964 
THE RURAI» NEW-YOPlKER 
September 14, 
Hope Farm Notes 
It is Saturday night—the last one in 
August. At about this time I always 
look for November to reach back some 
60 days and gently touch us with a dry 
blade of grass. It is only a reminder 
of what is coming, but it puts a damp 
chill into the air, and older people go 
out and look thoughtfully at the sun 
as it climbs over the western hills. The 
end of Summer has come! 
It is raw and cold to-night after the 
rain. Darkness came early, and we 
started a roaring fire in my fireplace; 
a good-sized apple chunk is yielding 
what is perhaps its best crop of warmth 
and comfort. The younger children 
and the two aunts are before the fire 
as I write. Uncle John is in the next 
room, while Jack has gone to meet the 
wanderers. Mother took her brood of 
six for a sail on the Hudson. They 
picked up two others on the way, and 
they carried a great stack of lunch, 
which they will eat at West Point— 
coming back on the Albany boat. This 
was an outing to celebrate the end of 
vacation—for school begins next week. 
And we are waiting for them—Jack 
with Brownie and Broker out in the 
gloomy night, and the rest of us before 
this pleasant fire. The two smallest 
redheads are upstairs asleep, while the 
others are “seeing things” in the fire 
as they listen to stories. At times it 
seems evident that this group by the 
fire is discussing me. Perhaps the two 
aunts are telling what a model boy I 
was. I do not hear, but I know better 
now than to ask questions. A few 
weeks ago we all went on a trip to 
Coney Island. On the way back a 
bootblack came around and mother of¬ 
fered to pay him if he would black my 
shoes. He looked at them and said 
something that I did not catch. It is 
better to be satisfied, but some evil 
curiosity pushed me on, and I told one 
of the little boys to tell me what he 
said. The boy was game and he came 
close to my ear and told the truth: “He 
says your feet are so big he ought to 
charge 20 cents.” And every passenger 
heard this advertisement of my firm 
understanding. It is better not to be 
too inquisitive! 
There is a lantern hung in the barn 
yard and Philip’s light seems brighter 
than usual. When I went out just now 
after a log of wood I left the door open. 
The dog came and looked in upon the 
comfort within, but hesitated to enter. 
Not so the little gray cat, which walked 
in with no invitation and curled up by 
the fire. I watched them from the 
woodshed. Is the dog wiser than the 
cat? Is he more modest, or has he less 
faith in the power of his little friends 
to protect him? 1 think a cat has more 
“nerve" or cheek than any other house¬ 
hold animal I ever knew. Our cats 
find their friends among the girls—the 
boys have the dogs. Ever since the 
world began women, large and small, 
have been the surest protectors of these 
“nervy” characters! 
We have had something of a day on 
the farm. Our folks went off leaving a 
list of orders for peaches which we 
were to fill. The Belle of Georgia 
ought to be at its flood right now, but 
the cool weather has held it back. There 
was a good picking yesterday and the 
’phone rang for more. So after the 
wanderers had started I took Broker 
and the big wagon, piled in the two 
aunts and the five children, and started 
up the hill. The trees hang in great 
red banners of peaches, but they are 
still hard. If shipping to a distance I 
would pick them all at once, but our 
trade wants a peach six hours or less 
from the tree, and so we let them 
soften. It was a job to scrape up about 
20 packages. I could not call this a 
profitable gang of pickers—they ate too 
many. 
While we were picking the two Ital¬ 
ians, hired by the day, kept on hoeing 
strawberries. We never had our field 
so clean before, and at last the runners 
are setting freely. With a rainy Sep¬ 
tember we shall have a great showing. 
