1008. 
THE RURAL NEW -YORKER 
523 
Hope Farm Notes 
THE STORY OF A DAY. 
I can hardly do better than to give a 
history of a day at Hope Farm to close 
our little story. Let us take Saturday, 
June 6. The day began the night before, 
when I told the children I was to be home 
all day. There was some little consulta¬ 
tion among them, and then the smaller 
boy began: 
“Did you know there was a ball game 
in town to-morrow?” 
I hadn’t heard of it—and these indirect 
ways of approaching a subject do not ap¬ 
peal to me anyway. The children finally 
selected one of the girls as most effective 
spokesman, and she came in a way that I 
appreciate: 
“Father, will you take us to the ball 
game if we get our work done?’’ 
I caught Mother’s eye across the table 
and saw that she wanted them to go and 
yet didn’t want to appear too anxious. 
So I told them that if we could accom¬ 
plish what I had planned we would go. 
Mother and Jack went off to a church 
“social,” but the rest of us, like the people 
in the parable, begged to be excused. After 
supper I hoed strawberries as long as I 
could see, and then w r ent to the top of the 
hill to look at the corn ground. Darkness 
came on, and looking down into the valley 
I saw a light moving back and forth 
near the house. I couldn’t make out what 
it was until I found that the boy had tied 
the lantern to the lawn mower, and was 
cutting away in order to get work done 
ahead for the ball game! I hear all sorts 
of people lay down rules about raising 
children. Many of these preceptors never 
had any children, and have forgotten that 
they ever had any childhood. One thing 
I won’t stand for is preaching to a child. 
If I should undertake to sketch out any 
model of behavior for my children I confess 
that there would rise before me a vision 
of a very bad boy who scraped out the 
center of the wedding cake, so that when 
they came to cut it the whole thing fell 
in. That same bad boy put a bent pin 
in the school teacher’s chair, and was up- 
to other mischief. I feel sorry for the 
child whose parents cannot distinguish be¬ 
tween pure animal friskiness and pure 
meanness. As for work, childhood is never 
complete unless the child can feel that it 
owns a part of the home and has paid for 
it in labor. It is a wretched thing for a 
child to grow up feeling that it has been 
made a little drudge without reward or 
hope of fair dealing. No man can leave 
his children a better legacy than the habit 
of willing labor. I know a number of rich 
men who would give anything if they had 
their boys in such shape that the little 
fellows would worJc for the sake of seeing 
a ball game. 
The sun came streaming into my window 
with the promise of a good weed-killing 
day. I confess that I would have been 
glad to pull down the shade and turn 
over for another nap. But that would 
never do for a man who believes in teach¬ 
ing the glory of labor by example. Sev¬ 
eral readers have asked how we manage 
the housework at Hope Farm. Up to 
about six weeks ago our folks did it all 
except part of the washing. Every child 
on the place is capable of getting up a fair 
meal. Now we have a woman with a little 
child who does the kitchen work. She had 
gone away for the day and so the little 
girls were cooks. A little after six I woke 
the children. The larger boy made the Are, 
and by the time the girls came down the 
water was hot. Philip got things going 
at the bam, gave the horses their grain 
and milked the two cows. By half past 
six the boy was running his lawn' mower 
and thinking of home I'uns and strike outs 
as he pushed. Jack and Henry do their 
own housekeeping in part of the old house. 
There was a dog show in the county town 
and Jack had entered Hope Farm Punch— 
the most effective punch we have for 
knocking out honors. I kept my hoe 
swinging in the Kevitt strawberries. This 
name is given to a patch of 3,000 plants 
planted after Kevitt’s method—that is, sin¬ 
gle plants close together with the runners 
kept off. We have already worked them 
three times with the wheel hoe, and hand- 
hoed them twice—and they showed the ef¬ 
fect of it. After about an hour of such 
work any man will keep one eye on the 
kitchen door and it was a welcome sight 
to me when the little girl came dancing 
out to say that breakfast was ready. We 
did our full duty by that meal. If anyone 
wants better food than soft oatmeal with 
all the cream you can get in the dish, 
fried eggs that were laid 15 hours before, 
bread and butter and crab apple jelly, he 
wants to hunt some other boarding house. 
