1130 
THE RURAL, NEW-YCKKER 
Hope Farm Notes 
“THE LIVING BREAD.” 
There was a city man once who went 
to the country to spend a Summer va¬ 
cation. Some men are proud to say they 
trace back to the farm. This man had 
no such pride. His grandfather ran 
away from a little rocky farm where 
he thought they starved and chilled 
him. He never went back, and he 
handed his hatred and contempt down 
through two generations. You pass such 
a feeling along through two genera¬ 
tions framed in brick and stone, and 
you have a cold-blooded view of farm 
life. This man was well-to-do, shrewd, 
active and forceful. Life had been for 
long years a sort of battle with him. 
The successful fight had left him a 
little cynical, a little hard and distrust¬ 
ful of humanity. That is a part of the 
successful game in the city. They all 
feel more or less that way who live 
their lives and make their money in 
the battle of the streets. 
So this man went to the country and 
stopped at a fine hotel. That was his 
idea of country living—to perch on a 
high hill in luxury, pay the price and 
look off over the rolling country. On 
a sunny day, idly smoking on the hotel 
piazza this man could look away to 
where the sky touched the last range of 
hills. Here and there he could see 
little brown patches apparently ea'ten 
out of the green woods. Some were 
tucked away in little hollows—others 
lay on the sunny side of the hills. Now 
and then when the sun was right there 
would be a flash and sparkle in one 
of these clearings—as when sunlight 
falls upon glass. One morning, rising 
for an early fishing trip, he noticed thin 
curls of smoke rising here and there. 
With a good glass he was able to see 
that these clearings were farms—each 
with its weather-beaten house and its 
barns and outbuildings. Then he came 
to realize that from his hotel perch he 
was looking down upon a country of 
scattered homes. 
At times he drove his car over the 
mountain roads past these clearings. 
They were much alike—a small hole 
gnawed out of the woods, a few 
stumpy fields, buildings rather poor, 
women with great sad eyes, and men 
who drooped a little with discourage¬ 
ment. It made the man gloomy to ride 
past such homes as night was com¬ 
ing on. 
“Too far from Broadway!” he would 
mutter as he put on full speed and 
dashed away. You see this man thought 
“the heart of things” was where he 
worked in the roar of the city—where 
money and power were manifest. How 
could he comprehend this duller life 
tucked away here at the heart of the 
hills where . men and women toiled 
alone—without hope or opportunity? 
He reasoned it out as most city men 
do, and concluded that as these plain 
farmers did not “get there” they must 
be of a lower human type than his own 
class. These strong men are fond of 
assuming that the things which go with 
money and power must of necessity 
represent this “higher type.” Of course 
they forget, if they ever realized it, 
that all the great city ever had came 
originally out of the hard labor of such 
workers as these farmers. Quite 
likely, could he have had his way, this 
man would have argued that a dozen 
of these scattered families might well 
be thrown together and forced to live 
as a community. That is the way they 
argue, without seeming to realize that 
by destroying the struggle for an in¬ 
dependent home he would break down 
part of the most civilizing force in 
America. 
",Such people do not influence the 
world at all. They can make no mark 
upon literature or thought or progress 
in any way.” 
That is what he said when he thought 
he had studied it all out. Hundreds of 
wise men have, before him, thought the 
same. Some learned better. 
******* 
Vacation was over at last—the nights 
grew cold and the days were short. 
The season went out in a blaze of 
glory. There was to be one last ride 
over the mountains and a banquet at 
night. It was a jolly party that whirled 
away through the crisp mountain air 
for that last ride. 
A climb up a steep hill and a rush 
down through fragrant pines brought 
the car out into a dash of sunlight with 
a glorious view down the long valley. 
Just below them was one of these little 
farm clearings. Across the road from 
the house a spring gurgled out of the 
rock and slipped away to join a little 
stream in the next field. The women 
were thirsty, and our city man brought 
water in a gourd which he found by 
the spring. 
It was a poor little place. They 
looked it over as they sat in the car. 
In the pasture a few black and white 
cows were feeding. Three children 
stared at them through the fence. In 
the small garden an old man was 
feebly digging potatoes. In the shade, 
at the side of the house, a woman bent 
over her tub with hands scrubbing at 
the washboard. She did not see them, 
for her brown sunbonnet shaded her 
face as she bent over her work. As 
she scrubbed and splashed in the water 
she was singing. The idle company in 
the car listened. The woman had but 
a feeble voice, and the washboard ac¬ 
companiment partly smothered it. 
All the way my Savior leads me 
What have I to fear beside? 
Can I doubt the loving mercy 
Which through years has been my guide? 
