1905. 
TIIE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
587 
Hope Farm Notes 
Cnors and Weather.— The drought has 
become very serious. We have had show¬ 
ers, but no really soaking rain for weeks. 
Our hills are baked as hard as a brick. The 
soil on the lower farm is in better shape, 
but even there crops are at a standstill. On 
the streaks of sandy soil in the valleys ruin 
is in sight. Corn is shriveled up, and pota¬ 
toes are turning brown. Potatoes that were 
hilled or plowed up are worse. No use talk¬ 
ing, level culture is best in a dry time. Un¬ 
less we can have a thorough soaking soon 
the potato crop through this section will be 
cut in half. The hay crop is in the barn. It 
was shorter than last year, but as we had 
more acreage we have about the same quan¬ 
tity. It was never housed in better condi¬ 
tion. In spite of the heat and dust certain 
weeds like “pussly” and red-weed grow like 
magic. When I was a boy we used to eat 
boiled “pussly,” and I have hated it ever 
since. While we were haying it crowded 
into the onions and strawberries like a thick 
carpet, and it must all be pulled by hand. We 
have all had blunt fingers for the past two 
weeks. The Japanese millet has disappoint¬ 
ed me, or rather the drought has hurt it. I 
expected a crop shoulder high at least, but it 
is heading out at two to three feet, and 
doesn’t look happy. It needs more water, 
and I think I seeded most of it too thickly. 
On one spot I got little seed. W hen it first 
came up this place looked sick enough ; now 
it is the greenest and best spot in the field. 
I am sure that fodder corn would have given 
me a larger yield of forage. I shall have 
this millet cut by August 1, and sow Al¬ 
falfa. All through this section there is heavy 
planting of fodder corn. I never saw so 
much growing here before. The dry weather 
is pinching some of it. More cows are being 
kept, and by feeding the fodder at home 
farmers have more hay to sell. 
Use for Weeds. —As I came up to the 
house the other day Mother stood in the 
door. 
“What a looking man!” 
It is Mother’s privilege to express her 
opinion regarding my personal appearance, 
and I must admit that I was no candidate 
for a beauty show. I had been down on my 
knees in the strawberry field, pulling weeds 
out of the dust. The three boys had been 
working with me, and we were within sight 
of the end. I will admit that I was covered 
with dust from head to foot, and I rather 
gloried in it. No man can weed strawberries 
with a 10-foot pole, or do a good job with 
gloves on. There is a good dash of the 
soil somewhere in my pedigree, and I am 
glad of it. Nothing does me more good than 
to get right down into the dirt and save a 
useful plant. 
Our strawberries need saving. They are in 
an old chicken yard, set out this Spring. We 
cleaned them four times, and then while we 
were haying the “pussly” and red-weed 
rushed in upon them like the “wolf on the 
fold.” We had placed the runner plants 
where we wanted them, so there was noth¬ 
ing to do but pull the weeds by hand. We 
take big baskets into the field and throw 
the weeds into them. The small wagon with 
Bob hitched to it stands nearby, and the bas¬ 
kets are dumped into it as filled. As soon 
as we have a fair-sized load Merrill drives 
it to the hillside and piles the weeds around 
the young trees. It would be a strong trib¬ 
ute to my soil and a poor commentary on 
our farming if I were to tell how many loads 
of weeds we hauled away. The strawberries 
are clean, and you. ought to see the young 
growth sprouting out of the tops of those 
trees. We all understand at Hope Farm the 
folly of burning or wasting anything that 
can possibly rot around a tree. When the 
boys got out of the strawberries and 
straightened their backs and rubbed their 
fingers into shape, I told them the berries 
would go now—for two weeks. Then they 
groaned. If 15 could be as patient as 50 in 
doing the work that makes scant showing 
for to-day, but is needed to-morrow, the 
future of this country would be safe enough. 
