Apbil 14, 1892.] 



FOREST AND STREAM. 



847 



and nailed 'em up in the cabin to hang my rifle on. On 

 the butt of one o' the horns was the mark of a bullet, but 

 no sign of a bullet anywhere else, so I allow I just creased 

 it, and that was the cause o' the fight. If I'd loaded my 

 gun and stood at his head waitin' for some signs of life I 

 could a give him another ball and that would a settled 

 him; but I've learnt better since and take no such 

 chances now. I reckon huntin' is somethin' like religion 

 —a man knows a heap more than he puts in practice." 



Cameron. 



EtiSAH, Illinois. 



THE ABANDONED FARMS. 



1117 HY hasn't it struck some of the city residents who 

 T T are lovers of country life, with its attendant hunt- 

 ing and fishing opportunities, as being a good tbing to 

 huy up the old worn-out and abandoned farms of New 

 England so freely offered for sale at prices that are 

 merely nominal, an almost Hothing at all, and convert 

 them into summer homes for their families, and shooting 

 boxes and preserves for themselves? Last fall I shot 

 over an extent of country that a few years ago was a 

 thriving farm, but now, alas, run down and deserted, 

 everything was going rapidly to ruin and decay. Some 

 old timber still offered an asylum to gray squirrels, 

 coons, wildcats and foxes, while the heavy growth of 

 white birches and alders on the high lands as well as 

 low lands afforded good, cover for grouse, woodcock and 

 snipe. The pastures and meadows, now grown to rag- 

 weed and hazel clumps, with osier pigeon berry and 

 bittersweet hedges by the old rail fences, made good hid- 

 ings and furnished forage for quail and grouse, and we 

 found them plenty too, with no board signs of "Shooting 

 not Allowed" to distract or make afraid. Swamps fur- 

 nished an agreeable variation from the dry uplands; 

 flight birds here found inducements to linger, and any 

 sort of a season is generally propitious to the sportsman, 

 as both wet and dry lands are apt to be found on these 

 old farms. In May and June I know where there are 

 brooks that sing and babble their way through beautiful 

 green meadows as sweetly as when the farmer lads 

 wooed them with their birchen rods and eyed Limerick 

 hooks; and though only stranger feet tread these banks 

 now, the little streams are neither shy nor selfish, bat 

 give up their speckled treasures to native and alien alike. 



The old homestead and barns on these old farms are 

 quite often in a _ good state of preservation, and by the 

 judicious expenditure of a small sum of money could be 

 made even luxuriously comfortable. A broad, long 

 piazza across the front of the house; a bow window where 

 it would catch the first gleam of the morning sun and 

 offer a cool retreat in the hot afternoon of a summer day; 

 a little paint selected in good taste, in colors and shades 

 of soft grays; a clematis and ivy or two — and your old 

 comfortless farmhouse becomes a manor house, and sleeps 

 in cool, soft shadows the long, sunny summer day 

 through, a thing of beauty and joy to its new occu- 

 pants. 



And these old farms are often offered for a song. The 

 neglected appearance— so wearing to the practical farmer 

 — has a wildly picturesque look to the lover of nature, 

 who is not practical. The old place I have spoken of is 

 perhaps too far away from railroads (about three miles) 

 to suit some, but it is beautiful to me and I en j oy every . 

 moment of my visit to it. I put my horse in its large 

 empty barn (where once its owner fed his "thirty head" 

 or more), and he stays contented until he hears my foot- 

 steps or Ponto's bark on our return. 



laist fall when I visited the place a good crop of what 

 in June was prime timothy waved its dry stalks and 

 seedless heads in the whispering breezes, which seemed 

 mourning for thoBe who had left the old home forever. 

 Acre after acre I saw with the grass still standing, wait- 

 ing for the hand which would never come. What, I 

 thought, could be the history of this neglect? By what 

 subtle influences could these changes have been brought 

 about? Off on the hills a dense growth of forest trees 

 partially shielded the setting sun from my view, but an 

 occasional ray shot out through the branches and fell 

 with a sweet sad grace upon the valley below. Beautiful 

 sight! How many an eye had looked at the setting sun 

 in joy and sorrow, woe or pleasure, in the earlier days 

 from the very spot on which I now stood? 



After a day's sport I sat down in the large meadow 

 which lay between the house and the country road,which 

 ran zigzag up the hill to the west, and gave'myself up to 

 reverie. A crow flew leisurely across the broad expanse 

 of sky to the wooded height, cawing a hoarse note to 

 some followers of his. A hawk wheeling gracefully on 

 almost motionless wing hung high in air. My eye took 

 in the beauty, and my soul was full. Down deeper in 

 the valley I heard the mill stream chatter and brawl in 

 self assertive cascades; the old mill below I knew had 

 long since gone to ruin. Down by the rickety log dam 

 was a swirl covered with flecks of foam, out of which I 

 had coaxed many a trout in days gone by. With what 

 patience have I whipped the pool, trying one after an- 

 other of the varied flies on my hat, until no longer able 

 to withstand the temptation there came a rush, a strike, 

 the musical click of the reel, a rapid rush and playing 

 out of line, a glimmer of a silver side, and then the land- 

 ing of a whopper after almost exhaustion on my part as 

 well as that of the trout. 



