience in Ike Sawyer’s Hotel. - -They were stuck in the mud—with a broken axle—in a swamp in Northern -Michigan. No one had dreamed of an auto in those days. You forded the -swamp and stream in the primitive old way. It was a rich, middle-aged -lumberman and his young wife. How this tough, hard pine knot of a man -ever selected this soft-handed and selfish girl I cannot see. She had -come with him into the woods on one of his business trips, and the -silence by day and the whispering of the pines at night had filled her -with terror. The rough, sturdy man suddenly saw that, unlike his first -wife, this girl was not a helper and a partner, but a toy—a hothouse -flower who could not live his life or help fight his battles. He had a -great business deal on hand which required all his energies, but this -girl could not understand or help him. She had begged and cried to go -back to “civilization,” and they were on their way. And in this lonely -place the axle of the carriage had snapped and left them in the mud. - -It had been one of those gray, melancholy days which seem to fit best -into the idea of a New England Thanksgiving. Now twilight was coming -on and there were dark shadows in the swamp. The woman had climbed out -of the mud and stood on a log by the roadside. She had been crying in -her disappointment, for she had expected to reach the railroad that -night, and spend Thanksgiving in the distant city—far from this lonely -wilderness. Her husband was bargaining with an old farmer who finally -agreed to haul the broken carriage back to the blacksmith shop for -repairs. - -“I’ve got entertainment for beast,” he said, “but not for man—so I can’t -put you up. Quarter of a mile down the road Ike Sawyer runs a sorter -hotel.” - -He hauled the carriage out of the mud and started back along the road. -There was nothing for us to do but hunt for the hotel. You may have seen -some strong, capable man come to a crisis in his life where it suddenly -flashes upon him that the woman of his choice is after all made of common -clay, with little of that spirit or courage which we somehow think should -belong to the thoroughbred. It was a very doleful, unhappy little woman -and a sad and silent big man who walked through the mud and up the -little sand hill in search of the hotel. They had nothing to be thankful -for, and, yet did they but know it, they were to find the most precious -thing in life in this lonely wilderness. - -Around a turn in the road we came in sight of a long, rambling -building, weatherbeaten and out of repair. Over the door was a faded -sign, “Farmers’ Rest.” On the little porch just under this sign sat a -white-haired woman in a wheel-chair. In front of the house a little man -with a bald head and a pair of great spectacles perched at the end of -his nose was chasing a big Plymouth Rock rooster about the yard. The old -people had not noticed us, and we stopped in the road to watch them. The -old man finally cornered the rooster by the garden fence and carried -him flapping and squawking to the old lady. She examined him carefully, -and evidently approved the choice, for the old man, still holding the -rooster, pushed the wheel-chair into the house and then, picking up his -ax, started for the chopping block just as we turned in from the road. We -startled him so that he dropped the rooster. The gray bird did not stop -to welcome us, but darted off into the shadows. He mounted the roost in -the henhouse from which the old man easily pulled him a little later. - -You may have seen old pictures of country hotel-keepers bowing and -scraping as their guests arrive. Ike Sawyer could not play the part. He -just peered at us over his spectacles and rubbed his hands together. - -“Walk right in,” he said. “Me and Annie can put you up.” Then he led -the way into the rambling old house. It was dark now, and the old man -lighted a lamp so that we could look about us. The old woman did not rise -from her chair, but she smiled up a welcome. - -“Ain’t walked for 10 years,” explained her husband. “I play feet and she -plays hands, and between us we make out fine.” - -The old man bustled about and started a fire in the big fireplace. The -young woman had entered the poor old building with an angry snarl of -discontent on her face. It was all so mean and hateful to be obliged to -stay in this lonely, dreadful place. As the fire blazed up and filled -the room with warm light, I noticed that the snarl faded out and she sat -watching the old lady with wondering eyes. She went to her room for a -moment, but soon came back to sit by the fire and watch the sweet-faced -old lady “play hands.” On the other side of the fireplace, silent and -strong, her husband sat watching his wife with eyes half closed under his -thick, bushy eyebrows. - -I have seen