810 
July 5, 
Hope Farm Notes 
“Commencement.” —“The opera house 
was crowded to its fullest capacity.” In 
the old days when I wrote “items” for a 
local paper that was the way we told 
how the town had assembled its rather 
scanty array of wit and beauty. W e had 
the barren and dusty old town hall, an 
“opera house” and then imagination tired, 
and we got back to the commonplace. 
But at any rate the hall was jammed 
with the flour of humanity come to 
see their flowers bloom. Men and wom¬ 
en, the bread winners in the hard battle 
of life, had come to see the children end 
their school days. For here was the 
senior class, the flower of the town 
“graduating” from the high school. The 
Hope Farm man had led or followed the 
adults of his family up to a front seat 
where there was a good chance to ob¬ 
serve the crowd. Here were farmers and 
mechanics—men who hardly knew what 
to do with their strong, capable hands in 
such literary surroundings. Many of 
them with their wives had worked and 
sacrificed in order that John and Mary 
might have their day at “commence¬ 
ment.” I would have gladly turned some 
of those strong, sensible minds inside out 
to read what was written upon the in¬ 
side lining by the finger of the soul—as 
to the true value of an “education.” 
Then there were “commuters”—better 
dressed than the farmers, and with softer 
hands, but with the same hard problem 
of life written on their faces. For these 
men who travel day by day into the 
great city know that after all they are 
like those who go down into the lion’s 
den. White hair, failing eyes or ears, 
sickness or accident may drive them out 
of employment. For you see the farmer 
or hired man takes a job. The commu¬ 
ter “accepts a position,” and the former 
usually has a stronger grapple to it. You 
see I am right in saying that the town 
had stuffed the hall with its flour in or¬ 
der to see the flowers bloom. We who 
sat on the lower level ground the grain 
of labor into bread. Above us, as was 
right, on this great day, sat the flowers— 
the children for whom we gladly toil in 
order that they may have something 
which was denied us! It is the relation 
between this strong flour of life and such 
flowers as formed the bouquet on the 
school platform which dominates the real 
forces of society. “Commencement” is a 
very thin froth on the cup from which 
we must all drink. The life-giving 
draught is brewed out of that strange 
impulse of human nature which spurs 
us all on to labor in order that our 
children may have “education”—that 
strange thing which none of us can com¬ 
prehend. 
And so the Hope Farm man on a front 
seat trying hard to fill the combination 
job of “proud father” and prominent citi¬ 
zen found his mind wandering back into 
the years and then on into the future. 
In my younger days I should have said 
that the “beautiful and accomplished 
Miss Blank, daughter of our eminent 
townsman Judge Blank, read an essay 
which contained evidences of unusual 
literary talent.” Or it might be that 
“Master Brown, son of our leading mer¬ 
chant, delivered an oration which con¬ 
tained thoughts worthy of a maturer 
mind.” If space held out I should have 
added that “the orchestra, under the di¬ 
rection of Prof. Johnson, rose to the oc¬ 
casion on light wings of melody.” That 
was my ideal of journalism 30 years ago 
and the practice consisted in striking 
each recipient of this literary bouquet 
for an order for 50 copies of the paper! 
As he sat on the front seat memory came 
back and confronted the Hope Farm man 
with the proof of literary graft. For in 
those old and lean years I confess that 
I used to write essays and poems at $3 
and $5 each for the flowers of life to 
read at commencement! A “proud 
father” once told me that he paid one 
dollar for the poem and two dollars for 
saying nothing about it—a very fair di¬ 
vision of values. When my children 
came this year asking what they should 
say I told them to say just what they 
had in mind, in their own words, without 
any suggestion from others. I know 
that the world wants the real thing with¬ 
out any feathers or flounces or crimps 
—the natural perfume of the flowers of 
life. 
THE R URAL IMHW-YORKER 
I was thimking as I sat there of what 
is after all the great problem of life. 
Here were these bright-eyed, clean-faced 
young men and women “commencing.” 
They faced the world with fearless, hope¬ 
ful hearts. Not having grappled with 
the mill grinders which have made us 
into flour they still had their ideals with 
none of the cutting edges worn away. 
It came to me first that the great differ¬ 
ence between the flowers and the flour 
was that they held the fearlessness and 
the ideals, while we had somehow 
dropped them on the way. Experience 
had taught us—written it in with hot 
irons upon the very soul that these fresh 
and true ideals of life are the only 
things which can permanently improve 
the world, yet as we sat in that crowded 
hall every handful in the big flour barrel 
knew in our hearts that we had dropped 
too much of the joy and bloom of youth. 
