1900 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
8o3 
HOPE FARM MOTES. 
Bracing Up. —For some reason there 
has been a great flood of personal letters 
lately from unknown friends who offer 
advice, sympathy or suggestion. I am 
always glad to get such letters, and very 
likely some of them will prove useful to 
others. One good friend sends this lit¬ 
tle note: 
Our Hope Farm farmer seems to have 
been rather downhearted lately. To com¬ 
fort him a little I enclose a few verses 
from J. W. Riley that seem to apply to 
his case. I am afraid Aunt Jennie is re¬ 
sponsible in a measure for some of his 
melancholy thoughts, not that I mean to 
cast any slur on her cooking. I want to 
call his attention to the fact that it Is not 
a good plan to sit on the fence; first, be¬ 
cause It is bad for the fence, as I under¬ 
stand our farmer is not a lightweight in 
one sense of the word, whatever he may 
be in the other, and secondly, it is a poor 
plan for anyone to sit on the fence; better 
go to work instead of worrying over things 
that have to be done. Worrying only 
magnifies them. 
Now, I had no idea that 1 was getting 
downhearted. Why, I have a perfect 
army of things to be up-hearted about. 
It would take me an hour to tell over 
the things I wouldn’t let go of if I could 
help it. Got everything I want, eh? 
Well, hardly—but probably more than I 
deserve. As for sitting on a fence—we 
seldom do that at Hope Farm. We have 
few fences left. I sat on an old stone 
wall. It’s enough to make anyone grieve 
to see one of those sprawling old things 
spreading out like a weed-trap. The 
day I sat there was bunday—you 
wouldn’t catch me sitting down watch¬ 
ing undone things on a working day! 1 
regret to say though that undone things 
are not rare at Hope Farm. 
Poetic Stimulants. —The little poem 
our friend refers to follows: 
WET WEATHER TALK. 
It ain’t no use to grumble and complain; 
It's jest as cheap and easy to rejoice; 
When God sorts out the weather and sends 
rain, 
W’y rain’s my choice. 
Men giner’ly, to all intents— 
Although they’re ap’ to grumble some— 
Puts most their trust in Providence, 
And takes things as they come; 
That is, the commonality 
Of men that’s lived as long as me. 
Has watched the world enough to learn 
They’re not the boss of the concern. 
With some, of course, it’s different— 
I’ve seed young men that knowed it all, 
And didn’t like the way things went 
On this terrestrial ball! 
But, all the same, the rain some way 
Rained jest as hard on picnic-day; 
Er when they really wanted it. 
It maybe wouldn’t rain a bit! 
In this existence, dry and wet 
Will overtake the best of men— 
Some little skift o’ clouds’ll shet 
The sun off now and then; 
But maybe, while you’re wonderin’ who 
You’ve fool-like, lent your umbrell’ to, 
And want it—out’ll pop the sun. 
And you’ll be glad you ain’t got none! 
It aggervates the farmers, too, 
They’s too much wet, er too much sun, 
Er work, er waiting round to do 
Before the plowin’s done; 
And maybe, like as not, the wheat. 
Jest as it’s lookin’ hard to beat. 
Will ketch the storm—and jest about 
The time the corn’s a-jintin’ out! 
These here cy-clones a-fooltn’ round— 
And back’ard crops—and wind and rain. 
And yit the corn that’s wallered down 
May elbow up again! 
They ain’t no sense, as I kin see, 
In mortals, sich as you and me, 
A-faultin’ Nature’s wise intents. 
And lockin’ horns with Providence! 
It ain’t no use to grumble and complain; 
It’s jest as cheap and easy to rejoice: 
When God sorts out the weather and sends 
rain, 
W’y, rain’s my choice. 
