The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
1517 
A Farm Woman’s Notes 
The Turn o' the Year 
The little evergreen comes nodding up 
the path on the back of the kindest neigh¬ 
bor. Our house seems to change when 
it comes in the door. Why, it even smells 
like Christmas! The block where the 
tree sits is ulreudy in position by the 
staircase, and thanks to good measure¬ 
ment it just (its, Elsie is already Hying 
upstairs for I he tinsel, while little Jane 
hop-, about nil the tips of her toes. Twi¬ 
light comes early on the day before 
Christmas, and it is already in the mid¬ 
dle of the afternoon. Would you think 
t here could be time to put on all those 
decorations, before we must start out to 
do the night chores? But it is no time 
at all until the silver bird is sitting in 
his old place ar the top, the jolly red elves 
are hack astride the upper branches, and 
the balls of snowy popcorn and roil glass 
are gleaming among the tinsel. Ah, there 
is the clock striking four! 
The weather has fitted us out with a 
perfectly fresh white sheet on which to 
record our doings in footpaths. Little 
Jane will sit in the big rocking chair 
with only the glow of the tireplace and 
the Christmas tree for company, precious 
old Piggy book spread out cm her lap. 
Elsie will till the wood box and carry 
grain to the henhouse, while 1 am at 
work in the stable. 
Out at the barn Dan nickers softly as 
he hears us coming. There is a rumble 
of expectancy as the electric light flashes 
ou in the stable. I feel somehow as if 
these horses were real folks as their 
earnest faces swing around t*> get the first 
glimpse of me in my homely barn clothes. 
They watch impatiently as I bring ray 
fork and shovel, stepping aside without 
having to be bidden, t Hd t Irate, the cow, 
is restless with thinking about rite pump¬ 
kin that will soon be served, and mur¬ 
murs at the delay. The well with the 
watering tub stands outside. Dun is 
very much a gentleman, but the long 
standing indoors tempts him to a little 
reckless exercise. Thou is needed the 
firm hand, the nimble foot, and experience 
with horseflesh. 
1 distribute oats, corn, hay, and the 
pumpkin ; w'atcli them wotideringly as they 
devour the food that wouldn’t do at all 
for our suppers. Now comes the quiet, 
thoughtful task of milking a cow. There 
are not very many women who would 
envy me any of this work. It is a page 
from the book of life, but women as a 
rule are not particular about reading the 
volume from cover to cover. Here, to- 
uight, I am confronted by the unusual 
problem of keeping the children from re¬ 
membering that we are alone, that daddy 
is in Florida. So far, Christina*- Eve has 
always been a festival, with plenty of 
talk and laughter. Can 1 carry on? 
The milking finished. I switch off the 
lights and walk out under the stars. It 
is indeed a silent and holy night, with 
the Big Dipper shining over in rlie north. 
I have that feeling of well-being and con¬ 
tent men t that always comes when I have 
finished the outdoor work and am going 
in to the children. Light streams through 
the opening door, and Elsie appears, a 
kitten under each arm. on her way to 
put them to bed in the woodshed; a reso¬ 
lute mother, she. at nine years of age, 
puts trie tn shame. Her delight at dis¬ 
covering me plodding in through the star¬ 
light is very good to feel, and we go in 
together, arm in arm. Jane is where we 
left her. Is it possible that she is fast 
asleep? But as we peer anxiously into 
the mischievous, rosy face, the faintest 
of smiles twitches the corners of her 
mouth, and in a moment 'lie is laughing 
with us. 
More wood on the file, and a few mo¬ 
ments spent sitting cross-legged to see it 
blaze. Then, “I am so hungry," mur¬ 
murs someone. Supper is to be a sur¬ 
prise. TiiPve is a small low table behind 
the door in the bedroom with the supper 
things already on, and many are the ex¬ 
clamations as 1 roll it carefully out be¬ 
fore the tire. Some of grandmother’s old 
china has found its way down for the 
occasion; tile slender, graceful creamer 
that we have always so much admired, 
and the small tinted cups and saucers. 
The plates, too, are small and perfectly 
Hat. and at. each place a tiny red elf is 
kneeling on a spray of evergreen locking 
up Into the diner’s face with an expres¬ 
sion so real, so jolly, that June squeals 
excitedly that they are alive, and we 
have to persuade her that it is only the 
art of the manufacturer. Some of the 
Christmas candles are planted in a saucer 
for lighting when the food in served. 
