52 



THE GARDEN MAGAZINE 



September, 1913 



he held it a man's duty, especially nowa- 

 days, to lead his flock economically as well 

 as spiritually into green pastures; that 

 he should assist his people to live rather 

 than live off them. 



"Nowhere is better farming more nec- 

 essary than in New England — for lack 

 of it the farmers' children go cityward and 

 his kingdom is taken from him by the sum- 

 mer resident and the man from outside 

 who knows how to farm better. 



"It is well enough to have ancestors 

 who came over in the Mayflower," said 

 Richard, "and the distance from which we 

 view them undoubtedly enhances their 

 worth, but farming methods should be more 

 recert. Surely three hundred years is 

 sufficient time for people to discover that 

 their climat.? conditions are not those of 

 Great Britain; that here is not England's 

 watery sky; that drought in the summer 

 may be counted on almost as certainly as 

 flowers in the spring, and that it would be 

 well to make some provision for it aside 

 from praying for rain. New England 

 farming is archaic." 



"There's plenty of modern machinery," 

 said Clarky. 



"Yes, but look at it, my dear Miss 

 Clarke. Left out in the rain and dew — 

 treatment which might have been accorded 

 harmlessly to the wooden Egyptian plow 

 of Moses's time, but which is deadly to iron 

 and steel mechanism. 



"The Pilgrim Father was a worthy soul," 

 continued Mr. Protheroe, "but he robbed 

 the land just as he robbed the Indian. 'The 

 Earth is the Lord's and the fulness thereof,' 

 was his idea, and moreover that the Lord 

 had delivered it into his hand, wherefore he 

 may take all and give nothing back. His 

 descendant does precisely the same thing 

 — wastes the fertilizer, wastes the re- 

 sources of the land, wastes the digestion 

 of his boys and girls, wastes the strength 

 of his cattle. Father and son for two 

 hundred and fifty years will be content 

 to lose ten years from the life of every 

 horse on the farm rather than to change 

 a road and give an easy grade instead 

 of one which puts a terrific strain on the 

 animals. 



"It is not economy the farmer has, my 

 dear Miss Clarke, not economy, but con- 

 gestion of the purse strings! No wonder 

 he and Mother Nature clash, as you say 

 your friend here tells you. His policy is 

 one of devastation, conquest and not 

 cooperation, and the bare, scraped hills 

 are witness to it. 



"It is socialism that farming needs," 

 said Richard, warming to his pet subject, 

 "socialism and Montessori methods of 

 education. Cooperation rather than con- 

 quest. Since the character of the land is 

 varied, the crops should suit the diverse 

 abilities of the soil, a kind of vocational 

 training should be followed. Thus we 

 have from Madame Nature cooperation 

 and assistance rather than enmity." He 

 quoted Saint Paul to the effect that on a 

 farm all parts are "members one of another, 



but all members have not the same office." 

 "Why force it on them? " said he. 



"When trees are so gifted by Nature," 

 said he, "that their roots can force their 

 way through the rocks down to the cool 

 moist soil below — why should we painfully 

 and laboriously remove the rock for them 

 and teach the roots to come near the 

 surface so that in summer watering be- 

 comes a necessity, although at that season 

 the streams run dry? " 



There was, in his mind, no reason why 

 our bare hills might not be covered with 

 prosperous apple and cherry and nut 

 orchard as the Italian hills are covered with 

 the olive trees. His intention, it seemed, 

 was to establish nut orchards and to get 

 a small piece of land into a very high state 

 of cultivation instead of having a large 

 area indifferently productive. 



He considered the whole problem of the 

 hill country an agricultural problem. He 

 bade us remember that the undoubtedly 

 familiar story of the Exodus was the 

 account of an exploited people leaving an 

 exploited industry and betaking themselves 

 to country life and farming, each on his 

 own holding, in the Land of Canaan. 



Thus and much more, Mr. Protheroe; 

 I grew tired and listened rather absently, 

 but Clarky sat enthralled. It fitted so 

 admirably with her own ideas which always 

 makes any one's discourse more interesting. 

 Clarky held the unflattering belief that all 

 bodily ills came from being more or less 

 of a fool in the ordering of one's life, and 

 omitting three square meals a day. 



