1900 
THE RURAL 
NEW-YORKER. 
7 
HOPE FARM NOTES. 
A Wet Christmas.— We all felt a little 
glum when we woke up Sunday morning 
and found the rain falling. The Madam*, 
and Hugh had planned to drive to town to 
hear our old minister. The rain drove 
down so that they gave it up. A wet Sun¬ 
day on a back hill farm can easily be made, 
gloomy enough if one wills It so. I have 
known good people to turn in and sleep 
such days away. “I will that this won’t 
be a sad, gloomy day,” said the Madame. 
“We have too much to be thankful for; we 
have gained too much in every way over 
last year, to let a rainstorm wash the 
‘Merry’ away from Christmas!” So we let 
the storm gnash its teeth on the outside of 
the house, and were mighty thankful over 
the health and happiness that Santa Claus 
had stuffed into our stockings. The women 
folks worked the Madame’s new range so 
well that we nearly deranged our diges¬ 
tion. We saw to it that all the dumb 
brutes, from old Major down to Charlie 
Chester, the little pig, had warm dry 
shelter and good food. No one shall go 
hungry or cold at Hope Farm at Christmas! 
The Little Folks.— “The five children,” 
as the Madame calls the four little folks 
and yours truly, had a good day. A wet 
Sunday is often hard on children. The 
grown folks are gloomy or irritable, or 
want to sleep, and wish the little ones out 
of the way, when there is no place for 
them to go. Some of our good friends ap¬ 
pear to think that the Graft and Scion are 
hiding behind corners with hatchets, wait¬ 
ing for a chance to play the tomahawk act 
with me. I only wish such folks could 
have seen us that wet day. We talked 
things over for hours, and had it all planned 
out how, in that wonderful, happy “some 
day,” the boys will work the farm, the 
girls will work indoors, and the Madame 
and I will “rest.” These good hours, if 
they do come, will never be half so bright 
as the hours we spent talking and planning 
about them. At night, the Graft and I 
went to the barn, and got eight ears of 
sweet corn and a bundle of hay, and put 
them out by the gate, so that Santa Claus 
might feed his reindeer. We all saved a 
little of our own dinner, too, and left that 
as a lunch for Santa Claus himself. The 
old fellow must have found it, for it was 
all gone but a small piece of mince pie 
and an ear of corn on Christmas morning, 
i will guarantee that the United States and 
New Jersey put together couldn’t show 
four heartier or happier little folks than 
the four who rolled out of bed at Hope 
Farm on Christmas morning and made a 
run for their stockings. Yes, and a $5 bill 
would buy all the presents they had. 
Out-door Friends.— The rain was a val¬ 
uable Christmas present to the people who 
have been short of water. The wells and 
springs were very low, and we were afraid 
that the ground would freeze solid before 
we had a soaking rain. It was a pleasure 
to see the rain dripping off the great cherry 
trees in the yard. The water stood in the 
furrows, where we had plowed the orchard, 
and soaked slowly and thoroughly into the 
soil. That was right, for we want the 
trees to take a long, strong drink before 
Jack Frost closes up the bar. It is well 
understood that a tree keeps on throwing 
off water during the Winter, while some¬ 
times, in deeply frozen ground, its roots 
cannot take in as much as the twigs throw 
off. When this happens, the tree is surely 
injured. Let the tree and the soil be well 
filled therefore before frost takes com¬ 
mand. 
The Barn Folks had about as much fun 
as the humans—probably more, for regrets 
and sad memories had been edited out of 
their lives. The cow had a big, roomy box 
stall all to herself, without halter or rope. 
This good old family wet nurse deserves a 
room of her own. The horses were dry 
and warm. They had their ground oats 
and corn, a bundle of stalks and a forkfull 
of hay. The hens had a dry house and 
a good-sized scratching shed. Their mash 
of ground corn and oats, bran and animal 
meal was served hot and oyster shells and 
grit were always ready. Of course, they 
made us a Christmas present of fresh eggs. 
The pigs had no cause for complaint. Hugh 
had given them a warm nest, and they 
crawled into it and didn’t care whether 
school kept or not. The ducks and the 
wind mill were the only Hope Farm work¬ 
ers that kept out in the rain, and the 
ducks went out from choice. So the rain 
descended upon Hope Farm—and the rest 
of New Jersey, but Santa Claus got around 
on schedule time, as we knew he would. 