The meal itself must be very simple to 
suit the children's taste; creamed pota¬ 
toes and baked beans, baked sweet apples 
and bread and butter, then some of El¬ 
sie’s good cocoa, and a little frosted cake. 
•Did 1 forget the cranberry sauce? But 
here It is in this little glass dish. There 
will be no lights but the firelight and the 
candles, and when these las; are lit l fear 
my fellow diners are almost too excited 
to eat. The blaze in the fireplace is 
lighting even the furthest corners of the 
long liviug room, and it is reflected in 
spots and lines on the tree, "What very 
line cocoa." I murmur, and stir my cup. 
Which is the way we get back to the 
subject of just plain food 
The big white-faced dock on 'lie mantel 
strikes six as we are putting things away, 
and in a few minutes we gravitate to the 
big rocking chair, mother in the center 
and a daughter on each side, each with 
an arm around her neck. * I pity the 
mothers who have never known how such 
arms feel. 
"Mother, isn’t there really a Santa 
Claus? Up at school they said-** 
The same old question recurs with 
every Christmas. Curiosity has been 
brought to a high pitch by a handsome 
picture on the cover of a magazine, and 
firm assurances by older school children. 
Elsie is eager to believe, if only mother 
would just nod her head "Yes.” Always 
they have depended on mother for the 
truth. She would never say candy was 
gone, when she just wanted one to stop 
eating so much sweet. She could make 
anyone feels sorry if they told a lie. 
Therefore, mother is the one to ask about 
this Santa Claus mystery. But. alas! 
mother shakes her head the wrong way, 
Before the .editorial paragraph (on 
page 1424) appeared in The II. N.-Y. 
the writer had some experience in scour¬ 
ing adjacent territory for back logs for an 
opou fireplace. None of the local fuel 
dealers could supply this kind of firewood. 
Park Bidgo is within 12 miles of the loop 
in Chicago. Its population is about 5.000. 
There are less than 50 houses in the 
place that may be rented. All of the 
others are occupied by their owners, and 
a large proportion are modern structures, 
each provided with at least one large 
chimney with a spacious fireplace. Most 
of them seem to be hungering for the old- 
fashioned log fire with the inevitable 
back log. 
We found that one home owner had 
bought a carload of material suitable for 
wood fire. He freighted it a distance of 
100 miles. We found one farm owner 
who had 70 acres, valued at $500 an acre. 
There was a goodly portion of fallen tim¬ 
ber. He offered to sell two huge piles, 
capable of producing at least six tons 
of firewood. He offered to allow us to 
take all we could cut for a lump sum of 
and there is a wistful sigh from Elsie, 
an idealist coming back to our prosaic 
terms of living. But— 
"There are no idle words where children 
are. 
Things spoken in their hearing travel 
far.” 
'Why confuse Santa Claus with the 
Christ Child's birthday? Here’s a true 
story. This is the turn of the year. The 
sun is coining back again, with Spring¬ 
time and daddy in his wake. For six 
months he has been edging away to the 
south, farther and farther with every 
rising, until he came up behind the barn. 
It was as if he were taking the blos¬ 
soms and green grass with him. and who 
knew if he would ever .come back again? 
There wore no newspaper headlines an¬ 
nouncing that he had paused in his (light 
and was tacking back again, for he al¬ 
ways does on the 21st of December. The 
children are awe-stricken ar the possi¬ 
bility of a frozen earth, as many older 
people arc when they let themselves 
think of it. 
Little Jane has got down, and now 
comes with a long black leather ease for 
me to open. We must light the tree, for 
it will soon lie bedtimo. but first a little 
music, begs she, So l get out the violin 
before her fascinated eyes, and we try a 
few old-fashioned tunes that Elsie has 
learned Lo sing in school. At last we sing 
"Holy Night. Silent Night." The tree, 
when the candles are lit. bathes the room 
in splendor. 
"We must go to bed now." says Elsie 
to Jane, and whispers, "Tomorrow morn¬ 
ing.” Jane follows in reluctant obedi¬ 
ence. MRS. F. It. FXGKR. 
