1907. 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
447 
Hope Farm Notes 
Carrying the Bag. —Mother and I went 
to town together recently. On the train 
she met a woman who lives some five 
miles east of us, and there at once began 
what I have heard called a “talk fest.” 
When we got to the city there were sev¬ 
eral things still demanding words. 
“Now then,” said Mother, “you can car¬ 
ry this bag!” 
I have always been thankful for any 
special privileges which came my way, so 
while these good women walked ahead, 
taking one step for each dozen words, I 
followed with a bag in each hand! I 
have seen lighter and handsomer bags in 
my day, but it is a great thing to be able 
to realize that while it is given to the few 
to carry the flag with honor it is possible 
for the many to carry the bag with some 
dignity. At Broadway our friend left us 
and the bag left me. 
“It’s an honor to carry such a bag,” 
said Mother. 
My hand was tired, but I had no evi¬ 
dence to disprove the statement. 
“She has worked and paid off all her 
debts—the last $275 just paid!” 
“To whom?” 
“The saloonkeeper”- 
What about that for a man who runs 
for office on the Prohibition ticket? But 
we will let Mother finish. 
“-, who owns the house where she 
lives. Her husband died after a long 
sickness, and left her in debt with a fam¬ 
ily of small children. She has worked 
and paid every cent, brought up the chil¬ 
dren and given them schooling, and now 
they are doing well! Isn’t that fine!” 
My hand stopped aching right there. 
The woman was making her way across 
the park. A slight figure, plainly dressed, 
with hard hands and a little of the bend 
which labor puts into back and shoulders. 
I thought of my own mother—how she 
toiled for years that her children might 
have home and oppportunity ,and how she 
died before they could fairly repay her. 
It seemed to me as if this plainly dressed 
woman walked as one attended by a great 
glory, for the angels of Self-Denial and 
Love walked at her side. Who wouldn’t 
carry a bag in such company? I wish I 
could make some people I know realize 
what it means to do what this woman has 
done! She has laid the noblest of 
human gifts on the altar of her country, 
and the beauty of it all is that she did not 
realize the true significance of her work. 
Think how small and mean are the lives 
of those comfortable people who growl 
and find fault and shirk from their duty. 
No angels of Self-Denial and Love walk 
down the slope of life with them, and no 
proud feeling of victory, but only the 
haunting memories of selfish lives. Thank 
God that all about us are brave and silent 
people who will wear their hands out 
against the world that their children may 
become true men and women. It is a 
privilege to carry the bag for such people. 
And yet there is an if connected with it. 
I once got into a city elevator in which, 
among other passengers, was an Italian 
woman with a^big basket. I had been 
told that this woman since her husband’s 
death had supported her family by selling 
fruit out of this basket. It was packed 
with apples and bananas and candy. I 
thought it was the least I could do to 
help her lift it, but the fact is I had about 
all I wanted to do to raise it from the 
ground. She lifted it up, put it on her 
head and walked off! She certainly had 
the right to show a very stiff-necked pride 
in her strength! 
There are, as I well know, other women 
even more deserving of credit. They are 
small and delicate, lacking the strength 
and fibre which enable one to endure fa¬ 
tigue. Worse than that, they are victims 
of a wrong bringing up, for they were 
never taught to economize or do useful 
things. When misfortune comes upon 
them it strikes like a blighting curse, and 
very few can realize what it means for 
such feeble and untrained women to face 
the struggle and make homes for their 
children. I do not know of anything 
more worthy of admiration than the life 
struggle which some of these women 
make. 
Farm Notes. —Still wet and cold with, 
now and then, a few hours of struggle 
between sunshine and cloud. When a 
man thinks as much of sunshine as I do 
it is hard to have the supply shut off. 
Looking over the cold, wet hills on Sun¬ 
day afternoon I could imagine the follow¬ 
ing dialogue with “the clerk of the 
weather!” 
“Well, what are you growling about 
now ?” 
“I am not growling.” 
“Then your face and your actions belie 
your thoughts!” 
“Can’t you see what this backward sea¬ 
son is doing to us?” 
