>04 
THE N.URA.L, NBW-VORKEK 
February 251, 
Hope Farm Notes 
Some of our people are telling us about 
the best or most satisfying meal they 
ever ate. This question of food seems 
to depend on habit, hunger and personal 
taste. I saw a man once in a lumber 
camp eat plate after plate of a stew 
made of meat, potatoes and carrots— 
cooked in a big iron kettle over an open 
fire. At home this man would have 
growled at turkey or terrapin but here 
he was passing back his plate again and 
again, asking the cook to put more car¬ 
rots in. “Why,” he said. “I thought car¬ 
rots were made for horses to eat. I didn’t 
know human beings ate them!” He 
never had been a real human before— 
not until hunger caught him and pulled 
him right up to that iron pot. At his 
club in the city he could not have eaten 
three mouthfuls of that stew. 
It is different with sleep. The man 
with no appetite can get on after a fash¬ 
ion, but he who cannot sleep is a piti¬ 
able object. I met one once—a rich man 
who had worked too hard—starved him¬ 
self of sleep in order to get hold of rather 
more than his share of money and pow¬ 
er. He had passed the limit of nerves 
and was denied the power of sleepiug. A 
few snatches of rest were all he could 
get, but through the long, still nights he 
lay awake, thinking, thinking with the 
constant terror that this would end in a 
disordered mind. 
We sat before this man’s fire late at 
night, and he told me about it. To you 
sleep seems like a very common and sim¬ 
ple thing. The night finds you tired, and 
you shut your eyes and before you know 
it you are sailing off into a peaceful, 
unknown country. Here was a man who 
could not sleep. He must remain chained 
to the cares and terrors of his daily life, 
and the bitterness of it was that all the 
money he had slaved so hard to obtain 
could not buy him what comes to you and 
me with the mere closing of the eyes. 
It seemed to me the most despairing mock¬ 
ery to hear this man repeat Sir Philip 
Sidney’s “Ode To Sleep” : 
Come sleep; O Sleep! the certain knot of 
peace. 
The baiting-place of wit, the balm of woe, 
The poor man’s wealth the prisoner’s re¬ 
lease, 
Th’ indifferent judge between the high 
and low; 
With shield of proof, shield me from out 
the prease 
Of those fierce darts Despair at me doth 
throw; 
O make in me these civil wars to cease 
I will good tribute pay, if thou do so. 
Make thou of me smooth pillows, sweet¬ 
est bed, 
A chamber deaf to noise and blind to light 
A rosy garland and a weary head. 
of birds. The ocean roared on behind us 
louder than ever as the wind rose. 
It was not good New England thrift 
to eat those birds—the guests at the 
Barker House in Boston would pay good 
money for them. While we had been 
hunting, Aunt Eleanor and the girls in 
the lonely farmhouse had been busy with 
a “New England dinner.” There was a 
big plate of salt codfish, first boiled and 
then fried crisp with little cubes of 
browned salt pork mixed with it. There 
were boiled potatoes which split open in 
a rich dry flour, boiled onions and car¬ 
rots and great slices of brown bread and 
butter. Then the odor from the oven be¬ 
trayed the crowning act of all—a mon¬ 
strous pan-dowdy or apple grunt! Ever 
eat a genuine pan-dowdy in a New Eng¬ 
land kitchen as a wet dreary night is 
coming on after a tiresome day? No? I 
am both sorry and glad for you. You 
have missed one of the greatest joys of 
life, but you have much to look forward 
to. When Uncle Charles began to cut 
that pan-dowdy we boys realized that 
we could not do it full justice, so we 
went out and ran around the house and 
barn half a dozen times to make more 
room for the top of the feast. 
After supper the dishes were washed, 
the house cleaned up and we washed out 
our guns. The old musket had kicked my 
shoulder so I could hardly raise the arm, 
but no human being could have made 
me admit it. We got Uncle Charles to 
tell us about the time he shot at the of¬ 
ficer at Port Hudson during the war, 
and about the hump-backed man who 
carried the powder from Plymouth to 
Boston during the Revolution. Then 
through the gloom and fog came two 
young men to call on the girls. In those 
days it seemed to me very poor taste for 
one to listen to the conversation of girls 
rather than war stories. True, the war 
stories were time-worn, but the girl con¬ 
versation was older yet. Soon the lit¬ 
tle melodeou was talking up and a quar¬ 
tette were singing the old songs of half a 
century ago. It may have been the day’s 
tramping, the old musket or the last 
plate of pan-dowdy or the tap of the 
rain on the window, hut sitting there by 
the warm kitchen stove I felt a delicious 
drowsiness stealing over me. 