That’s right! Mr. Riley didn’t write 
that poem on a stony hillside farm in 
New Jersey with Winter coming on and 
work behind. He didn’t at the time feel 
keenly that the crop he banked on had 
gone nearer bankruptcy than bank; that 
he had more flesh than he ought to have 
and that the springs in his joints were 
perceptibly losing their bounce! No 
doubt he had greater troubles than these 
of his own, but had he been sitting on 
my stone wall that day, I’ll guarantee 
the missing half of our potato crop that 
he wouldn’t have written just that sort 
of poetry! At the same time ne is just 
exactly right, and I am always thank¬ 
ful that such men can put the thought 
before us so it will stick in mind. I am 
not a poet myself and don’t know much 
about their ways and methods, but my 
impression is that they write their 
verses for depressed and sorrowful peo¬ 
ple when they themselves are most com¬ 
fortable and good-natured. 
Waves of Life. —I am thankful that 
worry doesn’t stick. The mind is slip¬ 
pery—if I may put it that way—and it 
is easy to pull off one impression and 
paste on another. Take the hours be¬ 
tween waking and sleeping, and see 
what varied thoughts and passions 
sweep through us, and for the time con¬ 
trol. Anger, sorrow, joy, fear, uoubt— 
all come and go like unseen fingers 
sweeping over the harp of our being. I 
regret to say that they make more jan¬ 
gles than tunes, but 1 am glad that the 
evn does not stick harder. Yes, these 
gray days are often dull and gloomy on 
the farm. That’s all the more reason 
way we older folks should bury our sor¬ 
row and get as close as we can to the 
hopes and pleasures of the little folks. 
Why are the little ones gay and happy 
in the very surroundings that fill us with 
gloom? Think out the answer to that, 
and profit by it. 
Tools in Winter.— The following note 
is helpful to me: 
I have just read in Hope Farm Notes of 
the means you were employing to save the 
farm tools from the destructive influences 
of dampness. Please let me make a sug¬ 
gestion. Don’t use any more tallow. Get 
a supply of black machine oil, and a suit¬ 
able paint brush, and paint the steel and 
iron parts you wish to protect with that 
oil. For nearly 30 years it has been in use 
here at Fairmount, and when the Fair- 
mount plow, or spade, or hoe, or tree- 
digger blade comes from the field, the first 
duty of its user is to wipe it clean and dry 
and apply a coat of black oil with the 
brush. A plow once coated can be left to 
stand (under shelter, of course), for years, 
and when needed for use is always ready 
without any preparatory cleaning, as it 
does not allow any rust to form, and does 
not itself become hard or sticky. We have 
to have the best of tools to work well in 
our soil, and the black oil can be relied 
on to keep them in the best condition. 
Iowa. w. H. LEWIS. 
Both farm tools and humans are in¬ 
jured about as much during their hours 
of idleness as during their hours of 
work. Rust is worse than rubbing. Tal¬ 
low has served us well but if the black 
oil is better I want it. Who will now 
suggest some moral oil to smear over 
men when they are set free from the 
useful bondage of work? 
The Open Fall— All through the 
North the season has been remarkably 
open. Friends in Morris Co., N. J., send 
me this note, dated November 10: 
We can beat the Hope Farm farmers. 
We had boiled corn from our garden on 
October 28, and later corn fritters from 
corn ripe then and to-day we again had 
corn fritters from corn picked yesterday 
from the garden, and are still using to¬ 
matoes and lettuce. Last of October 
picked a few raspberries. Nasturtiums and 
geraniums are in flower, and some Co¬ 
leus are still untouched by the frost. The 
Hope Farmers need not think they are 
the only ones who have fresh vegetables 
at this time of the year, and I think prob¬ 
ably we may have fresh peas by Christ¬ 
mas, as the vines are in blossom. 
With us, Cannas and potatoes grew 
until November 16. The cold wave which 
struck us then was the edge of the hard 
blizzard which swept from the West. 
The Crimson clover and Winter oats are, 
of course, unhurt. Those of our folks 
who believe in signs say we are to have 
a mild Winter, since the corn husks are 
light and there are few nuts. We can 
stand that easily. 
Dull Ears. —I have the following note 
from a reader in Connecticut: 
Where can you have learned to under¬ 
stand so perfectly the feelings of the deaf? 
I have been one of those unfortunates for 
more than a quarter of a century, and 
never in all that time have I found any¬ 
one express so much sympathy as you did 
in Hope Farm Notes a few months ago. 
