754 . 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
Hope Farm Notes 
A Fine Country. —It would be hard 
to find a richer and more prosperous 
farming section than a strip of land in 
Southern Michigan embracing Lenawee 
County and some nearby territory. There 
may be streaks of lighter or leaner land 
here and there, but for the most part 
this section is fit for a garden. You 
might almost be justified in scraping up 
this soil and shipping it East to be used 
as a fertilizer. It would do your heart 
good to ride through this level country 
and see the fields of clover or Alfalfa, 
or the corn which comes in after them. 
Adrian is the center of this garden spot, 
and the cream of this fat soil pours into 
her lap. The town is one of the hand¬ 
somest in the country. Whoever laid it 
out in the beginning had vision and 
thought for the future. The streets are 
lined with rows of glorious trees. Any 
of you who have been in the old towns 
of New England know how the great 
elms line the streets and beautify them. 
These towns have 150 years the start of 
Adrian, yet the Michigan town has trees 
which will rank with their best in size 
and beauty. It is a “home town” fit to 
handle and enjoy the best which this 
rich country can pour into it. Adrian 
had a home-comers’ celebration last week, 
and I went back with the rest. 
Coming Back. —You will say, of course, 
what business has a Cape Cod Yankee 
going “home” to a Western town! 
Home is not entirely confined to the 
place where one is born—it is anywhere 
that you can pick up something of the 
home spirit. I got some of the most 
essential things of life out of Lenawee 
County. I want to tell you about them 
in the hope that some of you who have 
good homes and fair competence may 
pass them along. It was 31 years ago on 
a cold, stormy December day that I came 
tramping into Adrian. I had been 
through one term at the agricultural 
college, had exhausted my funds, and 
had no place to go to. I had been can¬ 
vassing for a book, but the life of a book 
agent is no path to glory at best. Dogs 
had snapped at me and got into my 
clothes, servants had slammed the door, 
the “lady of the house” had called names 
which would not look pretty here and 
farmers had meditated assault and bat¬ 
tery. I was unfitted for the job, had an 
unpopular book, and some fellow ahead 
of me had left a bad reputation. It was 
a dull Winter just after a hard panic, 
and country towns with little manufac¬ 
turing could not offer work. Now a 
wonderful milk condensery has been built 
at Adrian, and every farm for miles 
around can be made into a Winter fac¬ 
tory. These mighty crops of Alfalfa, 
clover and corn can be made into milk, 
and sold at a fair price and sure pay. 
In those old days nothing of that was 
possible and there was little besides 
chores to do. 
I well remember how I wandered on 
through the town into one of the leaner 
streaks of soil I have mentioned. Farm¬ 
ers were kind, but no one could or would 
buy a book. At last I heard of a college 
boy who was teaching a country school 
and I made for his “institution of learn¬ 
ing.” I am giving these details because 
just such things are going on in real life 
all the time. That young man would 
have been justified in dropping me at the 
school-house door, saying “good-bye” and 
forgetting about it. But this one made 
me drive home with him to spend the 
night. It took very little urging, for it 
had been long since I had seen the real 
lights of home. After supper we all 
sat around the kitchen stove and talked. 
I look back to that evening in that 
humble farmhouse as one of those pic¬ 
tures of memory that can never be 
rubbed out. My father had been killed 
in the Civil War. His death had denied 
us what I call the God-given right to a 
home and that happy childhood which 
ought to be the birthright of every man 
and woman. As I wandered on that 
Winter it had begun to come to me that 
somehow society had gone wrong. 
These homes and all this comfort that 
I passed by had been made secure and 
possible because men like my father had 
given their lives for their country. Yet 
here was I shut out from what I needed. 
That is one good way to start a man 
or boy along the road to bitterness, and 
when he gets there he is a poor citizen. 
I have no doubt there were plenty of 
July 15, 
men in that section abundantly able to 
give money to such a young man. It 
would have been the worst thing that 
could have happened to him. It is next 
to impossible to buy the things which 
are really essential in making a man. 
What I needed and what most young 
people must have is the feeling that 
somewhere on earth is a place where he 
can go and cut a little slice of home for 
himself. That is what that Lenawee 
County farmer gave me. He was not 
rich. There was really little that I could 
do even to pay for my board, but they 
made a place and held me there all 
Winter. I can well remember how they 
had raised a fine colt. It was to be sold 
in Spring—the money used to pay taxes 
and $10 for me, though I doubt if I had 
earned it. The colt ran away, smashed 
into a tree and broke his neck! When 
I left in the Spring to make the struggle 
to get through college that man told me 
he had no money to pay, but that he 
wanted me to feel that his farm was my 
home until I could get one of my own. 
This good man died some years ago, 
but when I went to Adrian I found his 
wife still living on the old farm. I can¬ 
not tell you how much good it did me 
to be able to tell her just what that 
Winter in her home meant to me. I 
met another family who backed me up 
with solid help when I taught school. 
They threw bread on the waters 30 years 
ago. I did my best to hand it back to 
them buttered with words at least. 
I can have only one good excuse for 
all this talk about myself and those old 
days. Human nature is ever the same. 