The woman had but a feeble voice, 
but above the rubbing and splashing in 
the tub the song, such as it was, came 
to the listeners. You know how people 
sometimes give unconscious power to 
their tones when they do not know they 
have an audience. The little audience 
in the car had all “developed” be¬ 
yond the idea of believing what the 
singer sang. The well-bred women 
glanced at each other and lifted their 
eyebrows a .little. The fat banker 
glanced at the poor surroundings and 
essayed his sneering little joke: 
“Rather a poor guide to bring up in 
such a place—I’d rather walk alone”—■ 
he said as they drove on. Somehow 
the joke and the lifted eyebrows jarred 
the man’s nerves a little. Of course, 
as he had said, such people could not 
influence thought or literature, and yet 
the scene followed him through the 
day. You see he had become interested 
in these homes. 
It may have been chance, or perhaps 
it was really the best way home, but 
after their day’s whirl through the hills 
the party drove back to the hotel the 
way they came. Within half a mile of 
the farmhouse, over the ridge, there 
was a bump and a pop, and a tire was 
gone. The banker and the women 
waited by the roadside, but the man 
walked slowly on ahead. At the top of 
the hill he looked down upon the val¬ 
ley. Perhaps you have seen the twi¬ 
light of a late Summer day slowly 
gather upon a lonely dairy farm among 
the hills. As the sun gently passes to 
the western hills shadows grow darker 
and darker under the trees and in the 
little hollows. It seems as if strange 
night voices are whispering and mur¬ 
muring out of these shadows. A herd 
of cattle moves slowly across the pas¬ 
ture, headed for home and following 
the distant call. Tired men walk slowly 
in from the field. Women stand in 
doorways looking across to the hills 
with eyes that see beyond them and 
the last rays of the sun sparkle on 
the glass. The man stood on the hill 
and saw it all—peace, holy peace, God’s 
blessed peace as night came to the dairy 
farm. He had seen nothing like this 
before. There was nothing of this 
sort when he closed his daily battle in 
the city. What did it mean? Could 
these people of “a lower type” have 
found what he had missed? 
As he walked down the hill the old 
man who had been digging potatoes in 
the garden stepped out of the brush and 
joined him. The city man could hardly 
tell you why he foas interested in the 
story, yet he drew it from the old man. 
The son was dead. There was no¬ 
thing but this little corner of the for¬ 
est to make a home for the widow 
and children. There was just the 
washtub and the little bunch of cows 
to keep the wolf from the door. The 
old man grew bitter with his querulous 
complaint: 
“Them city people pay nine cents 
for our milk and we get two cents. 
Then they come up here and find fault 
with the washing.” 
The old man vented his hopeless 
spite by swinging his cane at a road¬ 
side weed. The city man saw the whole 
little home tragedy spread before him. 
This was home to the old man and the 
children. The woman was fighting her 
battle to save it. It came to him that 
here was something of the spirit which 
has been bedded like a rock into his¬ 
tory. Here was a little touch of the 
thing which all human progress goes 
back to. How could she do it? The 
man had no sister or woman friend 
November 25, 
who would do such work. What was 
the ruling force—what compensation? 
They had reached the buildings. Far 
back in the still air he heard the cough 
of the coming car and saw its red eye 
come over the ridge. The black and 
white cows stood in a yard by the little 
barn patiently chewing their cud and 
waiting to be milked. There was a 
tinkle as the milk struck the bottom of 
the pail, and framed against the white 
side of a cow he saw the brown sun- 
bonnet which had bent over the tub 
in the morning. The woman was milk¬ 
ing, and as before she did not realize 
that an audience had gathered for her 
song. For it was the same one, only 
a different verse. And the man stand¬ 
ing there in the twilight unconsciously 
took off his hat as he listened: 
“All the way my Savior leads me, 
Guidos each wandering path 1 tread. 
Gives me strength for every trial, 
Feeds me with the living bread.” 
The glare of the car’s light was upon 
them and the woman stopped her song. 
As he climbed into the car the man 
caught sight of her face—glorified as it 
seemed to him in the sun’s last ray. 
Then they dashed on ahead to make up 
for lost time. It was a wonderful ban¬ 
quet to end the day. They were all 
hungry, but somehow the man did not 
respond. 
“Sick?” said the fat banker, looking 
over his glasses. “Order anything— 
what will you have?” 
The man in a half dream forgot him¬ 
self for a moment: 
"Feeds me with the living bread!” 
“Living bread? What is it—electri¬ 
fied? Some new breakfast- food? 
Where can it be bought?” 
The man’s mind cleared as he 
laughed. It seemed so absurd to think 
of buying this living bread. For he 
saw it was the one great valuable 
thing in life which the wealth of the 
world cannot buy. H. w. c. 
y.'HEN you write ^advertisers mention The 
R. N.-Y. and you'll get a quick reply and a 
“square deal.” See guarantee editorial page. 
.. IllHIH 
...lilJWJll.,, -- 
....... .JuhI,. 
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£ J 
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.TCUkhlhC 
At Milwaukee Show 
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KENT MFG. CO., 3830 Cane St., Fort Atkinson, Wis. 