We were satisfied, and we laid in a full 
supply. 
There was an acre of plowed ground on 
the hill partly harrowed for corn plant¬ 
ing. Henry was to work half a day. He 
hitched Nellie to the cultivator and started 
cultivating potatoes by the house, while 
Philip and I prepared to mark and plant 
that corn. I was just telling Henry that 
cultivating on such a bright day was the 
surest thing on earth when, as if to prove 
me wrong, the girls came running out to 
say: 
“Here is the tax collector! 
So I sent Henry with Philip to the hill, 
put the two boys at cultivating, and took 
up the tax problem. It wasn’t; the collec¬ 
tor, but the assessor going his rounds to 
see how much property will stand. He 
had me down for nearly twice what I paid 
for the property originally. As I under¬ 
stand it, they make one price per acre for 
land in a certain section, multiply the num¬ 
ber of your acres by this price, and add 
what they call the value of buildings. 
Thus my orchard is assessed at the same 
rate per acre as waste land alongside it, 
while painting a house or putting heating 
fixtures in it may increase the assessment. 
I could find no cause for arguing with 
the assessor, and he drove off to tackle 
some other tax payer. One boy went at 
his lawn mowing, while I kept the other 
on Nellie’s back, for where crops are 
planted as closely as on our lower fields 
the man with the cultivator must have 
all eyes for his job. And now Mother be¬ 
gan to take a hand in the day’s work. 
There were rugs to beat and a floor to 
scrub and the boy who was playing George 
Washington on that horse had been nomi¬ 
nated for the job. There are various occa¬ 
sions which seem offensive to me. A 
loading one is when a lady with capacity 
for argument and a good cause put her 
head out of a -window and frees her mind. 
A window fxmme seems to give to such 
words something of the power which a can¬ 
non gives to solid shot. I have seen strong 
men so affected that they went off behind 
the barn and kicked at the dog or threw 
a club at the cat! 
We were able to finish our cultivating. 
Then the boy went at his housework and 
I took Nellie and the cultivator to the hill. 
Philip was trying to smooth the plowed 
ground with an old Acme, but the teeth 
were worn down so that half the useful¬ 
ness of the tool was gone. I had ordered 
a new set of teeth. I have never found 
a tool which, at its best, does its work 
better than the Acme harrow', or which is 
in greater need of sharp, clean teeth. When 
we got to the hill a great flock of crows 
rose from the cornfield which was planted 
last week. I was curious to see what they 
were doing, for I could not believe they 
would take the corn. You can imagine 
my feelings when I found that they had 
practically ruined four acres of our flint 
corn! It was planted with our selected 
seed—picked with great care from special 
stalks, true to type. No money can buy 
more of that seed. While we have a little 
of it left the crows have nearly wiped out 
all our labor and care in selecting and 
starting our strain of Hope Farm flint. In 
order to be dead sure of the seed we 
smeared it carefully with a new mixture 
guaranteed to repel the crows. The rascals 
seem to take to it as a child takes to 
candy. They have followed the corn rows, 
digging out the seed and pulling out the 
stalks, until I doubt if there are 150 hills 
in the entire field. Some pf those men who 
are such friends of a crow that they even 
want to feed them would have had a hard 
time on our hills when we saw that field. 
I have never before known the crows to 
be so numerous or so bold. We are cov¬ 
ering the rest of our seed with tar, but the 
loss of that choice seed is a hard one. 
Henry and I got that field planted after 
Philip harrowed it. There has been a good 
growth of Crimson clover plowed under. 