Old Days; Old Times.— After the chil¬ 
dren went to bed I sat for a good while- 
idle, doing nothing but studying the open 
fire. The cold wet night had come down 
upon us—cutting us off from friends and 
neighbors. In town and city the great 
crowded churches were alive with light, 
yet, off here on the silent hills, we seemed 
closer to the great mystery of Nature—the 
great sublime secret of God. I fell to 
wondering who had lived and died before 
us in this old house, what secrets these old 
walls could tell! Hope, despair, love, 
anger, joy, grief, had been visitors here. 
The walls held their secret well. We, who 
are building anew in hope, knew nothing of 
the lives of those who built and held the 
old home together. The trees they plant¬ 
ed are with us still. The great piles of 
stone they picked up are still grouped 
through the middle of the farm—monu¬ 
ments to their patience and toil. But their 
home life has vanished. There are those 
who believe that the dead influence us; 
that they come back at times to the scenes 
of their earthly homes—invisible spectators 
of our own deeds. I only know that there 
seemed to be a sense of companionship in 
this silent old house. It was like sitting 
in the dim twilight with silent old friends. 
The children upstairs were absolutely sure 
in their belief that Santa Claus would find 
his way over the dark hills and remember 
them for the food and fodder which they 
had put down by the gate. If the people 
who lived out their little lives in this old 
house could come back with the passions 
of life all burned away to tell us the great 
secret of living, the chances are that they 
would take us upstairs and point to the 
poor little Graft,- without a word. There 
you have it—all there is worth having in 
life. A part of your own life going out in 
self-denial for those who need it. Faith, 
sure and never failing that One whom we 
cannot see or analyze will come through 
the sorrow or the darkness with what we 
need—if we do our share for Him. After 
all, I guess children are about the best peo¬ 
ple in the world for, as we grow older, most 
of us grow further and further away from 
hope and faith. 
Fertility Notes.— I am enough of a Yan¬ 
kee to hate to see a lazy animal—even a 
hog. I am afraid I begrudge a pig the 
daylight he spends in sleep. I want him 
at work on the manure. Where we can’t 
throw the manure to him 1 want to drive 
him to the manure. We have our stock 
scattered in various small buildings. We 
build a fence around a manure pile, put a 
small portable house inside and introduce 
a couple of active pigs with full power to 
root. The pigs work over the manure, get 
part of their living out of it, and leave it 
in far better shape for the crops. The pigs 
themselves are better for it, and they 
“amount to something.” It’s nonsense, 
however, to talk that way to a hog, just as 
it is to tell some men that there is dignity 
in labor. There is more dig nity in a hog’s 
nose than in a whole man, sometimes. 
.We have many questions about 
the fertilizing value of coal ashes. I 
would not take them as a gift, and haul 
them a mile. On very light soils they might 
have a good mechanical effect, but there is 
but little fertilizing value in them. We 
take the ashes from our coal stoves and 
use what we need in the earth closet. The 
rest is scattered over the apple orchard 
near the house. Part of the coal ashes 
will be thrown into the hen’s scratching 
shed from time to time. The hens scratch 
and play in them, and in the Spring the 
whole thing will be cleaned out and put on 
the orchards. The man with a poor farm 
or field should have a prick at the heart 
when he sees good swill or dishwater run¬ 
ning away, or an ounce of fertility idle. 
.Almost all our manure this year 
will be put on the orchards. I don’t like 
to haul manure up our steep hill to the 
back fields. It seems better to put the 
manure on the lower fields with a short 
haul from the barn, and use fertilizer on 
the distant fields. 
Food Notes.— I wouldn’t like to say how 
many meals of pork and sausage our folks 
have crowded into the last 30. I am 
afraid it would shock our vegetarian 
friends, though I didn’t touch much of it 
myself. Our pigs were very nice, and 
Hugh and Charlie have feasted on spare- 
ribs and backbone until their hair is in¬ 
clined to stand up straight! These people 
who sit on a soft chair and write essays 
against pork should spend a few days in 
the biting wind at the end of a cross-cut 
saw. My word for it, they would find a 
good slice of fried pork or sausage well 
suited to cover that bottomless pit in the 
stomach! Strange, that the animal that 
does the least work in life will do the most 
work for us as food.Speaking 
of food an old friend in Maine comes for¬ 
ward with the following: 
“If I had a doctor who wouldn’t let me 
eat meat and would permit me to eat cheese 
and apples just before going to bed, I should 
be quite inclined to change doctors, and 
let the other one eat the apples at that 
time of night, while I supped on roast 
chicken.” 