the cook in a quick lunch counter stand in his little box and -toss food together, and I have seen a chef earning nearly as much as the -President daintily working in his great kitchen, but nothing will ever -seem to equal the way that meal was prepared when Annie played hands and -Ike played feet. Ike pushed a little table up in front of his wife, and -at her call brought flour and milk and all that she needed for making -biscuits. He stood beside her chair as the thin fingers did their work. -Now and then he laid his hand upon her shoulder, and once he touched her -beautiful head. As though forgetting her guests Annie would smile back -at him—a beautiful smile which brought a strange look to the face of the -young woman who sat watching them. At first it seemed like an amused -sneer. Then there came a puzzled, curious look—the first faint glimmering -of the thought that this old man and woman _out of their trouble, out -of their loneliness, had found and preserved that most precious of all -earth’s blessings—love_! - -When a fellow has eaten more than 60,000 meals, as I have in my time, it -must be a very good performance in that line to stand out like a bump or -a peg in memory. Through all my days I can never forget that supper in -the fire-lighted room where Ike played feet and Annie played hands and -brains. Ike started a roaring fire in the kitchen stove. Then he brought -in a basket of potatoes and Annie selected the best ones for baking. -He came with a fragrant brown ham, and cut slices, under her eye, she -measuring with her thin finger to make sure they were not too thick. She -cut the bread herself, selected the eggs for frying, mixed the gravy -and seemed to know by the sputter in the pan when the ham was done. Ike -pushed her chair over to the table so she could spread the cloth and -arrange the service. Then at a word he pushed her chair to the window -where half a dozen plants were blooming. She cut two little nosegays and -put them beside the plates of her guests. Ike brought in the ham and -eggs, the great, mealy baked potatoes, the brown biscuits and the apple -pie. In her city home a servant would have approached the lady and gently -announced: - -“Dinner is served!” - -Ike Sawyer, when Annie nodded approval, simply invited: - -“_Sit by and eat!_” - -It was all so simple and human that it seemed a perfectly natural thing -to do when the discontented and peevish young woman picked up the little -nosegay at her husband’s plate and pinned it on his coat. She even patted -his shoulder just as Ike had done with Annie. We were all ready to begin, -when Ike, standing by Annie’s chair, took off his great spectacles and -held up his hand. - -“I don’t know who you be or whether you’re church folks or not, but me -an’ Annie always makes every day a season for Thanksgivin’.” - -Then in the deep silence with only the popping of the fire and the dim -noises of the night, as accompaniment, the old man bowed his head and -made his prayer. He prayed that the “stranger within our gates” might -find peace and strength and go on his way thankful for all the blessings -of life. Under those great bushy eyebrows the eyes of the strong, rich -man glowed with a strange light. The young wife glanced at him, and the -sneer faded away from her face. Then Ike became the landlord once more -and he bustled about, tempting us to eat a little more of this or another -piece of that, and at every word of praise falling back upon his stock -explanation: - -“It’s her—Annie plays hands and I play feet. Everybody knows hands have -more skill than feet.” - -After supper the big man and his wife stood at the window looking out -into the wet, dismal night. After a little hesitation he put his arm -gently around her. She did not throw it away as she did when he tried -to comfort her in the swamp, but rather pulled it closer. After Ike had -cleared up his dishes and caught and dressed the gray rooster we all sat -before the fire and talked. With a few shrewd questions the lumberman -drew out Ike’s story. Years before he and Annie had owned a good farm in -New York. There they heard of the wonderful new town that was to be built -in Northern Michigan. A city was to arise there, the railroad was coming, -and fortune was to float on golden wings over the favored place. It is -strange how people like Ike and Annie cannot see how much they need home -and old friends and old scenes to make life satisfying. They are not made -of the stuff used in building pioneers, but they cannot realize it and -they listen to plausible dreams and go chasing after the impossible. So -Ike and Annie sold the farm and came to start the great city. It never -started. The railroad headed 20 miles west. Out among the scrub oaks you -could find some of the rotting stakes marked “Broadway,” “Clay