966 
August 23, 
-\ 
Hope Farm Notes 
Winter Oats. —Some years ago we 
had a discussion as to the value of the 
Southern Winter oats as a cover crop 
or for grain at the North. These oats 
are seeded during the Fall in Virginia 
or farther South. They make a heavy 
Fall growth, and in that mild climate 
live through the Winter and give a fair 
grain crop the next year. Some of our 
people find it hard to fit their oat land 
in Spring. If they could seed oats as 
they do wheat or rye, so as to avoid early 
Spring fitting, they would be ahead. We 
tried the Winter oats faithfully—seeding 
in September. They made a dense mat 
on the ground during the Fall, but there 
was not the sign of an oat left by Spring. 
We had this same result in every case, 
and concluded that this variety or strain 
cannot be recommended for Northern 
grain growing. At about this same time 
several' Northern fruit growers called for 
a cover crop which would produce a good 
quantity of organic matter in the Fall 
and die out through the Winter. They 
did not want a living crop to plow under 
in Spring. The plan of letting the weeds 
grow freely through the Fall ought to 
fill this need, but if they are to sow any¬ 
thing the Winter oat would suit. It will 
grow until the ground freezes and give a 
good growth for pasture or for plowing 
under. But now comes the following! 
I am mailing you under separate eover 
a sample of Winter oats- which was 
grown in Niagara County. I sowed 
them about September 1 or the latter 
part of August, and cut July 2, but did 
not get the results I would have had if 
I had not seeded them down to a heavy 
seeding of clover and Timothy and the 
clover was so thick and heavy that it 
smothered out the oats, but it proved to 
my satisfaction that they will live here 
if not too much exposed in Winter, as the 
piece I had was sheltered on two sides 
by orchards. w. P. 
Niagara Co., N. Y. 
After our owu experience I cannot ex¬ 
plain this. It is quite possible that this 
seed used again this Fall might again 
go through the Winter. I hope it will 
be tried, for a genuine Winter oat tit the 
North would be help to many of us. 
Will you state whether wild apple 
trees uprooted, transplanted and grafted 
will prove successful? L. J. H. 
Not always. In theory the root sys¬ 
tem of a wild seedling ought to be ideal 
for supporting an improved tree. We 
have several trees grafted on wild stock 
which are remarkably vigorous. The 
fruit is large and very high-colored. The 
trouble is that many of these wild seed¬ 
lings are badly eaten by borers and have 
grown out of shape. V hen dug up and 
transplanted they do not usually make 
clean and straight stocks. I see little 
to be gained by using them, and would 
rather have clean and straight seedlings 
from a cultivated nursery. You can 
graft some of the best of these seedlings 
and let them develop where they grew, 
but that makes an irregular and scat¬ 
tered orchard which is inconvenient to 
care for. 
I suppose that at times we all find 
ourselves in strange and unexpected 
places and positions. Down the Jersey 
coast for miles and miles stretched a long 
narrow fringe of brilliant lights. The 
old Atlantic, with nothing to shut its 
white lips until you struck the coast of 
Europe, was growling at the shore. The 
wide boardwalk, brilliant in the glare 
of the electric lights, was crowded with 
women in white dresses with dashes of 
colored ribbon, and men with sober Sum¬ 
mer clothes. All were walking aimlessly 
on in the lazy abandon of a Summer va¬ 
cation. And here was the Hope Farm 
man walking with the rest—a handsome 
young woman hanging to his arm. 
Now Hope Farm was miles away, and 
in the shadow of a great Summer crowd 
all sorts of good and evil have before now 
been hidden. But the Hope Farm man 
and his daughter, parading under the 
lights of Ocean Grove, did not. I imagine, 
afford any inspiration for either tragedy 
or pathos. We drank soda water, ate 
peanuts, viewed the motion picture shows 
and disported generally. 
I have no doubt many of our readers 
have been at Ocean Grove—very likely 
some of them were there when we were. 
They will know it is merely a spot on 
tho Atlantic coast with a fringe of houses 
near it, where steady and serious people 
of moderate means go for a lungful of 
THE RURAL, NEW-YORKER 
salt ail*. It is well enough to study peo¬ 
ple while at their work and earning their 
bread, yet I think we get a truer view 
of human nature when we see them at 
their play—spending rather than earning. 
There is little to see at Ocean Grove 
except the uneasy old Atlantic and the 
lazy ease of the men and women who 
have brought their troubles of miud and 
body to this place of healing. As we 
watehed the crowd on the boardwalk I 
think my daughter saw just a collection 
of men and women. To me there seemed 
to- walk with each one two spirits—the 
spirit of labor, which meant the past, and 
the spirit of rest, which meant to-day. 
These people were mostly of the middle 
class—farmers down from the hills after 
harvest, clerks and business men from 
the inland towns, teachers and the better 
class of mechanics. In looking over the 
hotel registers I found that the great ma¬ 
jority of them were from smaller towns 
inland. And as they walked under the 
electric light with the salt air blowing 
about them it seemed to me that the two 
spirits which went with them were striv¬ 
ing for mastery. 
“This woman belongs to me,” said the 
hard spirit of labor. “You may find my 
finger marks on her in wrinkles, gray 
hair, bowed shoulders and Hard hands. 
She belongs to me. Her money be¬ 
longs to me, too—I earned it, and she 
must not spend it.” 
“No,” said the spirit of rest, “this day 
she is mine. She may go back to your 
prison, but uow let her be free. And I 
shall send back with her the roar of the 
ocean, the salt of the air and a little 
of the glory of this restful quiet, so that 
your finger marks never can be as plain 
again.” 