Horse Notes.— Bob turned up the other 
night with a great bunch at the top of his 
shoulder as large as a child's head. I can¬ 
not tell what caused it. Bob fought and 
kicked when we tried to examine it, but 
when he found we wanted to help him he 
quieted down and let us rub the place. We 
made a “cold pack” by soaking a blanket in 
cold water and strapping it over the shoul¬ 
der. Then Grandma Smith, whose husband 
was a veterinarian, made "white liniment” 
of camphor, turpentine, vinegar and egg. 
This we rubbed on the bunch during the day. 
Of course it would not do to put on the 
bandage, while the liniment was on. That 
would make a blister. Poor Bob suffered, 
and it may be necessary to lance the swell¬ 
ing later. It is bad enough to have him 
shouldered out of commission just when he 
is needed most. ... I have spoken of 
Beauty, our four-year-old filly. She is well 
trained; it would he hard to find a more 
beautiful creature. She is small, but of good 
color, graceful and full of nerve and ambi¬ 
tion. Her training was neglected, as there 
was no one to drive her as she needed. The 
result was she got willful, but without a 
mean bone in her body. Mother has always 
wanted a good driving horse. I am content 
to jog along behind old Major, and think as 
I go, but Mother wants to get to the end of 
the journey. 1 gave Beauty to Mother with 
the understanding that she is to take_ inter¬ 
est in the filly, stay by her and be mistress 
of her. Beauty was pretty gay for our folks 
to handle, and so 1 put her in the hands of 
a trainer. The result is that Beauty is found 
to show great speed and ambition to go. 
When asked if she will ever make a safe 
woman’s horse the trainer is inclined to 
shake his head and say: 
“Thei’e is too much horse about her!” 
They talk about possibilities of 2.20 in 
Beauty, which to my mind is faster than 
any Hope Farmer needs to travel, unless It 
may be he is after a doctor. It is a problem 
to know what to do with this beautiful little 
horse. It is the first time I ever felt em¬ 
barrassed by an excess of speed or riches. I 
want Mother to get over the road at a speed 
that matches her desire, but I don't want 
lier mixed up in any runaways. The younger 
colt Brownie is quieter, and I think a better 
horse than Beauty. As far as I am con¬ 
cerned I would rather have a pair of good 
mule colts in place of these two nervous trot¬ 
ters. To my mind there are too many nerves 
in the world now. We need more of what 
the orators call “the bone and sinew." 
Fruit Notes.— With the first ripe apples 
comes the full evidence of benefit from 
spraying. The Red Astrachans never were 
larger and cleaner. They also hang to 
the trees better. We never sprayed these 
trees thoroughly before, and they have been 
small and wormy, quite unfit for sale. This 
year the great majority of them are clean 
and fair, salable when ripe if there was any 
sale for them. Thus far nearly everything 
has been low. Somehow we seem to have 
struck a season when all farm produce is 
slow of sale. I do not quite understand this, 
because laboring men in town and city seem 
to be well employed. We are figuring on 
some changes and additions to the farm¬ 
house, and we are told that the cost will be 
at least 40 per cent more than five years ago, 
because the price of labor is higher. If the 
working men are getting more money it 
would seem as if they ought to buy more 
produce. They tell me that the increased 
cost of rent, clothing, meat and bread more 
than eats up the increase of income, if there 
be any. . . . This is the best season I 
have yet known for testing the method of 
mulching trees. We have never known such 
a dry time. In all situations where we have 
been able to obtain a fair amount of mulch 
material our trees have made a steady 
growth. The best of our young apple trees 
have grown over two feet. Even now, when 
the soil seems baked solid, these mulched 
trees are thrifty, and the tops are white with 
new growth. Where the mulch has been too 
light the trees have suffered. In one peach 
orchard the soil is so poor that nothing but 
briers and a scattering growth of weeds 
can be found. Here the trees stood still 
until we cut weeds, brush and all trash we 
could find and piled it near the trees. Since 
then they have started, and the tops show 
the light new wood. If one has such poor 
light land he must be prepared to haul in 
material for mulching or cultivate and feed 
until some mulching crop can be grown. I 
have fields where a stranger would say at 
once that mulching seems to be a failure. 