St.,” or -“Lake Avenue.” The swamp and forest refused to be civilized. Ike built -his hotel in anticipation of the human wave which would wash prosperity -his way. It never came, and only a rough, rambling house remained as the -weatherbeaten gravestone of Sawdust City. Of all the pioneers there were -only Ike and Annie—last of them all—celebrating their happy Thanksgiving! - -“Why don’t you sell out and move to some town?” said the practical -lumberman. - -“Well, sir—it would be too far from home! Me and Annie know this -place—every corner of it. Every crick of a timber at night brings a -memory. We are just part of the place. And the little girl is buried off -there by the brook. We couldn’t go away from that, could we?” - -“But isn’t it so _awful_ lonesome?” - -It was the young woman who asked, and it was Annie who softly answered -her. - -“No, for we have great company. I have Ike and he has me. All these long -years have tried us out. We know each other, and we are satisfied. Each -Thanksgiving finds us happier than before, because we know that our last -years are to be our best years.” - -The rich man looked over to Ike and Annie with something of hopeless envy -printed on his face. His wife nodded her head gently and then sat gazing -into the fire until Ike gave us clearly to understand that 10 o’clock was -the hour for retiring at the “Farmers’ Rest.” - -We stayed for our Thanksgiving dinner, and the gray rooster, stuffed -with chestnuts and bread-crumbs, might well have stood up in the platter -to crow at the praises heaped upon him. The forenoon was gloomy and -dull, but just as we came to the table the sun broke through the clouds. -A long splinter of sunshine broke through the window—falling upon -Annie’s snow-white hair. Ike hurried to move her chair out of the sun, -but the rich man asked Ike to leave her there, for I think something -in that sunny picture took him back to childhood—where most men go on -Thanksgiving Day. - -And shortly after dinner the farmer came up the road with the carriage. -The axle had been mended and the horses rested. We all shook hands with -Ike and Annie. I was to go my way and the other guests were to pass out -of our little world. - -Annie held the young girl’s hand for a moment. - -“My dear, I hope you will soon be back in the city among your friends, -where you will not be so lonely. It must be hard for you here.” - -The girl hesitated a moment and then put her hand on her husband’s -shoulder. - -“John, would it mean very much to you if we went right back to the camp -so you could finish your business?” - -“Yes, it would—but I am afraid——” - -“Then we will _not_ go home yet, but we will go back until you are -through. I have had a beautiful Thanksgiving. I would rather stay in the -woods.” - -And so they turned in their tracks and went back through the swamp. The -night before she said she should always hate the place where the accident -had made Ike Sawyer’s hotel a necessity. Now as she passed it she smiled -and gave her husband a pinch—a trick she must have learned from Annie. -And so they went on through the sunny afternoon of the “thankfullest day -of their lives.” They were thinking of the working force at the “Farmers’ -Rest”—the feet and the hands! - -And the thought in their minds framed itself over and over into words: - -“_Out of their poverty, out of their trouble and loneliness, this man and -woman have found each other, and thus have found the most beautiful and -precious thing in life—love!_” - - - - -OLD-TIME POLITICS - - -“What is the matter with this political campaign?” - -An old man who can remember public events far back of the Civil War and -beyond asked that question the other day. He said this campaign reminded -him more of a Sunday school convention. Nobody was fighting, and very -few such epithets as “liar” or “thief” or “rascal” were being used. In -these days no one seems to care who is to be elected. We are all too -busy trying to pay our bills. The old man bewailed the loss of power and -interest in this generation. He thought this quiet indifference meant -that as a nation we have lost our political vigor. Having been through -some of those old-time battles, I cannot fully agree with him. It is -true that few people seem interested, yet they will vote this year, and -I think the quiet and thoughtful study most of them are making will -prove as effective as the big noise and excitement we used to have. We -are merely doing things differently now. Whether the great excitement -of those old political days made us better citizens is a question which -has long puzzled me. I know that in those nervous and high-strung days -we did many foolish things as a part of “politics.” On the other hand, I -wish sometimes that our people could get as thoroughly worked up