This soil grows more productive each year 
under our plan of com with fertilizer 
among the young apple trees and clover and 
turnips in the corn. Philip went down to 
plant Lima beans and sweet corn, and after 
planting, Henry and I went to cultivating. 
On about four acres of young apple or¬ 
chard we plowed a wide strip at each side 
of the row and planted potatoes. The 
middles were in rye seeded to clover. This 
rye has been cut for hay and the clover is 
coming in. What we did was to run our 
cultivators along the potato rows, running 
close so as to throw some dirt around the 
plants. It was high time for this -work, 
for the grass is coming in. The cultivators 
ripped up the moist soil and did great 
service to both trees and potatoes. It 
was a pleasant job to travel back and 
forth across the face of the hill. At every 
few rounds we would let the horse rest 
under the trees. There could not have been 
a more ideal day for cultivating. There 
was not a cloud in the sky, and a sharp 
wind was blowing up the valley. Every 
weed that was ripped out was gone when 
that dry wind touched its root. And be¬ 
low us, stretched out until the eye brought 
up against a hill, lay the valley sparkling 
in the sun, and with every shade of green 
and brown. It was glorious to be out in 
such a day to put up a fight for your 
crops. Henry had to go early, for he 
wanted to see Punch win his prize, but 
one of the boys came to help, and we got 
the potatoes done shortly after 12. Nellie 
had her dinner, but as bur folks were not 
quite ready I took my hoe and started 
at those strawberries again. Nothing like 
making most of a good day. When Mother 
put her head out of the window to tell 
me to hurry to dinner I had additional 
evidence of the power of that form of 
expression._ You might without disrespect 
call our dinner a collection of “leavings.” 
There were the remains of a boiled ham 
and the last of the veal made into a 
stew. Potatoes and sliced cucumbers, 
bread and butter and jelly and a saucer of 
the first strawberries for Mother. We 
didn’t leave much of the "leavings.” 
The children were to wash the dishes 
and finish the housework. After dinner 
Philip went to planting sweet corn, while 
I hitched Nellie again to the cultivator and 
continued our monotonous travel. Tills 
time I went into the place where I have 
planted peach trees, currants, strawberries 
and cabbage close together. By using a 
short whiflletree, and a slow horse, and 
closing the cultivator to its narrowest 
point, we can do great work in this place. 
It requires great care not to bark a tree 
or root out some useful plant. Nellie’s 
highest ambition is to travel at a funeral 
pace ahead of a cultivator, and she does 
this work well. By going back and forth 
in each row we tore the surface up and 
killed millions of weeds. A little before 
three the children came out to tell me it 
was time to get ready for the ball game. 
I knew as a matter of business I ought not 
to leave my work, for the asparagus needed 
cultivating, but a promise ought t’o be 
like a signed agreement, and the little 
folks had done their part. One of the lit¬ 
tle girls is not so much of a “sport” as the 
rest of us, so she went to the dog show. 
We gave Mother a special invitation to 
come along with us, but she declined, being 
busy preparing for “Children’s Day.” 
“I am afraid you haven’t very much 
sporting blood !” 
“There is quite enough of it in the family 
already.” 
This shaft may have been aimed at her 
husband and daughter, but Mother was 
really glad the children could go, for they 
had earned this little pleasure. So we 
went off with many admonitions about 
keeping out of harm and coming home 
early ! 
I wish I could say that the entertain¬ 
ment was worth the -price, but it wasn’t. 
The game was too one-sided, one side mak¬ 
ing one run and the other about as many 
as they pleased. It was like a lot of large 
men playing against some light boys. One 
thing that pleased me was that our little 
folks did not applaud when our team made 
runs on errors of the other side, or when 
they got 10 runs ahead. I hope no one 
will ever get a hand from our folks unless 
they earn it. The boys were much inter¬ 
ested in excuses made by the losing team. 
“It was an off day !” 
“The umpire threw the game!” 
“Our catcher was sick !” 