What in the world is the matter with 
cheese? Good cheese helps digest the other 
food. In my experience it has proved one 
of the best of foods. I call it a full substi¬ 
tute for beef. As for eating apples just 
before going to bed—why that’s an old 
farm practice that is older than American 
civilization. Read that report of the Ohio 
State Horticultural Society for the scientific 
side of it. The doctor is all right—and so 
are the apples. h. w. c. 
THE CLINTON GRAPE. 
What do you think of the value of this 
variety for the home garden? One of cur 
friends suggests that it is excellent av a 
thick shade over an arbor, the leaves being 
produced in large numbers, and the gi'owth 
being branching. The fruit, we under¬ 
stand, keeps excellently, the flavor im¬ 
proving much as it become 0 more thor¬ 
oughly ripe. What place does this grape 
hold in the estimation of vineyardists, and 
why is it so generally going out of favor? 
I have grown the Clinton grape in 
only a limited way, as I have not a very 
high opinion of it, either for home use 
or market. And yet it has some good 
qualities, such as holding to —e vine a 
long time, and improving in flavor. But 
I think we have many kinds that are 
more desirable for any purpose, either 
for home use or market. 
WALTER F. TARER. 
Poughkeepsie, N. Y. 
We do not think the Clinton adapted 
for the home garden, as it is not an 
early grape, and can only be grown to 
perfection where the Catawba will ripen. 
There are many that are far better for 
that purpose, and much better to eat. 
Its leaves are quite tender, easily in¬ 
jured by mildew and insects. It is 
grown here quite largely, and consid¬ 
ered one of the best for red wine, a good 
grower, bears well and pays well. 
H. O. FAIRCHILD. 
Hammondsport, N. Y. 
The Clinton is strictly a wine grape, 
and is considered a profitable variety to 
grow by those who have no scruples, 
political, moral or religious, against sell¬ 
ing grapes to wine cellars. I suppose 
the reason that there is no demand for 
young vines by vineyardists is that it 
has been more profitable to grow some 
variety of good quality that will sell in 
the general market in baskets. If a 
cover for an arbor is desired, a Clinton 
might do as well as any other variety, 
but a Concord is a more rampant grow¬ 
er, and its fruit might be eatable, while 
that of the Clinton is not. It is impossi¬ 
ble to get best results in both shade and 
fruit, for one cannot get quality in any 
grape that is allowed to grow according 
to its own sweet will, setting more clus¬ 
ters than it can possibly put juice and 
sugar into. Size of cluster and berry, 
and quality, can only be secured by re¬ 
straining the growth by proper pruning. 
If a grape is worth growing at all for 
fruit, it is worth giving a chance to do 
its best. The growing of the vine for 
shade is another question. e. c. g. 
Penn Yan, N. Y. 
Nurserymen do not propagate or at¬ 
tempt to disseminate this grape, because 
it is to a great extent superseded by its 
seedling, the Bacchus. In the Bushberg 
Catalogue the Clinton is traced to the 
original vine, a seedling planted in 1821. 
Jas. H. Ricketts, in a descriptive cata¬ 
logue of 1883, speaks of the Bacchus, a 
seedling of the Clinton, that he had ex¬ 
hibited the past 13 years. In the Bush¬ 
berg Catalogue the Bacchus is said “to 
resemble the parent in leaf, bunch and 
berry, but is superior to it in quality and 
productiveness. The Bacchus makes a 
dark brownish-red wine of great body.” 
While the Bacchus colors very early, 
like its parent, the Clinton, it must hang 
on the vine until late before it is fit to 
use for dessert or wine. When thor¬ 
oughly ripe it is a rich pleasant grape, 
with a trifle of tannin in the skin, which 
will prevent its being favored as a des¬ 
sert grape. The clusters are so compact 
that some of the berries are liable to be 
injured when handled. Either Clinton 
or Bacchus will make a thick shade over 
an arbor, and will be an addition to any 
amateur garden. w. d. b. 
Orange County, N. Y. 
My father says Dr. Jay lie’s Expectorant saved- my 
life when I was a baby, and 1 regard it as the best 
remedy in the world for all diseases of the Throat 
and Lungs.—A. T. BOWLING, Merchant, Elvira, 
Ky., Decembers, 1890. 
Aid digestion with Jayne’s Painless Sanative Pills. 
— Adv. 
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