G’A*?  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
777 
Frank  of  Peach  Hill 
By  Geo.  B.  Fiske 
(Continued  from  page  744) 
I  managed  to  sort  out  m.v  lumber  a 
little,  and  to  set  up  the  corners  of  my 
house  and  to  start  on  the  frame,  but  I 
had  never  used  tools  much  and  had  only 
a  few  tools  anyhow  that  I  had  bought,  at 
the  second  hand  store  or  borrowed.  So  I 
had  to  get  help,  much  as  I  disliked  to 
spend  my  money.  I  hired  a  man  about 
town.  Bill  Carey  by  name,  a  handy  fel¬ 
low  enough  when  sober,  but  not  strong  in 
general  character  and  reputation.  He 
worked  cheaply  because  not  a  regular  car¬ 
penter,  and  because  not  everybody  cared 
to  hire  a  man  of  that  kind,  lie  had  tools 
and  knew  how  to  knock  the  lumber  to¬ 
gether  after  a  fashion.  He  put  up  the 
frame  and  sawed  out  the  boarding,  swear¬ 
ing  a  great  deal  about  the  old  nails  and 
grit  in  the  lumber.  At  the  end  of  the 
first  week  he  went  off  on  a  drunk  with 
the  ten  dollars,  and  I  never  saw  him  on 
the  hilltop  again,  except  once,  as  I  shall 
relate,  and  then  by  no  means  a  welcome 
guest. 
After  a  day  or  two  working  on  my  lot 
I  had  a  longing  for  some  fresh  milk,  and 
walked  across  the  lots  to  Farmer  Frost's 
place,  a  line,  plain  old  homestead,  barn 
and  house  connected,  big  trees  in  front 
and  an  orchard  at  the  side.  T  found  the 
old  man  as  grim  as  a  school-master. 
“I  calculate  you  have  been  using  some¬ 
thing  stronger  than  milk  up  on  the  hill, 
young  man,”  was  liis  greeting,  severely 
spoken. 
It  was  true.  In  my  lonesomeness  and 
in  my  reckless  mood  of  those  early  days 
I  had  joined  Bill  Carey  in  disposing  of 
some  hot  stuff  from  a  bottle,  and  we  had 
lifted  our  voices  to  the  fair  winds  that 
swept  the  hilltop.  I  had  never  before 
used  anything  stronger  than  beer,  and 
never  to  show  it  much  in  my  behavior.  I 
was  sadly  ashamed  of  myself,  the  more  so 
that  I  saw  in  the  room  Frost’s  good- 
looking  daughter  Hazel.  (I  noticed  with 
regret  that  even  on  the  farms  these  fancy 
new  names  were  crowding  out  the  Marys 
and  Janes  that  our  women  used  to  go  by.) 
►She  was  home  from  the  city  school  on  va¬ 
cation.  I  found,  and  her  expression,  like 
that  of  the  whole  Frost  family,  was  as 
chilly  to  humble  me  as  the  sound  of  their 
surname. 
“I  am  very  sorry,  sir,”  I  replied.  “I 
never  did  any  such  thing  before.” 
‘‘When  I  let  you  locate  as  a  neighbor.” 
continued  the  old  man,  “I  didn’t  look  for 
that  kind  of  business  from  you.  You  will 
have  to  stop  it,  if  you  expect  any  favors 
from  me.” 
“Hazel,  get  him  the  milk,”  interrupted 
Mrs.  Frost,  kind  lady  that  she  was. 
“Won’t  you  come  to  church  next  Sun¬ 
day,  Mr.  Spalding,”  asked  the  girl,  as  she 
handed  me  the  pail  of  milk. 
Church-going  had  not  as  yet  been  one 
of  my  stroug  points,  but  I  promised  has¬ 
tily.  glad  to  take  myself  away.  But  Bar¬ 
ney  Frost  called  out  as  I  was  leaving: 
“You  can  have  all  the  milk  you  want 
at  the  wholesale  price  as  long  as  you 
don’t  use.  anything  out  of  the  bottle.  Bet¬ 
ter  stick  to  the  milk  wagon,  boy.” 