She told me afterward, as she was helping 

 me to bed (for she still kept the nurse's 

 habit in that respect) that it was perfectly 

 simple; that what ailed the farms was, as 

 she made out from Richard's discourse, a 

 kind of nervous exhaustion — overwork, 

 lack of nourishment, no diversion — always 

 the same kind of work and a possibly dis- 

 tasteful occupation at that. She under- 

 stood it perfectly and thought it very 

 interesting. 



"There's quite a bit in his theory," said 

 she, "and I agree with him that the chief 

 causes of rural decadence are the country 

 minister and the country school. These 

 teachers who should lead are followers, 

 and followers a long way behind." 



"You' have a good memory for the 

 Rev. Richard's remarks, Clarky," I said, 

 "but there's nothing new in his theory." 



"The willingness to try it out is new," 

 said she. 



"But how can he have time for study if 

 he carries out all these lovely farming 

 experiments?" 



"Study!" said Clarky, "When you 

 study defective physical and sanitary 

 conditions you go where they are and 

 experience them, or you go to a hospital 

 and see the people who are ill from them. 

 You experiment and prove, or your theory 

 is no good. He is simply for trying out 

 his social and religious theory. It's per- 

 fectly intelligent, perfectly scientific — a 

 bully idea." 



Chapter XVII 



I^TEXT morning, I was sitting on the 

 ■*■ ^ doorstep having my early coffee — 

 the one dissipation our hill afforded — when 

 Richard appeared. It was not yet seven. 

 Evidently the climate had something the 

 same effect on the Rev. Richard that it had 

 had on Clarky. Instead of clericals he 

 was all in khaki — very new — with canvas 

 leggings — also new — and a soft hat 

 something like Stephen's might once have 

 been. In his hand was a Delft blue dinner- 

 pail. 



"Where's Miss Clarke?" said he. 



He carefully set down the dinner-pail 

 on the step that Mrs. Tarbox's pie, which 

 I knew it contained, might not be jarred. 

 Then he sat down beside me. 



"Where's Miss Clarke?" he repeated. 



"Off to the farm, for extra milk," I said. 

 "She won't be back for nearly three- 

 quarters of an hour. Have some of my 

 coffee?" 



Richard went inside and found a cup 

 with more skill and expedition than I 

 thought he had and sat down beside me 

 again. The mist still lay in the valley 

 although the top of the mountain was 

 clear. Old Ascutney looked as if he had 

 pulled the fleecy blanket up to his chin, 

 and intended taking another nap. 



"How long have you been doing this," 

 asked he, "keeping these very sprightly 

 hours?" 



"Coffee on the doorstep? More than a 

 month." 



"You've been getting wonderfully well," 

 said he. "How has it been accomplished ? " 



"Digging in the ground," I answered. 



"Back to the soil very literally?" 



I nodded and then set down my cup. 

 "Yes, it's the garden," I said, slowly, 

 "though I daresay you think it doesn't 

 look like much, but I never did it myself 

 before. There's something wonderfully 

 soothing in having your fingers in Mother 

 Earth. It seems to take the restlessness 

 out of one. Then, you know, when I've 

 tried to get well before, the only way was 

 to go about, to get properly dressed and 

 walk a bit, and it was all dreadfully ex- 

 hausting, deadly uninteresting. But to 

 lie on a rug in the sunshine and poke in the 

 ground with weeder or trowel or fingers, 

 wasn't in the least tiring, it was wonder- 

 fully exciting. And the moment I cared 

 to I could rest just where I was — pull the 

 pillow under my head and watch the birds. 

 I suppose it's the way a baby begins — 

 creeps and does things and then drops his 

 toy as soon as he's tired. And then when 

 I tried to walk, I found I'd been growing 

 some muscle in my back and that it felt 

 no longer like a wet string. There was 

 real muscle in it. You won't believe me, 

 but I helped Clarky put those stones in 

 place and make the wall before I'd walked 

 as far as the barn. Oh yes, it was the 

 gardening. That, and Stephen McLeod." 



"Who's Stephen McLeod?" 

 (To be continued) 