Notes from a Sagebrush Farmer’s Wife 
Never do we realize more than at 
Christmas that we are all brothers and 
sisters “under the skiu." and that united 
we stand, divided we fall. It is not hard 
for the business men of this little town 
to understand that the farmer may be 
dependent upon the stores, but it is dif¬ 
ficult for them to understand that the 
business men themselves are dependent 
upon the fanner. In fact, the farmer 
himself lias but little conception of his 
own importance in the affairs of the 
world. 
The first Christmas I spent in this 
sagebrush country we none of us had any 
money to speak of. and therefore u<» 
communication with either the local 
stores or the mail-order houses. Town 
was six miles away over almost impas¬ 
sable roans, barriers of snowdrifts every¬ 
where. I was the teacher of the rural 
school, with MO pupils, and nine grades. 
\Ye bad our big program on Hallowe’eu. 
and, having suffered severely with bron¬ 
chitis for some time afterward, T was 
forced to renounce the plan of having a 
Christmas reunion. The last day of 
$7. He would neither cut nor haul it. 
It had to be reached over a soft road. 
Lookiug further, we found a man who 
had cut up a deal of the same kind, most 
of it in excellent stuff for back logs. We 
bought about 1.200 lbs., and the seller 
delivered it a distance of two miles for 
SO cents a hundred pounds. This is the 
average price for this kind of wood when 
it may be procured at all. 
Many villagers have bought wood in 
small jags and hauled it to their own 
bungalows i:i their automobiles. They 
seem to he able to get it in no other way. 
One extensive coal dealer said he wished 
he had 50 cords in his yards, but that he 
had been unalle to find any. The big 
stores of the city seem to have sensed the 
fact that wo.od fires are very popular. 
People seem to be harking back to the 
wood firelit hearthstone. Anyway, there 
are many creations in old and new ideas 
in andirons, grate and brass screens. 
It looks as if a farmer with an excess of 
fallen timber good for firewood only ought 
to be able co sell it at good prices. 
Illinois. J. L. GRAFF. 
school I read to my pupils from a book 
they loved, gave them each a small copy 
nf a famous painting of the Madonna, 
telling them the story of each picture and 
its creator, and. last, but not least, passed 
around the fudge I had made. We were 
happy together there in that old board 
school house, surrounded by the vast, al¬ 
most unbroken stretch of snow. 
The next year we had a large and 
thriving "literary society,” which I had 
organized the year before. At a meeting 
just before Christmas, a committee was 
appointed to go to town and buy candy 
and nuts for the children of the commu¬ 
nity. After they had done so. the mer¬ 
chant said : "Now, I will give the chil¬ 
dren oranges as my share of the treat.” 
We certainly appreciated, bis generosity 
But, unfortunately, there are always peo¬ 
ple who presume upon generosity. The 
year following this incident a committee 
again sent to town. Ou this committee 
was a woman who is renowned for her 
lack of tact. Sin- was spokesman for 
the committee. Without making known 
the fact that she had come with the ob¬ 
ject of buying candy and nuts, she at 
once accosted the merchant: "What are 
you going to give us for our Christmas 
treat?" The merchant was at once re¬ 
pulsed "Why. 1 didn’t know I was go¬ 
ing to give you anything," be answered 
Whereupon the woman grow angry and 
left the store. 
Two years ago the business men of 
Haaelton, our nearest town, invited all 
the farmers and their families to the 
legion building, where there was a 
Christmas tree, candy and nuts for the 
youngsters, oranges, free lunch for all. 
and moving pictures. Tt was certainly 
royally done, and no out* could be more 
grateful and appreciative than T am. 
1 had four children there, who were made 
happy, and I know of many children in 
this segregation who would have had no 
candy and nuts on that Christmas Day 
if it had not been for the generosity of 
our business men. But I could not help 
thinking that if those farmers had been 
paid a just price for their Summer’s labor 
their children would not have needed to 
have their Christmas goodies come from 
the bounty of other than their own par¬ 
ents. Why couldn’t we have a Christ¬ 
mas tree with all the accessories and in¬ 
vite the business men to bring their fam¬ 
ilies? Had we not worked as hard as 
they? Did we not have thousands of 
dollars invested in our places of business? 
\\ e had a visitor from Colorado Springs 
two weeks ago. She told us that the bus¬ 
iness men of her home town are making 
every effort to entertain and encourage 
the farmers of that part of the country. 