Bed is the place for sleep, and we 
boys climbed the stairs, past the great 
central chimney, and quickly tumbled 
into bed. In the room below that quar¬ 
tette had started an old favorite: 
“Along the aisles of the dim old forest 
I strayed in the dewy dawn 
And heard far away in their silent 
branches 
The echoes of the morn.” 
“That’s it,” said my friend. “A iceary 
head. A weary head. Mine is weary 
but sleep will not come.” He sat look¬ 
ing at the fire for a long time, and then 
he turned suddenly with a sort te? haunted 
look in his eyes: 
“I wish you would tell me about the 
best sleep you ever had. Men may tell 
of their best meal, but I want to know 
about rest —the best sleep.” 
It was a strange request, but as I 
sat there my mind went back to a hillside 
near the New England coast where the 
valley slopes away to a salt marsh with a 
sluggish stream running through it. A 
low, weather-beaten farmhouse crouches 
at the foot of the wind-swept hill. It is a 
lonely place. Few come that way in 
daylight, and at night there are no house¬ 
hold lights to be seen. 
It had rained through the night, and 
the morning brought a thick sticky fog. 
It was too wet to hoe corn, and Uncle 
Charles said we could all go gunning. 
He was an old soldier, a sharpshooter 
and a famous shot. So we tramped off 
along the marsh, following the creek un¬ 
til it reached the ocean. What a glor¬ 
ious day that was for a boy ! I carried 
an old army musket that kicked my 
shoulder black and blue. We tramped 
along the shore and through the wet 
marsh, hunting for sand-pipers and other 
sea fowl. Now and then a flock of birds 
would seem to be lost in the fog. and 
Uncle Charles would whistle and call 
them up to where we lay in ambush. It 
all comes back—clear and distinct—the 
cries of the sea fowl and the dull roar 
of the ocean as it pounded upon the 
beach. Late in the afternoon we tramped 
home wet and tired but with a long string 
There was one great booming bass voice 
which had unconsciously fallen into the 
key of the dull roar which the distant 
ocean was making. The rain was gently 
tapping on the roof, and all the joys and 
pleasant memories of youth were whis¬ 
pering happy things in our ears as we 
sailed off on the most beautiful voyage 
to dreamland. 
I told this as best I could before the 
fire while my weary friend listened lean¬ 
ing back in his easy chair with his hand 
shading his face. And when I stopped 
sleep had come to him at last—sweet and 
blessed sleep. There are very few of 
us who would stand for a photograph 
taken while we were sleeping, but this 
man’s face was free from care. An ora¬ 
tor might not think it a high tribute to 
his powers that he sent his audience to 
sleep, but I am not an orator, and I 
would like to be able to give my friends 
what they consider the blessed things of 
life ! n. w. c. 
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chums, O u r Biert 
Clutch talks for itself. . 
your dealer or write us dii 
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357 S.Jlril St.. Minneapolis, HI 
HARRISES *5, 
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.405 Caswell Bldg. Milwaukee, Wia. 
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1500 
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61a 
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NL" BUTTERFLY 
DOWN and 
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THE 
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Office* and Factory, 569 Huron Street S. E. 
k MINNEAPOLIS. MINN. 
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Settler 
a-Year 
Immigration figures show that the population 
ol Canada Increased during 1H13. by the addition 
of 400,000 new settlers from the United States 
and Europe. Most of these have gone on farms 
In Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta. 
Lord William Percy, an English Nobleman 
says: 
"The possibilities and opportunities offered by 
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their position.” 
New districts are being opened up, 
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For illustrated literature and 
reduced railway rates, apply to 
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Ottawa, Canada, or to tho 
Canadian Government Agent. 
J. S. Crawford, 
301 E. Genesee Street, 
Syracuse, N. V. 
When you write advertisers mention The R. N.-Y. and you’ll get a quick reply 
and a “square deal.” See guarantee editorial page. 