Don't talk to me of the joys of the mountains and lakes 

 of Upper Maine and the wilderness of New York, I grant 

 you more grandeur and larger game, but give me the 

 pastures, woods, rocks and hills of the old New England 

 farms. There you will find wilderness and beauty, quiet 

 and rest, pleasure, joy and peace. Not so far away but 

 that you are within easy driving distance of railroads, 

 telephones, telegraphs and post-offices. 



I am not booming any particular section of country : I 

 have no old farms to sell, I have no reason to offer for 

 writing this article other than my interest in and love 

 for these old neglected places, which appeal to me so 

 touchingly whenever I pass them. Neglected, they are 

 yet full of beauties and loves of the years that are past 

 and gone forever; here it is a lilac bush or an old fash- 

 ioned cinnamon rose straggling and blossoming in its 

 wild beauty, or there an old orchard with its trees gnarled 

 and twisted: but they appeal to you almost humanly; and 

 I long to see kind hands again tenderly pruning and 

 training into new growths of grace and beauty the many 

 mute survivors of those who tended them once, and who 

 long since, alas, have moved away or been laid in their 

 narrow homes in yonder graveyard. Albert Lewis, 



Connecxeiout. 



THE MORTGAGED FARM. 



i. 



He bought, in 1665, a farm of stumps and stones, 

 His name was God-Be-Glorified, his surname it was Jones. 

 He put a mortgage on the farm, and then, in conscious pride, 

 "In twenty years I'll pay it up," said God-Be-Glorified. 



The mortgage had a hungry maw that swallowed corn and wheat; 

 He toiled with patience night and day to let the monster eat; 

 He slowly worked himself to death, and on the calm hillside 

 They laid beyond the monster's reach good God-Be-Glorified. 



And the farm with its incumbrances of mortgage, stumps and 

 stones, 



It fell to young Melchizedek Paul Adoniram Jones: 

 Melchizedek was a likely youth, a holy, godly man. 

 And he vowed to raise that mortgage like a noble Puritan. 



And he went forth every morning to the rugged mountain side, 

 And he dag as dug before him poor old God-Be-Glorified; 

 He raised pumpkins and potatoes down the monster's throat to 

 pour, 



He gulped them down and smacked his jaws and calmly asked 

 for more. 



He worked until his back was bent, until his hair was gray; 

 On the hillside, through a snowdrift, they dug his grave one day; 

 His first-born son, Eliphalet, had no time to weep and brood. 

 For the monster by his doorstep growled forever for his food. 



He fed him on his garden truck, and stuffed his ribs with hay, 

 And he fed him eggs and butter, but he would not go away; 

 And Eliphalet he staggered with the burden and then died, 

 And slept with old Melchizedek and God-Be-Glorified. 



Then the farm it fell to Thomas, and from Thomas fell to John, 

 And from John to Eleazur, but the mortgage still lived on: 

 Then it fell to Ralph and Peter, Absalom and Paul, 

 Down through all the generations, but the mortgage killed them 

 all. 



About a score of years ago the farm came down to Jim, 

 And Jim called in the mortgagee and gave the farm to him. 

 There's no human heart so empty that it has no ray of hope, 

 So Jim gave up the ancient farm and went to making soap. 



He grew a fifty millionaire, a bloated, pampered natnre, 

 He owned ten railroads, twenty mines and the whole State legis- 

 lature; 



And thousands did his gruff commands and lived upon his bounty. 

 And he came home, bought back the farm and the entire county. 



—Clipped from the New Orleans Picayune. 



THE NARRATIVE CONTINUED BY "FOBEST AND STBEAM" POETS. 

 II. 



Now, Jim found the "honors easy," and he quickly fixed a slate, 

 Which sent him to the Senate, to misrepresent the State, 

 Where he opened on "farm mortgages" with such a woeful howl, 

 The country thought him either mad, or frightened by an owl. 



But the farm was still a puzzle, for he found his little "pull," 

 Though very good for politics, refused to work on wool; 

 So he thought of "Swedish emigrants," and how 'twould do no 

 harm 



To try raising Swedish turnips on the long-abandoned farm. 



So Jim brought out a colony, and on their marrow-bones 

 They soon worked in the turnip seed, between the stumps and 

 stones; 



But the crop grew up so woody that the men picked out the best, 

 And converted them to "skaees" and migrated to the West. 