Philip cultivated the late cabbage with 
Bob and when we came down he took 
the grays to fit land for rye. We are 
tearing up a lot of half wild land for 
rye seeding. The big disk plow rips 
and tears this up, cutting through briars, 
roots and tough sod. Then we work 
crosswise with the Cutaway and seed 
rye. No more bare ground in Winter— 
except two orchards where we are com¬ 
paring a volunteer weed crop with rye, 
clover or vetch. The children and I 
sorted out our peaches and got them 
ready to sell. It will not do to pick 
right from the tree without resorting— 
not when you are to develop a retail 
trade. We had our dinner, and it had 
to be a large one to satisfy our hungry 
company. Had you been here I should 
have offered you a slice of boiled beef 
and then your choice of sweet corn, 
tomatoes, turnips, potatoes, lettuce, pep¬ 
pers and onions. Most likely you would 
have taken all, since they were barely 
two hours from vine or soil. Then 
there was bread and butter and your 
choice of peaches or baked apples—our 
folks mostly made it the Hope Farm 
choice—that is, both ! 
Then came the rain. First a gray 
little drizzle and then thicker and 
thicker until it was really rain. The 
Italians finally studied the sky, figured 
what part of a dollar they would leave 
behind if they quit, and brought their 
hoes to the barn. They proved a good 
barometer, for the rain kept up through 
the afternoon. Madge is the horse for 
our little salesmen, for she has never 
been known to shy or run. Here she 
was with a sore leg and old Bob, the 
cranky and obstinate little bay horse, 
the only available four-legged retailer. 
The boys cannot drive Bob, and so they 
drafted me to go along and drive and 
act as cashier. We started off in the 
rain, and my barefooted little com¬ 
panions undertook to show me how 
they sell goods. I thought they did 
well, except that they hung on closer 
for their money than I could. At any 
rate, we sold every peach and had to 
return orders for six baskets which we 
could not supply. We rode home 
through the cold rain, the three bare- 
foots well warmed up through the 
pocket in which rested their little “com¬ 
mission” on sales. 
The night was planning to come early 
and stay with us and the air was raw 
and damp. Since Summer was walking 
out of our neighborhood I was moved 
to see what she left behind her. So as 
the rain stopped I walked about a little 
to look things over. Spot and Mollie 
came up from pasture and fell to chew¬ 
ing their sweet cornstalk- The black 
and white calf nibbled at her bran and 
the horses stretched themselves in lazy 
content as Philip forked down their hay. 
Our peach crop is turning out the best 
we ever had. Next week the Elbertas 
will come on. The apples are a light 
crop, but they bring good prices. The 
garden is stuffed with good things. 
We never had such a corn crop 
before. Some of the stalks of Learn¬ 
ing are over 10 feet high, with 
ears like great clubs. The Eureka is 
taller yet and still growing. It is form¬ 
ing ears and tassels, and looks as if it 
might produce grain. The cover crops 
never looked so well. I find that barley 
starts before rye and makes a quicker 
growth. The Hairy vetch is up and 
looks like little ferns in its baby growth, 
and how the Cow-horn turnips are 
jumping! That Alsike clover wrich we 
scattered over the meadow found va¬ 
cant places where it has started. The 
clipping of weeds has helped it along. 
The trees and the stock will have enough 
to eat, anyway. We went in to supper, 
sorry to have Summer go, yet thankful 
for what she has left. She parched us 
hard and drenched us soft, but we tried 
to keep at it and here we are with the 
farm in better shape for Winter than 
ever before. 
But here is little Redhead jumping up 
from the fire with his head on one side 
like the Airedales when they hear 
strangers coming. 
“Here they are!” 
There is a rush to the front of the 
house and through the flash of light 
Broker comes toiling through the mud 
with his burden. The wanderers have 
come back. There isn’t much of the 
lunch left and the pot of baked beans 
will soon be lighter. 
“Oh, but we had a fine time!” and as 
they feel my fire and see the hot supper 
on the way to the table the best senti¬ 
ment of all comes out: 
“My, but it’s good to get home!” 
And while they tell about it I can 
sit and see the apple log fall away to 
ashes. Summer has gone, playtime is 
over, but we have no regrets, for it is 
always home at Hope Farm. 
H. W. C. 
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