Singers and speakers and moving pictures 
are taken out into the country to the 
farmers and their families. When a cer¬ 
tain farmer of our acquaintance was tol l 
of this, he said: "The Hermans lave a 
name for that sort of thing. In English 
it is ‘nose bags/" That struck me as a 
wise remark. I have always contended 
that if the farmer received a fair profit 
he would build himself a livable house 
and supply himself with suitable enter¬ 
tainment. The only encouragement (hat 
lasts is the kind that comes from a man’s 
sense of well-being in having done a good 
day’s work, for which he has received a 
just wage. Do you think you can make 
his spirit soar permanently by turning 
Hipflops for his entertainment or singing 
"Come out and greet the May, mv dearest 
love?” 
Again I say. how would it strike those 
Colorado Springs business men if the 
farmers should form a troupe, take a mov¬ 
ing-picture machine, and go into town 
to cheer up and encourage the poor busi¬ 
ness men? "Why, you're crazy! The 
business men don't need cheering up." 
Then why do the farmers need a stimu¬ 
lant? 
It' these same business men would make 
it their business for one year to join with 
all other business men all over the United 
States in an effort to see that the farmer 
gets a square deal, what a revolution it 
would make! Business meu are used to 
thinking and acting; farmers are only 
used to hard work. Combine all three 
and see the world move. 
I say. give tis no more "nose bugs." 
Let us refuse to be patronized by those 
who allow our potatoes to freeze in the 
ground rather than find a market for 
them because the price will not be so 
good for the potatoes they expect to sell. 
East year the mediants of our town 
had no thought of entertaining the farm¬ 
ers. They did not even buy new holiday 
goods. Their stores were deserted. Why? 
Because the farmer could get little or 
nothing for his crop. The farmer was 
holding the empty sack, aud the business 
man did not realize that he. too. was 
forced to help hold it. United we stand, 
divided we fall. This is what the "nose¬ 
bag" policy leads to. 
This year conditions are worse than 
ever. Again the Stores will be deserted. 
Again it will be a struggle for parents to 
make Christmas a happy time for the 
youngsters. Yet we have worked harder 
thau ever. Myself, I have cooked, washed, 
ironed, churned ami done the many neces¬ 
sary things for a family which ha> ar t- 
aged 10 all Summer, aud which has 
nftener boett 13 ami 14. and that without 
help. Aud the fields Jiave been dotted 
with men—working, working. And work¬ 
ing without hope. Do you know the state 
of mind this kind of working causes; It 
makes discontented people, who turn their 
thoughts on the Government, and ask 
why there should be privileged classes and 
other classes who can get. no justice. And 
it is strange, in this free America of our-. 
Although the business man must go 
down if we g" down, never in this world 
may we look for him to change the con¬ 
dition in which we find ourselves. "Farm¬ 
ers will not stick together,” is a truism. 
But farmers must stick together. \Y- 
must refuse to be satisfied with "nose 
bags” which are charitably given to us. 
We want our share of the manger and 
the good green grass. Who decreed that 
the farmer must take what he can get. 
whether it covers expense or not? It is 
not the law of supply and demand. It 
is the law of profit and loss of those who 
handle our products. Let us demand that 
the Government take over the business of 
handling our crops. What is our Gov¬ 
ernment for if not to serve all the people, 
the producers and the consumer. We 
must get rid of "nose-hag" politics at 
Washington —the sop thrown to the 
farmer. We do not want more "credit." we 
want more "pay.” Let's tnru the tables 
ou those Senators who would remedy our 
troubles always by supplying more credit. 
Let us see that they receive small sal¬ 
aries. too small to live on. and then offer 
them unlimited credit as the solution of 
their problem. Away with the "nose- 
baggers.” "TT’c in USt do it ou mot res." 
AX ME PIKE GREENWOOD. 
Ax eye-witness to a crime, testifying at 
the trial, on being asked how far he stood 
from where the deed was done, answered 
promptly : "Sixty-three feet, seven inches." 
“But how.” gasped the astonished attor¬ 
ney. “how can you preteud to any such 
accuracy?" "Why." replied the unper¬ 
turbed witness. "I thought some darn fool 
would ask me that question, so I measured 
it."— Everybody's Magazine. 
.1 Larue Shade Tree llrl/is Out the Fuel Shortage 