over the -tribute we are paying to the profiteers as we did in those old days over -the tariff and the slavery issue. - -I can well remember taking part in the campaign between Garfield and -Hancock. The Democrats felt that they had been robbed of the Presidency -in ’76, but as they failed to renominate Tilden the Republicans called -them quitters. I had dropped out of college for awhile to work as hired -man for a farmer in a Western State, and we certainly had a great time. -This farmer was an old soldier; he was a good talker and thought well of -his own exploits. When you found that combination 40 years ago you struck -a red-hot partisan. The man’s wife was a Democrat, because her father had -been. She was one of those small, black-eyed women who acquire the habit -of dominating things in the schoolroom and then concentrate the habit -when they take a school of one pupil in the home. Her brother lived on -the next farm. He had turned Republican because he wanted to be elected -county clerk. It was fully worth the price of admission to sit by the -fire some stormy night and hear this woman put those two Republicans on -the broiler of her tongue. They were big men, fully capable of holding -their own in any ordinary argument, but this small woman cowed them as -she formerly did her A B C pupils. It was enough to make any young man -very thoughtful about marrying a successful teacher to see this small -woman point a finger at her big husband and say: - -“Now John Crandall, don’t you dare to say it isn’t the truth!” - -And John didn’t dare, though from his political religion it might be a -base fabrication. One day, after a particularly hard thrust, John and I -were digging potatoes, and he unburdened his mind a little: - -“I’ll tell you one thing: any man who marries a good school-marm takes -his life in his hands—his political life, anyway!” and he pushed his -fork into the ground as though he was spearing a Democrat! “And yet,” he -added, as he threw out a fine hill of potatoes, “sometimes I kinder think -it’s worth the risk.” - -My great regret is that this lady did not live to celebrate the -Nineteenth Amendment! With the ballot in her hand she would have stirred -excitement even into this dull campaign! - -We worked all day, and went around arguing most of the night during that -hot campaign. The names we had for the Democrats would not bear repeating -here. The other side went around with pieces of chalk, making the figures -“321” on every fence and building or on stones. That represented the sum -of money which General Garfield was said to have stolen. The Republicans -marched around in processions carrying a pair of overalls tied to a -pole, representing one of the Democratic candidates. Oh, it was a -“campaign of education” without doubt! And then Maine voted! John and his -brother-in-law had been playing Maine as their trump card. - -“Wait till you hear from the old Pine Tree State. As Maine goes, so goes -the Union!” - -John felt so sure of it that even his wife was a little fearful. The day -after the Maine election John and I were seeding wheat on a hill back -from the road. There were no telephones in those days, and news traveled -slowly—we were eight miles from town. In the late afternoon we heard -a noise from the distant road. There was Peleg Leonard driving his old -white horse up the road at full speed and roaring out an old campaign -song: - - “Wait for the wagon! Wait for the wagon! - Democratic wagon, and we’ll all take a ride!” - -The demand for prohibition in those days was confined to a few “wild-eyed -fanatics,” and Peleg was not one of them, especially on those rare -occasions when the Democrats got a chance to yell. We saw him stop in -front of the house and wave his arms as he told the news to Sarah. - -“Looks sorter bad. Can it be that Maine has gone back on us?” said John -as he saw the celebrator go on his way. - -We usually had a cold supper on such days, but now we saw the smoke -pouring from the kitchen chimney, and the horn blew half an hour earlier -than usual. John and I put up the horses, washed our faces at the pump -and walked into the kitchen as only two dejected Republicans can travel. -You see, it wasn’t so bad for the Democrats. They were used to being -defeated, and had made no great claims. I was young then, and youth is -intensely partisan. Since that day I have voted on four different party -tickets, and glory in the fact that I am not “hide-bound.” - -Sarah had on her best black silk and the white apron with lace edges. -She had cooked some hot biscuit and dished up some of her famous plum -preserve and actually skimmed a pan of milk to serve thick cream. - -“_Maine is gone Democratic!_” she cried. “_Hurrah for Hancock!