The treatment for this affliction as de¬ 
scribed in a later R. N.-Y. was very fa¬ 
miliar 20 years ago, but was never of any 
benefit, and for a score of years I have 
tried no remedies of any kind, feeling that 
they were useless, and I must face the sad 
fact that never again should I hear the 
natural voices of loved ones or the sweet 
sounds of Nature. 
I try never to talk positively about a 
thing unless I have observed or experi¬ 
enced it personally. There are few peo¬ 
ple who realize what an awful affliction 
deafness is. Who with perfect ears can 
imagine what it must be to go through 
life never hearing the familiar sounds of 
Nature? I have read of men who passed 
days and months around the so-called 
lonely camp-fire, but they are really less 
alone than the deaf man among strang¬ 
ers or careless friends. The discourage¬ 
ment and brooding desperation that 
fight their way into the mind of the 
deaf, in spite of the happiest disposi¬ 
tions, are almost beyond belief. I re¬ 
gret to say that deafness seems to be 
increasing. My friend the aurist, one of 
the most skillful men in the country, 
does not offer much hope that artificial 
devices will ever do as much for the ears 
as glasses have for the eyes. He hopes 
for devices that will throw light into the 
inner ear, so that they can get in with 
their instruments and possibly separate 
tne little bones which knock out the 
sound signals. 
Crop Notes. —We were much pleased 
when buyers came running after the 
cabbage. One man bought 5,000 heads, 
another 1,000, and so on. The hard 
freeze of November 16 gave us a scare. 
Cabbage is a new crop with us, and I 
did not know just how much cold it 
could stand. It looked tough enough 
alter the frost, but the weather con¬ 
tinued cold with, finally, a cold rain. 
That took the frost out slowly and left 
the cabbage in good condition. Perhaps 
there was no danger anyway, but we al¬ 
ways see lions in the pathway of the 
first baby or the first crop that never 
appear again.I saw some 
friends last week who live in a crowded 
city fiat where they are not permitted to 
boil cabbage because “it makes such a 
smell’’! We are thankful that we have 
at least nose room at Hope Farm. . . 
. We are pulling the turnips and beets 
and storing them in what was evident¬ 
ly an old root cellar. It will be thatched 
with poles and corn fodder. Yellow tur¬ 
nips have a fair sale, at 30 cents a 
bushel. Whenever the potato crop is 
short there is an extra demand for yel¬ 
low turnips. . . . For some strange 
reason part of the Rural Blush potatoes 
this year were soggy and poor enough. 
I do not know how to account for it, but 
there was some complaint. If this va¬ 
riety is to lose its high quality I do not 
want it longer, for it has little else to 
recommend it. . . The oats, rye ann 
Crimson clover still give fair pasture, 
though the oats evidently do not feel 
well. h. w. c. 
BODY-RESTORER 
Food is the body-restorer. 
In health, you want nothing 
but food; and your baby wants 
nothing but food. But, when 
not quite well, you want to get 
back to where food is enough. 
One of the most delicate 
foods, in the world, is Scott’s 
emulsion of cod-liver oil. 
When usual food is a burden, 
it feeds you enough to restore 
your stomach; baby the same. 
The body-builder is food; 
the body-restorer is Scott’s 
emulsion of cod-liver oil. 
We’ll send you a little to try if you like. 
SCOTT & BOWNE, 409 Pearl street, New York. 
BALL BAND wool and 
rubber boots are a sure 
protection against cold 
and wet. They are made 
to suit all kinds of service 
and every climate. The 
Ball Band trade mark is 
the guarantee of quality. 
Look for the red ball on 
every boot. We are the 
sole makers of the All-knit 
wool boot—others 
are imitations. 
Nothing but the best 
quality of rubber is used 
in the manufacture of 
the Ball Band rubber 
goods. Their quality 
has made their success. 
Not made by the Trust. 
Insist on getting the Ball 
Band goods from your 
dealer and take no other. 
Made by 
MISHAWAKA WOOLEN 
MFG. CO., 
Mishawaka, Ind. 
Keep Your Feel 
WARM 
and DRY 
BALL 
326 
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