1 have others where even an advocate of cul¬ 
tivation would admit that the trees are suc¬ 
ceeding. I have not been able at fair ex¬ 
pense to make the poor fields equal the 
good ones. What nonsense it would be to 
pick out either field as a safe argument for 
or against mulching. You might take a man 
walking to church in his blacks and proclaim 
him an ideal citizen, while others might; 
catch him at home up to the most sneaking 
tricks of the trade. 
Ai.l Sorts.—T he following letter is a 
sample of many I receive : 
“While I am very much interested in Hope 
Farm, I do not think I would like such a 
hilly place. I do not know where 1 could 
find the place I have pictured in my mind’s 
eye; it would be beauty though. Nice or¬ 
chard, nice cool spring, good land, some tim¬ 
ber, a running stream, not too far from the 
railroad or town, with good house and plenty 
of stable and shop room. There you have 
it.” w. s. K. 
There is or ought to be no place like home. 
We knew when we bought Hope Farm that 
it was not an ideal situation, but it was the 
best we could do at that time. I had been 
told to wait until we could buy a first-class 
farm, but we had to get into the country be¬ 
fore we could do just as we wanted. It is 
good to have an ideal in mind, but some¬ 
times you feel better over it to take some¬ 
thing that is below your ideal and raise it 
by your own labor and care. Our place is 
rough and hilly, but it is our home, and 
means as much to us as the smooth, level 
farms which are so easy to work. Any man 
can learn lessons from the hills. . . . 
Two weeks ago we printed a letter from a 
farmer who said he wanted to hire a “crack- 
erjaek.” A man has come forward claiming 
to fill the bill, and I hope he will fill the 
crack in that farm. This discussion of farm 
help has brought out many questions. One 
man wants to know why city men with am¬ 
ple means and an ambition to make a farm 
pay usually fall and have trouble with hired 
help. There are several reasons for it. The 
man may be a genuine “crackerjack” in his 
city business, but he seems to think farming 
can be run in much the same way. He suc¬ 
ceeds in buying and selling dead things, but 
fails with live ones. Often the man’s family 
upsets his plans. He would like to run the 
farm for business, but the wife and children 
are there for health and a good time. The 
hired man may plan to work the horses in the 
hayfield or at hauling manure, and the 
women folks want to go driving. The man 
may be called from the field or from some 
important job to harness a horse or do some 
chores. He soon comes to see that two dif¬ 
ferent forces are pulling, one for business and 
the other for fun. If he tries to do every¬ 
thing he can’t make a paying crop, and if he 
refuses to leave his crop he will be blamed 
anyway. This divided plan upsets the man 
and is the most frequent cause of the city 
man’s failure as a farmer. The best thing 
for such a man to do is to admit that he can¬ 
not run two things at once, and make his 
farming as simple as possible—grass, grain 
or orchard fruits. . . . Sunday, July 23, 
tried hard to be a “gray day,” but failed. 
There was a sprinkle in the early morning, 
not enough to do much good, but just enough 
to make the potatoes and the little trees 
turn from thoughts of suicide. The clouds 
gathered again and again with a bluster that 
may have deceived a newcomer in Jersey, 
but they blew away in time and let the sun 
shine through. The air grew cooler, so much 
so that at night we started a fire in the fire¬ 
place. There is usually something very de¬ 
pressing about a genuine “gray day;” the 
clouds hang thick and damp, and there is a 
melancholy feeling in the hills. This day 
was much of a fraud, for the sun poked its 
face through every cloud. Oh, how we need¬ 
ed the rain! I told Aunt Jennie as I drove 
her to the hill orchards that I hoped she 
would be soaked before she got home! We 
would all have taken a wetting in order to 
have the ground soaked. There was no such 
good luck, however, and the day ended dry 
and cool. When I went out at nine o’clock 
to rub the white liniment on Bob’s shoulder 
the clouds were thick, but when I came from 
the barn the stars were all out, so rapidly 
did the day’s moods change| However, Bob 
was better—that's something—and the rain 
will come in due time. The maker of it 
hasn’t failed us yet. h. w. c. 
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