_ Bread and -water’s good enough for Republicans in this hour of triumph, but I know -the fat of the land will taste like gall to both of you. Sit right down -and feast, because the country’s safe!” - -Physically that supper was perfect. There never were finer hot biscuits -or better plum preserve or finer cold chicken! Spiritually it was the -saddest and most depressing meal on record. We made a full meal. I can go -back into the years and see that big farmer gnawing half a chicken under -command of his wife. You remember “King Robert of Sicily” in Longfellow’s -poem: - - “The world he loved so much - Had turned to dust and ashes at his touch.” - -And so with poor John. That fine chicken tasted exactly like crow as -Sarah sat by and “rubbed it in.” Oh, politics, where are the charms we -formerly saw in thy face? - -John and I surely dawdled over our chores that night. We had no great -desire to go in and hear the news. Finally Sarah came to the door and -called us. - -“Say,” said John to me as we started for the house, “you go to college. -Have you ever studied logic or what they call psychology?” - -“While I am no expert at either subject, I know what they mean.” - -“Well, now, suppose your wife got after you like that, how would you use -those studies to keep her quiet? What’s the use of an education if it -don’t help you keep peace in the family?” - -So I unwisely told John that he ought to tell his wife that a woman by -law obtained her citizenship from her husband. That citizenship was the -essence of politics; therefore the wife should by law belong to her -husband’s party. I am older now in years, and I know better than to give -any man arguments in a debate with his wife. The Maine election, however, -had made us desperate. So John marched in with a very confident step and -elaborated my arguments. He was quite impressive when he assured her that -the law declared that a woman acquired her political principles from her -husband. It did not work, however. - -“Don’t you tell me! I didn’t marry any principles at all when I married -you. How is a man going to give any principles to his wife when he never -had any to give? My father was a Democrat, and I take my politics from -him. He was the best man that ever lived, and you know it. I inherit my -politics, I do—I didn’t marry them!” - -The truth is that Sarah’s father was an old war Democrat who came near -being tarred and feathered by his neighbors, but one of the saving graces -of modern civilization is the fact that a woman’s father is always an -immortal—never needing any defense—his virtues being self-evident, while -her husband is a de-mortal who can hardly hope to become a good citizen -except through long years of patient service! His only hope lies in the -future when he has a daughter of his own. - -And Henry Wilkins, Sarah’s brother, was running for county clerk. We held -a caucus at the blacksmith shop, where John and I and two farmers were -elected delegates to the county convention. We all went to the county -seat one Saturday afternoon to nominate a ticket. The last we heard from -Sarah was: - -“Now, Henry, if you get nominated on that renegade ticket, I know one man -that won’t vote for you and that’s John Crandall. I won’t let him vote if -he has to stay in bed all day!” - -Contrary to what some of the “antis” say woman has always exercised -political power. - -When we got to town we found the “drug-store ring” in control. This was a -little group of politicians led by Jacob Spaulding. It was the “Tammany -Hall” of Oak County. This ring had decided to nominate an undertaker from -the west side of the county for clerk. Most of the farmers were all ready -to quit when Jake Spaulding said the word, for he usually handed out the -little political jobs. I was young and inexperienced in politics and -ready for a fight. It hurt me to see that great crowd of farmers ready -to give up the fight when a big, fat brute like Jake Spaulding and a few -of his creatures shook their heads. So I called our delegates together -and proposed that we go right in where Jake was and “talk turkey” to him. -Strange, but John Crandall was the only outspoken supporter I had. John -was bossed at home until he was like a lamb, but get him out among men -and the pent-up feelings in the lamb expanded that innocent animal into -a lion. So we had our way, and about 25 of us marched down the street -to the courthouse, where in the sheriff’s room the county committee was -making up the ticket. - -You would have thought the destinies of the nation were at stake as we -filed into that room. Half of our delegates were ready to quit when Jake -Spaulding glared at us over his spectacles. - -“What do you want?” - -Dr. Walker was our spokesman, and Jake Spaulding had a mortgage on his -house. You could see that mortgage peeking out from behind every sentence -of the doctor’s