“The sun was in my eyes!” 
They will learn that the world is so 
full of excuses that you can hardly move 
without hitting one. We got back in good 
season, and there was Mother—at a window 
—wanting to know about the game. Sup¬ 
per not being ready I got my hoe and at¬ 
tacked those strawberries again. The dog 
show people came back in great glee, for 
Punch won three first prizes and a silver 
cup. You perhaps do not realize wdiat that 
means to dog breedei's. This little 11- 
pound Boston terrier won first prize at the 
big Madison Square Garden show, and that 
means money for the Hope Farm Kennels. 
If you think Punch is no purebred, we halve 
his papers. They fit. Jack has been of¬ 
fered $1,200 for him. Who would offer 
that amount for you on your shape? There 
was a great pot of baked beans when we 
started eating supper, but a small dish held 
all that was left when we were done, and 
in addition large quantities of bread and 
milk and bread and butter accompanied 
the fruit out of sight. The dogs and the 
ball game demanded discussion, but weeds 
never stop, and so I took my friend the 
hoe for another round witli those straw¬ 
berries. I had hardly struck a blow when 
I l'emembered the Crimson clover hay spread 
out in the swath. That wouldn’t do, so 
we took our forks and cocked it up to be 
hauled in on Monday. By this time it was 
dark and the week’s work was ended. I 
stopped by the hickoi'y tree in the lane to 
think it over. We came pi'etty close to 
filling our programme for the week. Give 
us good weather and we shall have a lively 
time next week. We must cut the Alfalfa, 
cultivate everything once more, plant the 
rest of the squash, finish that corn plow¬ 
ing, cut the grass in the mulched orchard 
and get it around the trees, hoe—and here 
are the strawberries ripening ahead of 
time. It will take planning and hustling 
to get it done, but we are ready for it. 
And so I go down to the house tired, 
but well content with our lot. Philip sits 
under the tree in the barnyard smoking 
his pipe—his thoughts no doubt back in 
Norway. Jack and Henry are on the lawn. 
Little Punch climbs on Jack’s knee like 
a privileged character. Poor old crippled 
Shep watches from his bed under the shrull. 
His leg was broken in March, and he will 
now go to the end of his days with more 
or less of a limp. Shep would never win 
any prize at a dog show, but he has first 
place at Hope Farm. I am glad to go to 
the old fellow and pat him, for he goes 
on three legs to follow me all over the 
farm. The moon comes sailing up over 
the trees. I start some work at my desk, 
but it seems more sociable in the other 
room where our folks are gathered. Mother 
is darning a few garments. She is about 
as close a friend to her needle as I am to 
the hoe. The boy has peeled the potatoes 
for to-morrow’s fish balls, and the girls have 
put away the supper things. But first you 
know it is time for bath and bed, and off 
they go trooping in regular order. 
“Oh, but haven’t we had a fine time?” 
said the little girls, too tired to enjoy it 
longer. 
Well, we did—everybody but the weeds, 
and that baseball club that lost. There is 
happiness to-night and hope for to-mori'ow 
at Hope Farm. I think as I blow out the 
last light and see the bright moonlight 
on the lawn, how little a burglar would 
get if he took the trouble to break down 
our feeble locks. I am mighty thankful 
that we are all at home, all thankful for 
the day, all obliged to labor with our 
hands, and all knowing that up here among 
the hills the good Lord who has carried us 
gently on our way will still be with us 
through the night. h. w. c. 
When you write advertisers mention Tim 
It. N.-Y. and you’ll get a quick reply and 
“a square deal.” See guarantee, page 8. 
Just a Postal nnnotiEoS 9 * 
. i{pi n( , c ■ PoposiiBon 
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Wo 
O 
291 
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Running water on the farm saves labor by 
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Milk Oil Dip , 
For 
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Oldest American Dip. Cheapest, 1 
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1 gal. can $1.00, 52 cal. barrel S10. 
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9 
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