When Jim came home from Washington and found his Swedes 

 all gone. 



And turnips just as profitless as pumpkins, hay or corn, 

 He cursed the laud, and dammed the brook, which through one 

 corner ran, 



And said he'd start a game preserve, and be a happy man. 



The neighbors' hoys shot all his birds and stole his little trout. 

 The muskrats burrowed through his dam and let the water out; 

 They left him of his fish pond but a lot of slimy bogs, 

 And all the game that Jim could get was turtles, snakes and frogs. 



As he gazed in desperation on the stony, sterile soil, 

 Whereon for years his grandfathers had wasted time and toil, 

 He was forced to the conclusion that this truth would do no harm, 

 That the Lord had ne'er intended all New England for a farm! 



So he left the land in idleness that every autumn breeze 

 Might scatter freely over it the seeds of native trees; 

 That winters' snows and summers' suns, with nature's helping 

 hand. 



Might restore the primal forest, which of old had clothed the land. 

 Charlestown, New Hampshire. Ton W. 



in. 



Then Jim became disgusted with his turnips, rocks and "sich," 

 Which might be "nuts" for other folks, but didn't make him rich; 

 So he took a Gov'ment "quarter" of Louisiana pine, 

 Sold off the timber, pulled the stumps, and tried the horticultural 

 line. 



He planted and he planted, with vim and zeal galore, 



A hundred thousand orange trees, and half as many more 



Of figs and lemons, guavas, goumi, Diospyros Itaki too, 



With plums and pears from far Japan, and the famous Oon-shi-u. 



But soon curculio found him, and also the cottony-cushion-scale, 



The codling moth, and the bitter rot, and erinose. slim and pale; 



While the Clmbex aniericana and the Doryphora decern- lineata, and 

 the anthracnose, and the powdery mildew, and a million other 

 bugs, and worms, and blights, and rots, each the happy pos- 

 sessor of a twelve-syllabled Greek or Latin name, 



All came a-trooping to the feast till Jim gave up the game. 

 Lake Charles, Louisiana. H. P. U. 



rv. 



Now, when Jim Jones bought back the farm with shekels made 

 from soap, 



(I don't know what to rhyme with that unless it's mope or lope), 

 He reorganized the farm house, turned it into a Queen Anne, 

 And altered things according to a uniqus and Jonesy plan. 



He had a forty-acre lawn with plants and trees galore, 



A cut-stone wall which stretched aiong a half a mile or more 



In front of all this grandeur; and all the country side 



Would stop and gaze with bulging ort>3 and honest local pride. 



He had peacocks screaming loudly and eke the Guinea hen, 

 With terra-cotta deer and dogs and a black bear in a pen; 



He had bronze and marble maidens considerably in the nude. 

 Which by the women folks who passed quite furtively were 

 viewed. 



He built a big King William barn to match his fine Queen Anne , 

 With a bulldog fierce to watch the place, also a black and tan. 

 And a mastiff and a collie, and aristocratic cats, 

 That patronized the butcher, but ne'er disturbed the rats. 



There were chicken yards and hen coops in the very latest style, 

 And dandy houses for the pigs, and pots in which to bile 

 The pumpkins and potatoes (when the winter bleak should come) 

 With which to feed the porkers, and a rumty-tumty-tum. 



When he'd got his buildings finished and fixed up to his notlou. 

 He scoured the country far and wide, and even crossed the ocean , 

 To secure the finest thoroughbreds that ever were begot, 

 And when he got them safely home he had a lovely lot. 



There were Percheron-Coomassies and PeHn- Plymouth rocks, 

 Likewise the daintv bantam buck and lordly Berkshire cocks; 

 Here stood the Jersey SufEolk Punch and there the Aylesbury ram, 

 That butted all the other stock with a rib-cracking "ker-blam." 



A Chester-White-Sroke-Pogis and a short -horn stallion rare, 



Made as fine a pair of animals as ever stepped on air; 



While Holstein-Prlesian gobblers and Clydesdale Wyandottes, 



With Poland China Dominiques went cavorting round the lots, 



His lovely Shetland Brahmas took the honors at the fairs, 



While bis Hambletonian mulies and his spangled Hamburg mare?, 



With all the other thoroughbreds of aristocratic birth, 



Made the finest show of gilt-edged Btock that ever stood on earth. 



He fed 'em and he bred 'em and he nursed 'em night and day, 

 But with all his loving care and fuss they hadn't come to stay; 

 For disease with its insidiousness in all its varied phases, 

 Got in among his blooded stock and killed 'em off like blazes. 



His golden Polish coachers were afflicted with the rot, 

 While on all his Morgan Lsghorns there was not a single spot 

 That the scab had not pre-empted, and his Hampabire-Dawn 

 Toulouse 



Had glanders and distemper just too bad for any use. 