So they had it all along the stretch of 
shore—over the walkers and over those 
who were wheeled in chairs—the old 
human debate which touches the very 
germ of humanity. I imagine that the 
daughter was largely concerned in seeing 
how these people were dressed for their 
play, for—thank God—youth may not 
see the spirit of labor and the spirit of 
rest at their struggle. The Hope Farm 
man watehed and smiled as he saw labor 
shrink back into- the shadow, while rest 
blew the soft hair over wrinkled fore¬ 
heads, brought back old smiles to faded 
faces, and a new light to old eyes. For 
this was the true glory of plain, common 
people taking money from the miser labor 
for their playing. 
Not long ago I spoke of the quiet of a 
hillside farm on Sunday afternoon. After 
all it seems a noisy place beside Ocean 
Grove on Sunday. We have somehow 
come to regard noise and blare and frolic 
as a definite fixture for a seaside resort. 
But at Ocean Grove when Sunday dawns 
silence, deep and profound, puts her fin¬ 
ger on the lid. Not u wheel turned in the 
street—not a store was open—as I know 
from reading history the old pilgrims at 
Plymouth never made such a complete 
shut-oil of business. On week days the 
beach at Ocean Grove is black with bath¬ 
ers. On Sunday not even a child ran 
into the water, while just over an imag¬ 
inary line in Asbury Park thousands of 
bathers were in the water with a long 
line waiting for bathing suits. Most of 
the people at Ocean Grove know what 
they may expect there, and they go be¬ 
cause of this orderly and quiet rest— 
glad that there is one place where Sun¬ 
day is respected. Above and below us 
on the beach picture shows, ball games 
and all the rest were in full blast, but 
over this spot hung the calm of a coun¬ 
try Sunday. 
The great auditorium was crowded 
with 10,000 people to hear a missionary 
sermon. The choral singing was won¬ 
derful, but I wish they would let the old 
hymn music alone. When they came to 
“All Hail the Power” the words were 
there, but the new music seemed all out 
of joint. As I could not hear the ser¬ 
mon my mind wandered to other things. 
Out through the side doors I could see 
through the green branches u fountain 
tossing its cooling water into spray. The 
day was hot and the sermon was long, 
and I imagine most of the congregation 
really had more thought for that foun¬ 
tain than for the missionaries. At the 
right of the stage sat a man in an inva¬ 
lid’s chair. They had wheeled him in 
and his wife sat near fanning him. Pale 
and broken, like a wreck of a man, this 
poor invalid sat with that sad, wistful 
look which I have so often seen upon 
the face of the afflicted when they ques¬ 
tion and ask why they may not be healed. 
I suddenly found myself wondering what 
would happen if that sick man could 
have been instantly cured right there be¬ 
fore that great congregation. I pictured 
him. as he realized how strength and 
health had been restored, springing from 
his chair, rushing to the front, holding 
up his hands to “glorify God.” Or 
would the great- wonder of it subdue aud 
silence him? Aud what would have been 
the effect upon that congregation could 
this miracle have been actually performed 
before them? Would such a real dem¬ 
onstration of divine power have strength¬ 
ened their faith, or are they better to go 
with a lifelong hunger for such a scene? 
I do not know; I was still trying to puz¬ 
zle it out when Mother looked at me 
somewhat reproachfully for uot pretend¬ 
ing to follow the minister’s sermon, and 
it was time to stand up and be disap¬ 
pointed when they tried a new suit of 
music on an old-time hyiun. Yes, indeed, 
Ocean Grove is the place for quiet aud 
rest and thought. You can get all of 
each that you are capable of absorbing. 
And before I forget it, let me name one 
who deserves a national reputation for a 
perfect performance of a great act. No, 
I do not refer to the clergyman who 
preached that sermon, the great singers 
who sang in the Messiah, or Helen Keller 
who reached out of the dark silence and 
sent these Ocean Grovers home with a 
new idea of their lives and responsibili¬ 
ties. These characters do their duty and 
are sure to be applauded and honored. I 
put in my humble word for Annie Cur¬ 
tis, cook at the Arborton Hotel. This 
woman made the finest apple pie the 
Hope Farmers ever tasted. Sermons 
and songs and lectures are all very well, 
but Annie Curtis will take a handful of 
flour, a lump of butter, sugar, spice and : 
a Beu Davis apple, and make a pie which 
would induce the average man to buy a 
sealskin coat for his mother-in-law. Let 
us recognize and reward genius when wt 
see it. The Hope Farmers will back 
Annie Curtis against the world in an 
apple pie contest. ii. w. c. 
Harry returned to Sunday School, af¬ 
ter a long absence, on the day on which 
tickets for the annual picnic were dis¬ 
tributed. He trembled in his seat when 
the teacher began a quiz on the lesson of 
the previous Sunday. Finally his turn 
came. “Harry, who slew Goliath with a 
pebble?” “Honest, teacher,” said Harry, 
“I don’t know; I didn’t even know he 
was dead.”—Credit Lost. 
I 
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\___ J 
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A scale protects you only when accurate. 
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Protected Bearings Never Freeze. 
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HANDY BINDER 
TUST the thing for preserving files of 
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‘The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
333 West 30th Street. New York City 
Wilder-Strong 
Implement Co 
Box 33 MONROE. MICH. 
SILO-FILLERS. 
FIVE-sizes 
BUILT-RI6HT 
We haven’t room here to prove to you 
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