“What is it doing?” 
“Making our land so cold and wet that 
we can’t get at it.” 
“Now, see here, what are you trying to 
do with this farm?” 
“Turn it into an orchard.” 
“What is this I have heard about your 
mulch system ?” 
“I am trying to follow it.” 
“Doesn’t that need grass?” 
“Lots of it?” 
“Can you get grass without lots of 
rain ?” 
“I never knew it to be done except 
where you irrigate!” 
“Is there any grass this year?” 
“I never saw more of it!” 
“Are your trees starting well?” 
“I never saw them better.” 
“If the peach trees had bloomed on time 
what would that frost have clone to them ?*’ 
“Why, killed every bud, I suppose!” 
“Did you ever have a better season for 
setting strawberry plants?” 
“No, I must say I never did!” 
“If you keep the ground well harrowed 
to hold the moisture will it not be in far 
better shape for peppers and tomatoes 
than last year?” 
“I must confess that it will.” 
“What in the world then are you growl¬ 
ing about?” 
“Well, we could not sow onions on time, 
the little chicks are dying, the weeds are 
gaining on us, our planting is late—a man 
cannot keep up his courage without sun¬ 
shine any more than a plant can make 
seed or fruit without it.” 
“Then you never expect to see the sun¬ 
shine again?” 
“Why, of course, I can’t say that.” 
“Are you the man who found fault last 
August when the soil was so dry you 
couldn’t plow?” 
“I think it likely.” . 
“Now, then, here is a little advice for 
you! Keep cheerful. A wet season is 
better for your crops than a dry one. If 
you have wet land, mark it and and put in 
drains. If you can’t work at garden crops 
work on your trees. If your chicks die 
see if it’s your fault before you pound 
the weather. Live on the sunshine you 
should have soaked in last Summer until 
you get this year’s supply.” . . . Our 
orchards are a sight to behold this year. 
I' have never seen such a load of bloom as 
the Nyack Pippins show. Part of this 
orchard is. the chicken yard where last 
year some 150 hens had their run. The 
trees show it both in growth of wood and 
bloom. The older Baldwin and Greening 
trees are loaded and some of the five-year- 
old trees on the hill have a fair setting 
of flowers. On the whole, it looks like the 
greatest apple year we have ever had. Of 
course it is too early to make any definite 
statement about it, but the early indica¬ 
tions are for a light crop throughout the 
country. . . . The boys are doing well 
with their pansy plants. At 35 cents a 
dozen there is a great demand. It is only 
a matter of getting out to customers. The 
boys dig the plants with a fair-sized ball 
of dirt at the roots, pack them close to¬ 
gether in flats and drive from house to 
house. We selected mostly dark colors, 
but we find this year that people want 
yellows and whites so as to make a good 
variety. This is a nice little business in a 
neighborhood like ours, and the boys ex¬ 
pect to increase their supply next year. 
This pansy trade gives me a line on the 
way some of those stories of great farm 
incomes are made up. Take the ground 
on which those pansies are grown. If it 
had been an acre with demand for all the 
plants the income would have been over 
$1,500! But were we to put in the full 
acre the loss on labor would be heavy. I 
remember once I started to canvass for a 
subscription book. Somehow I couldn’t 
make it go. I put up with a farmer over 
night who told me his son made $50 a 
week canvassing. That gave me a poor 
opinion of myself until I learned that the 
boy worked a few hours and sold one 
book to his grandmother. If he had 
worked a full week at that rate he cer¬ 
tainly would have made the $50. When I 
hear these great stories of farm success 
I want to know all about the if. It is al¬ 
ways there, and when the figures are cor¬ 
rect there will be an s, a t, and another if 
with it to describe the backbone, the cour¬ 
age, the skill and the patience of the man 
who did it. ... If this backward sea¬ 
son continues to refuse to come forward 
I shall sow more buckwheat than ever be¬ 
fore. I did intend to plant flint corn in 
several young orchards, but there is so 
much delay in fitting the ground that we 
may come to buckwheat. h. w. c. 
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