speech. In effect he asked those politicians if they -wouldn’t please nominate Henry Wilkins for county clerk. It didn’t take -Jake long to put us where we belonged. - -“No; the delegates to this convention are going to nominate Hiram Green. -Nothing doing here. Just fall in and work for the grand old Republican -party! And now, boys, good day; we’re busy.” - -Several of our delegates started for the door. They were well-disciplined -soldiers. I was not, and I did what most of them thought a very foolish -thing. Before I well knew it I was up in front making a speech to Jake -Spaulding. At that time no one had ever heard of the 35-cent dollar. -The word “profiteer” was not in the language; but I think I did make it -clear that these farmers were there to nominate Henry Wilkins or “bust” -the convention. As I look back upon it now I think it was the most bold -and palpable “bluff” ever attempted at a country convention. And John -Crandall stood beside me and pounded his big hands together until the -rest of the delegates forgot their fear and joined in. When I finished -there was nothing to do for us but to file out of the courthouse. - -Then they turned on me in sorrow and anger. Everyone would now be a -marked man. They never could get any office from Jake Spaulding. Even -Henry, the candidate, felt I had injured his chances, for if he kept -quiet perhaps he might make a deal to get to be deputy clerk. But John -Crandall stood by me. - -“Good,” he said; “I’m a fighter. Get right up in convention and give ’em -another. I’m going to vote for Henry till the last man is out.” - -But these faint hearts did not know what was going on inside the -sheriff’s room. When our delegation marched out the county committee sat -and looked at each other. - -“Boys,” said Jake Spaulding, “it looks like they mean business. We can’t -let that spread. I guess we’ll have to take Henry on!” - -There was a big crowd in the courthouse, and the convention went off like -a well-oiled machine. They nominated sheriff and probate judge and then -the chairman asked: - -“Any nominations for county clerk?” - -I had my throat all cleared and stood up with: “Mr. Chairman,”—but no one -paid much attention to me. The chairman turned to the platform and said: - -“I recognize Judge Spaulding,” and there was the big, fat boss on his -feet. - -“Mr. Chairman,” he said, “today our glorious country lives or dies! The -grand old Republican party is on trial. Every patriot is needed in this -great crisis. Ho! Israel, every man to his tent! I therefore take great -pleasure in nominating that splendid farmer, that incomparable patriot, -that popular citizen, Henry Wilkins of Adams township. I ask you in the -name of our glorious citizenship to put him through with bells on!” - -I stood there all through the speech too dazed to sit, until John -Crandall pulled me down. Then I realized that for once a bluff had -worked. And after the convention I met Jake Spaulding in front of the -courthouse. “Young feller,” he said, “if you decide to settle down in -this county, let me know. I’ll have a little job for you.” - -We all rode home in the candidate’s wagon. Sarah was waiting for us at -the gate. - -“Well, how did you come out?” - -“Nominated by acclamation,” said Henry. “John and the young feller here -did it. They made Jake Spaulding come up!” - -“John?” - -If some actress could put into a single word the scorn and surprise which -Sarah packed into her husband’s name her fortune would be made. And John -and I stood there like a couple of truant schoolboys waiting for the -verdict. - -“That’s what I said. John was fine. Only for him I’d have been defeated.” -And Henry drove on. - -“Now you two lazy Republicans, get out and milk those cows.” - -We went, but when we got back the kitchen stove was roaring, and Sarah -was just taking out a pan of biscuits. There were ham and eggs on the -stove. - -“Now you sit right down and eat. If I’ve got to be sister to a county -clerk I want to know all about it. Now, John, you tell me just how it -happened.” - -Ah, but those were the happy days of politics. Do you wonder that we -old-timers consider the present campaign about like dishwater—in more -ways than one? - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Hope Farm Notes, by Herbert Winslow Collingwood - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HOPE FARM NOTES *** - -***** This file should be named 63243-0.txt or 63243-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/2/4/63243/ - -Produced by The Online Distributed Proofreading Team at -https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images -generously made available by The Internet Archive/American -Libraries.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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