Some may have thought at times they 
had gained an equivalent in money or 
reputation or power or ease, but face to 
face with these platform flowers we knew 
they mastered us in hope and capacity of 
belief in the future which are after all 
the true assets of life. And so as the 
orchestra played and the flowers bloomed 
the Hope Farm man’s mind went wool¬ 
gathering far afield, to try to find the 
place along the hard road where the 
ideals of life and the true joy of living 
had dropped out of life’s basket. 
And somehow he could not find the 
place. For there is no spot where you 
can find enough of it to count. There 
may be cases where accident or grief or 
fearful temptation pulled it out by great 
handfuls but most of us had lost it drop 
by drop or grain by grain without know¬ 
ing it was slowly going. For you see 
most of us seem to think that what we 
call ideals are for the great mountains 
of life the big things which loom in the 
future. We do not realize that these 
ideals may ooze out in every sweat drop 
or every push and crowd on the road as 
we climb up the mountain until when we 
reach the top and get ready to enjoy the 
view—the basket is empty. Childhood 
is after all a habit. When we get into 
the flour mill we get somewhat ashamed 
of it and let it go. Then we find that 
the habit is lost and cannot be brought 
back. 
So it came to me at this “commence¬ 
ment” that the great problem of life af¬ 
ter all is how to hold and handle the joy 
and bloom of youth as you would a bank 
account. That “education” is best which 
has in it the immortal germ of the spirit 
of youth. There should be that vital 
thing in education which can perform 
the miracle. It should carry a flaming 
torch into the blind man’s shadow—so 
that he may not feel condemned to sit in 
darkness. It should fill the silence of the 
deaf man with music. It should carry 
the power to give freedom to the soul of 
the cripple even though his poor body 
be chained in lifelong slavery to his 
chair. That crowded hall was like a 
flour barrel in which we bread winners 
were trying to think out the problem 
of education and determine what we 
really want for our children. And in 
one way and another, crudely or elabo¬ 
rately as the case might be, the toilers 
were coming in spite of themselves to 
what I have said about the joy of youth 
and the education which prolongs it. 
Even those who may find fault because 
college or school does not like a trade 
turn children out at once ready to earn 
large salaries, knew that this earning 
capacity is not all there is in education. 
But here was the boy presenting a Bible 
to the school from his class, and here was 
the daughter making a speech of fare¬ 
well—I suppose I ought to call it a 
“valedictory.” Mother sat up in front 
with a suspicious moisture on her glasses, 
and the Hope Farm man, trying hard to 
carry the dignity of “prominent citizen,” 
looked up at the open window as though 
the calm old moon sailing up through the 
sky were some old friend come to con¬ 
gratulate the “proud father” because he 
was fortunate enough to obtain a very 
fine wife! Perhaps it was not real “com¬ 
mencement” for the children alone. 
The Master. —I was thinking of other 
forms of education in that crowded hall. 
A few years ago I was to go down into 
Pennsylvania on a night train. I looked 
at the time-table hastily and saw one at 
midnight which I thought would suit, so 
I started leisurely, late at night, to make 
it. On the New York side an old train 
hand told me it was no use to go over 
the river, as the train had gone. He 
had 30 years’ experience and I had only 
a time-table, but I argued with him and 
started over. As we stood arguing my 
eye caught a sign which read: “Patrons 
will please report any inattention or in¬ 
civility on the part of employees!” The 
old man’s eyes followed mine and we read 
the sign together. He turned abruptly 
and walked away as the best way of 
avoiding any violation of the rule. I 
went over to New .1 ersey and found that 
midnight train was half freight and milk 
cans which wandered along at any time 
to nowhere in particular. I had to go 
back and I admit that I sneaked past 
that old train hand. The next night I 
started again and there was my old 
friend on duty as before. He had lost 
his glasses and I had on a new hat, and 
he did not recognize me. Something 
tempted me to ask the old man about my 
train. He told me as he did before and 
then relieved his mind. 
“I’ve been working here over 30 years 
and know this train service by heart, yet 
some men think they know it all. Now 
last night there was a jackass came in 
here and I told him the truth about this 
same train—but he knew better and went 
across the river. An hour later he came 
back like a dog with his tail betwixt his 
legs. He knew more, but he had less to 
say !” 
The old man did not recognize me. lie 
used several adjectives which I do not 
repeat, but as I looked at him I knew 
he was right. He was the master; I was 
the stupid and patient animal he had 
mentioned. It is not often that one is 
privileged to know the truth that will set 
one free. That set me free of the bad 
habit of disputing with a master when 
I have only a time-table for reference. 
“He knew more but he had less to say.” 
Correct—one of the most essential things 
in education. H. w. C. 
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THE RURAL NEW-YORKER, 333 West 30th St., New York City 