There are still young men and women 
with dreams and ambitions which seem 
chained to hard circumstances and con¬ 
ditions. They are strong and willing, 
but there will surely come times to them 
when courage fails and hope grows dim. 
I cannot greatly blame them at times for 
wanting to quit and give up the struggle. 
If that farmer had not taken me into his 
home that Winter I fear that I should 
have given up and drifted down with the 
tide. That would have meant a lifelong 
regret, for one must know as he drifts 
on that the pleasant places and the land 
of dreams are all up-stream. That Win¬ 
ter helped to save me, and what I am 
getting at is the fact that all over this 
country are farmers with good farms 
and comfortable homes who may find 
opportunity to do just what that Michi¬ 
gan farmer did. I know there are 
frauds and scamps abroad who would 
steal or betray such hospitality. We 
have had a bite or so from them; yet 
strangers are not all so, and there are 
still thousands of deserving young peo¬ 
ple who are hungry and thirsty for a 
little slice of home. You know that Dr. 
Bailey in his recent articles said that 
farmers can help the cause of agricul¬ 
tural education by giving students 
a chance to work on their farms. 
In another sense, and perhaps a larger 
one, I have for years believed that 
our farms have an even greater 
mission than that. of feeding the 
country. We are, of course, told that 
the farms must provide blood and bone 
for society, but I think even more than 
that the farm home must be expected 
to heal the broken and bruised outcasts 
who are trying to fight their way with¬ 
out a home. For instance, there are 
thousands of childless homes in this 
country. There are lonely farms with 
only dim memories of child life which 
ought to be bubbling and sparkling with 
the joy of youth. And while such things 
are true there are thousands of little 
ones growing up sad-eyed and weary- 
faced before their time because they do 
not have their little slice of home. It 
is not for me to tell people their duty, 
but I do wish that some of these little 
ones could be planted in those sad farm 
'homes. They would act like the bacteria 
of hope and joy, and the good Lord only 
knows how much good would result to 
the world. There is a business side to 
this, too. A few days ago a man came 
and asked me to take his boy for the 
Summer. His mother is not well, and 
the father is busy. These parents would, 
no doubt, pay well to have that boy 
cared for on a good farm. I know 
some school teachers who have married 
farmers. They are not strong enough 
to do all the hard work, but they could 
take several of these motherless boys, 
care for and teach them and make more 
than enough to have a strong woman 
to do their work. At any rate that spot 
in Michigan of which Adrian is the hub 
is “home” to me. Farmers elsewhere 
may start up and claim greater prosper¬ 
ity, and that they have entertained real 
angels in disguise. I will not dispute it 
•—but that spot is “home.” h. w. c. 
Why the Strawberries Failed. 
H. C. T., Saratoga, N. Y .—I planted in 
rows 2% feet wide and two feet apart in 
the row, 100 Bubaeb strawberry plants 
April 20, 1910, cultivated and cared for 
them, and I produced very large crowns, 
keeping the runners off all Summer. People 
who saw them say they never saw finer. 
Many of the crowns were 18 inches in di¬ 
ameter, and 14 to 16 inches high, with 
leaves nearly as large as a man’s hand. I 
mulched them with leaves in November. In 
early April I parted the mulch or leaves in 
middle of rows, as soon as frost was out of 
the ground ; dug down a little and worked 
in some well-rotted manure. This I did 
with a view of increasing the size of the 
berries. I hoed shallow a few times until 
the crowns grew so large that I believed 
it unnecessary to continue. They blossomed 
in May and my prospects were for a very 
large yield. Many of the crowns had from 
80 to 120 berries on them, as I counted 
them. Neighbors came to see them and 
some predicted a yield of two quarts to the 
hill. During the intensely hot dry spell in 
May they were well watered with a garden 
hose so they did not suffer from drought nor 
did the young berries scorch from the heat 
of the sun, as the foliage protected them. I 
have not as yet, nor shall I be able to pick 
half a dozen quarts of berries. I have not 
picked a pint of good full-size ripe fruit. 
Many of the berries are not much larger 
than a cherry seed, rather flat in shape, with 
hard core. Not one person who has seen 
them has ventured a guess as to the cause of 
my failure. When they were in blossom I 
counted on 100 quarts. I have not got a 
half dozen. Will you publish this, so that, 
the readers of The R. N.-Y. can give me 
the cause of my failure? 
Ans. —You evidently planted an im¬ 
perfect flowered variety alone. Some 
varieties of strawberries are perfect 
flowered—that is the flowers have both 
male and female organs. Thus they 
are self-fertilizing and can produce good 
berries. Others are imperfect, that is, 
they have only the female organs and 
do not produce pollen with which to 
fertilize. Thus, unless some perfect 
variety is close by these imperfect plants 
cannot produce good berries. They 
make good flowers, but unless these 
flowers are fertilized by pollen brought 
by the wind or by insects nothing but 
a “button” or nubbin will grow. The 
variety you planted would have given a 
good yield had there been some perfect 
variety planted near it. 
When you write advertisers mention The 
R. N.-Y. and you’ll got a quick reply and a 
“square deal.” See guarantee editorial page. 
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