But  with  Bill  Carey  gone  and  myself 
back  to  my  own  natural  horse  sense  I 
made  good  resolutions  and  mentally 
kicked  myself  into  shape  for  what  I  had 
to  do,  which  was  to  get  through  a  loug 
program  likely  to  need  all  that  was  in 
me.  “You  chump,”  I  exexlaimcd  to  my 
lanky,  weedy  self.  “Here  you  are  with 
hardly  enough  powder  and  lead  possibly 
to  bag  your  game  and  you  are  tiring  it 
off  in  the  air,  and  no.  only  wasting  it  but 
killing  off  your  good  friendships.  Save 
your  powder,  you  young  fool,  or  you’ll 
eat  nothing  but  crow  all  your  life.” 
Those  were  the  worst  days  of  my  life, 
for  I  felt  disgraced  already  iu  my  new 
home.  I  was  lonesome  on  my  windy  hill. 
The  lumber  covered  with  plaster  lime 
made  my  hands  sore;  the  work  was  new 
to  me ;  I  was  bothered  in  usiug  the  tools. 
Part  of  the  time  there  was  a  cold  rain, 
and  my  bed  at  night  was  damp  under  my 
loose  board  shelter. 
Sunday  morning,  according  to  promise, 
I  went  to  church.  After  putting  on  my 
best  clothes  and  cleaning  up,  I  felt  more 
like  myself  again.  As  I  sat  there  in  the  old 
church  on  a  back  seat  I  felt  somewhat  dis¬ 
gusted  with  the  whole  affair.  What  had 
all  this  to  do  with  me?  Those  solemn,  list¬ 
less  folks,  this  man  reading  out  of  an  an¬ 
cient  book,  this  old  building  so  out  of  date 
and  so  useless  for  anything  practical.  “All 
very  well  for  those  that  like  it ;  for  old- 
fashioned  people  and  women  and  chil¬ 
dren,”  I  thought  condescendingly.  Still 
it  may  have  been  a  kind  of  turning  point 
for  me.  Something  about  a  church  makes 
a  young  man  think.  Maybe  there's  a  sneer 
on  his  face,  but  down  below  are  thoughts 
of  his  mother  and  of  his  own  bad  ways, 
and  the  call  of  “incurably  religious”  fore- 
fathers. 
But  the  sneer  seemed  uppermost  as  I 
left  the  place.  Except  for  a  bow  from 
Hazel  Frost  nobody  appeared  to  notice 
me,  after  the  clannish  manner  of  most 
country  people  at  eliurch.  I  might  have 
made  friends  had  I  known  their  ways,  but 
instead  I  hurried  off  to  my  hilltop,  dis¬ 
gusted  with  myself  and  hostile  to  the 
world  in  general.  I  began  to  move  the 
lumber  around  for  the  next  day’s  work 
singing  as  I  did  so,  at  the  top  of  my  voiee 
a  kind  of  silly  parody  on  a  chulch  hymn, 
the  tune  of  which  still  rang  in  my  head. 
Then  I  looked  up.  and  saw  the  Frost’s 
driving  by  on  the  road  just  below. 
"They  will  think  I’ve  been  drinking 
again.”  I  reflected,  and  my  fool  boy  sing¬ 
ing  stopped  and  I  subsided  for  the  day. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  Frost  came  over. 
Never  another  word  of  scolding,  like  the 
kind,  queer  old  chap  he  was. 
“I  was  thinking  you  might  want  some 
plowing  done  now,”  he  said. 
“I  know  it,  but  I  have  no  horse  nor 
machinery,  and  I  can’t  pay  out  my  money 
for  labor.” 
(To  be  continued.) 