Pleuro-pneumonia took a hand and cholera sailed in, 

 While Texas fever, roup and lice combined the ranks to thin, 

 'Till all the vets in thos=e 'ere parts were kept upon the rack. 

 But all their skill availed nil, professional or quack. 



Jim's income from his soap works meanwhile was growing small. 

 He'd mortgaged all his property, hypothecated all 

 His stocks and bonds, while bank accounts were parilously low, 

 But still he stuck to live stock, he was bound to make it go. 



And go it did, in tempus, in a year or two or three, 

 His cherished stock had vanished, his prosperous soap works he 

 Had seen absorbed by creditors; dried up the plenteous source. 

 He bade farewell to live stock hopes and petered out of c iurse. 



Now what became of live stock Jones, what further him befel. 

 How fared he in the strife of life I haven't time to tell; 

 I'll pass him on to "Ahwahsoose" and he will tell about 

 Jim's history in graphic style without a bit of doubt, 

 Newtown, Pa. o. O. S. 



v. 



Ah do' dnow what for dey'll sen' dat storee 'long to me, 

 For Ah'll ant never write no rham dat anybodee see; 

 If M'sien Mumsin was be here, he'Jl fix it off f us' rate, 

 But he'll gnne off for veesitin' on Ma a sachusin State. 



Ah '11 tol' you what, Ah b'lieve he do, dat man hees nem be Jeem , 

 If he was kan o' sensibly, wen hees farm it ant pay heem; 

 Hees bloody stock be all die up, hees soap be spill de pot, 

 Ht '11 can' gat sen' for legislate, on foot he'll had for trot. 



He'll cut some pole, he'll deeg some wum, an' 'way he go for feesb , 

 An' he was took so comfort den, dey not'ing let' for weesh; 

 He lislin of de song of bird, he'll smell de po3y blow, 

 An' all de tarn he'll wonderin', why 'fore he ant do so. 



He fool de traout, he pull de paout, jes' sem de slippy eel, 

 An' wen he luggin' home hees string, so reech he never feel; 

 An' he ant miss one bit de frien' dat use for shook hees han'. 

 But lef ' heem wen day fan 1 he'll ant gros riche of soap an' lan'. 



Den wen it come de fallin' year he took hoi' Glorify hees gun, 



Dat ben a hanging on de hook mos' sen de year o' one, 



An' he'll go hunt in hwood an' poa' for patteraige an' duck. 



'F he can' gat deni he ant feel 'bove shoot squirrel an' hwoodchuck . 



He'll let hees farm all grow up hwood an' he was happy be, 

 Jes' sem as he was be a bird or ant-do-not'ing tree; 

 An' for all de ting he ever loss, he mos' sorry was for dese, 

 He'll have let go, wen he'll maght had, moB' any tarn he please. 



An' wen he'll sit biffore hees fire, dis man dey call it Jeem, 

 A-t'inkin' baont mos' ey'yt'ing, an' read hees Fores' Stbim, 

 He'll b'lieve dat if hoi' Glorify an' all dat foller he, 

 Live more lak dis, dey ant dry up, biffore dey was buree. 

 Ferrisbtjrgh, Vermont. Antoine Bissette. 



VI. 



Little E'ord was reading the paper to Uncle "Thuse," and 

 came across an account of abandoned farms in New England. 

 The old man broke out with, "Whar's de niggers? Whar's de. 



niggers? Dey'd wurk 'em. Dey'd wurk 'em ef dey had ter;'' 



continuing: 



Dere's er lot er young niggers wat's loafin' roun' der stor', 

 Bodderin' ebery body dats cmain' 'fore der do'r; 

 Sartin, dey's good fer nuffln, en sure ter come ter harm, 

 Der propper place fer dese niggers is on a 'bandon farm. 



Dey'd hev ter hustle es sure es you're born, 

 Fer dey wouldn't hev der hoe cake ef dey didn't raise der corn; 

 Es der norven peeple's scrumshun en der darky'd hev ter work, 

 Fer d«y wouldn't find his hoe cake en he couldn't steal his pork. 

 Boston, Massachusetts. Reignolds. 



H. P. UFFORD. 



Editor Forest and Stream : 



I have just got a copy of the Forest and Stream and am very 

 sad indeed to see that H. P. Ufford, whose familiar signature has 

 been so often appended to articles which 1 have very much en - 

 joyed, has answered to the last roll call, has been "mustered out." 

 At the same time I am much pleased to see that the Confederate 

 veterans turned out to attend him to his last resting place. Such 

 evidences of fraternal feeling are very grateful to us old soldiers 

 who wore the blue, and always strengthen the bond which binds 

 us oloser together as American brothers. O. 0. S, 



Portland, Oregon. 