Life  of  Fence  Posts. — The  South 
Dakota  Experiment  Station  figures  out 
the  following :  Osage  orange,  30 
years;  locust,  23%;  Bed  cedar,  20*4; 
mulberry  1714  ;  ( 'atalpa  15 %  ;  Burr  oak, 
15  1-3;  chestnut  14%;  White  cedar 
14  1-3;  walnut  11  % ;  White  oak  11%; 
pine  11%;  tamarack  10%;  eheriw 
10  1-3;  hemlock  3;  sassafras  8  9-10; 
elm  .8%  ;  ash  S%  ;  Red  oak  7 ;  willow 
6%.  If  the  bark  is  left  on  a  fence  post 
it  will  rot  much  faster  than  if  it  is  re¬ 
moved.  It  is  estimated  that  the  average 
life  of  a  cement  post  is  48  years  and  of 
a  steei  post  30  years. 
Will  You  Lose  Your  Boy,  Too? 
This  is  a  true  picture  of  what  is  happening  on  thousands  of  farms 
each  year.  Breaking  home  ties.  Yoimg  men,  and  young  women 
too— leaving  home  for  the  attractions  and  conveniences  of  city  life. 
Youngpeople  in  countiy  homes  have  plenty  to  keep  them  busy  and  contented 
during  the  day.  Evening  is  their  time  of  leisure  and  recreation. 
It  is  then  that  the  depressing  gloom  of  their  poorly  lighted  homes  strengthens 
their  desire  for  the  pleasures  and  comforts  of  good  light  which  all  city  homes 
enjoy,  rich  and  poor  alike.  For  young  folks  crave  companionship  —  good 
times  —  pleasant  homes  —  cheerful  surroundings. 
Thirty  years  ago,  it  is  true,  only  city  homes  enjoyed  the  advantages  of  gaslights 
and  gas  cooking  but  for  the  past  fifteen  years  progressive  home  owners  in  the  country 
have  also  enjoyed  this  greatest  of  city  conveniences— good  light  — until  today 
Pilot-Carbide-Outdoor 
Lighting  and  Cooking  Plants 
are  supplying  brilliant,  inexpensive  light  to 
houses,  barns,  outbuildings  and  cooking 
fuel  for  the  kitchen  range  on  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  up-to-date  country  places  from 
the  Atlantic  to  the  Pacific. 
These  homes— situated  just  like  your 
own— are  lighted  as  well  as  the  finest  city 
house,  you  ever  saw. 
The  young  folks  in  these  homes  are  con¬ 
tented  and  happy.  Their  homes  are  cheer¬ 
ful,  full  of  light  and  comfort,  real  homes  of 
which  young  folks,  and  older  ones  too, 
can  well  be  proud.  City  life  has  no  attrac¬ 
tion  for  them,  because  they  know  that  with 
modem  conveniences  in  the  home,  life  in 
the  country  is  better,  happier  and  more  en¬ 
joyable  than  the  best  the  city  has  to  offer. 
What  about  your  children?  Are  you 
doing  your  part  to  give  them  the  advan¬ 
tages  they  desire  and  which  their  friends 
t  and  neighbors  enjoy?  Or  are  you  denying 
them  the  simple  comforts  and  conveniences 
which  you  can  well  afford? 
They  may  be  just  approaching  the  time 
when  they  will  decide  for  themselves— 
whether  they  too  will  leave  for  the  city  or 
stay  at  home. 
They  may  never  have  said  anything 
about  these  things  to  you — but  what  are 
they  thinking?  What  will  they  decide? 
Their  decision  is  largely  in  your  hands. 
An  attractive  home  is  the  strongest  magnet 
in  the  world.  The  greatest  factor  in  mak¬ 
ing  the  home  cheerful,  bright  and  attractive 
is  good  light. 
Find  out  about  the  PILOT  today,  —Just 
address 
Address  our  nearest  office—  Dept.  A 
Oxweld  Acetylene  Company 
Newark,  N.  *  Chicago  Los  Angeles 
Largest  Makers  of  Private  Lighting  and 
Cooking  Plants  in  the  World 
wm 
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