1914. 
THE RURAL N EC W -YORKER 
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“Farm Stories” 
..mini.. 
“No Place.” 
(Continued from page 1289.) 
dozens—and now the new professor. Did 
you notice, Isabelle, how embarrassed I 
was? It was awful.” 
‘‘I am so sorry, Louise,” soothed her 
friend, “but it cannot be helped, and I 
am sure there will be some way out. If 
I can find out in time I will have you up 
to help me entertain the evening the new 
professor calls on me, and I know some 
of the Academy girls will invite you to 
come with them the nights of the prom¬ 
enades.” 
But Louise, usually so thoughtless and 
merry, hesitated before she answered. 
“Do you know, Belle, it is very kind 
of you all, but somehow I don’t like 
it. For one thing it doesn’t seem ex¬ 
actly loyal to the home folks, and it 
would lead to mistakes and misleading 
circumstances to entertain my company 
elsewhere. No, I feel as if I would 
rather be sure that I was a lady.” 
“Just as you like,” retorted careless 
Belle. “But Louise, I cannot see any 
harm in your having your company 
somewhere. You always are queer.” 
The subject was dismissed with the 
good nights, but as the days went on the 
fact that there was no place to enter¬ 
tain company became a real, live trou¬ 
ble to Louise Clayton. At last she 
thought: 
“I will ask Lucinda Graham. She 
always knows what is right to do.” 
A few days after this the girl broached 
the subject to her mother, in this wise. 
“Mother, don’t you feel that I repre¬ 
sent one-seventh of the earning power of 
this family?” 
“Why, Louise, what do you mean?” 
gasped her mother. 
“But do I not?” persisted the girl. 
“Father works and each of my five 
brothers and myself. That makes seven, 
and I am one-seventh of the earnings. 
Therefore I should have one-seventh of 
the recreation. Would it be selfish, 
mother dear, if I asked for one evening 
in the week to entertain my friends? 
We will give you all the daytime, you 
best of all workers,” added the affec¬ 
tionate girl. 
“But, daughter, it is not selfish and 
only natural to want your young friends. 
I know this and am so sorry that since 
uncle came there is no place for you.” 
“But there is a place!” cried Louise. 
“1 want my associates every one of them 
to know what a dear mother and sensible 
father and good brothers I have. The 
best of all places to entertain my com¬ 
pany is in the midst of my home life. 
So no remonstrances, mother dear. Put 
on a fresh apron every Friday night for 
my callers are coming.” 
And come they did. A little note ex¬ 
plained to the professor: 
“The inconvenience which obliged me 
to refuse you the pleasure of a call has 
been done away or rather overcome. If 
you will not mind the dignified presence 
of the dearest father and mother in the 
world and the friendly advances of five 
big brothers I shall be glad to have you 
come with some others from the Academy 
for a contest in music and games next 
Friday evening.” 
They came, not only for “next Friday 
evening” but for the next and the next. 
They voted it the best place in the 
world in which to have a good time. 
Louise did not mind if they talked poli¬ 
tics with father or jollied the big broth¬ 
ers. The home atmosphere was sweet 
and attractive. 
When two years later “the new pro¬ 
fessor” asked Louise to make a home 
for him like the one her mother made 
he explained : 
“It was seeing you in your home sur¬ 
roundings that first attracted me. It is 
to keep you with me in a similar en¬ 
vironment that has become the desire of 
ray life.” 
“Thanks to Lucinda Graham ” ex¬ 
claimed Louise. 
FABLES OF THE FARM. 
The Wise Parents Who Picked Their 
Son’s Wife. 
OWN in Iowa there was a farmer and 
his wife who decided that their chil¬ 
dren should not have as hard a time in 
life as they did. As a result, Mr. Jones 
labored early and late in the fields, and 
was always on the lookout to make 
money on cattle, hogs and horses. In 
fact, nothing escaped him, and his good 
wife contributed her share by raising 
chickens, making butter and patching 
their clothes as long as they would hold 
“After Their Hard Examinations.” 
together. She, herself, denied herself a 
new dress every year, being satisfied to go 
about in shabby apparel so that their 
bank roll might grow. 
There were two children, Robert and 
Bess. After they had completed the 
country school, they were given the privi¬ 
lege of attending the high school in the 
little town nearby. Now, the school in 
question was a good one, but the con¬ 
stant allusions to the fact that the two 
Jones children were to be given every ad¬ 
vantage in life turned Robert’s head. In¬ 
stead of being willing to attend the high 
school, he actually refused. So the far¬ 
mer had to send him to a way-up mili¬ 
tary college in another State, where the 
tuition was six hundred dollars a year. 
Of course there were other expenses. 
But the farmer and his wife said noth¬ 
ing. They gritted their teeth a little 
harder and put their noses closer to the 
grindstone. In fact it pushed them so 
hard that they could not afford a new sep¬ 
arator, even though the old one was 
really worn out. But then Bess did not 
need much, and they wanted to make life 
easy for Robert. For four years they 
paid. The boy came home every Sum¬ 
mer, each time more unwilling to do any¬ 
thing about the farm. In fact, the last 
term he said nothing would do but a va¬ 
cation to the mountains, where he and 
some of his fellow students were going 
to recuperate after their hard examina¬ 
tions. Again the father shelled out. 
In the Fall Robert went to the univer¬ 
sity—not the excellent one which the 
State maintained, but one in the East. 
Here he spent money again, even more 
than he did at the military school. Bess, 
on the contrary, attended the normal 
school, and, after a term, taught in 
Wheatland, where she made her sixty 
dollars per month. When the farmer and 
his wife were unable to pay more towards 
the son’s schooling, she undertook to 
help, so most of her wages went to the 
brother also. 
During the second year at school Rob¬ 
ert discovered—quite by accident—that 
he was not cut out for a Daniel Webster 
or a Henry Clay. He was in love with 
a petite little miss, who had a perfect 
horror of rural communities. The boy 
explained the case to his loving parents 
as host he could, and intimated that 
should the opportunity arrive he would 
take unto himself a wife and get a job as 
clerk in some office in New York. Of 
course, the father was wroth, arid Mrs. 
Jones cried, after which they held a 
family consultation. While discussing 
the matter pro and con, the daughter sug¬ 
gested that Robert should invite his lady 
love to visit them the next month. In 
fact Mrs. Jones wrote the invitation her¬ 
self. 
Now Farmer Jones and his wife had 
always set their hearts upon their boy 
marrying Amy Wells, the daughter of a 
neighbor, who knew how to cook and 
bake so that her husband, whoever he 
might be, could not find fault with her 
pies and biscuits. But they knew it 
would do no good to urge their choice, so 
they sat back and let things run their 
course. 
In due time Esther Harris arrived. 
On her finger sparkled a shiny white 
stone which Dad Jones figured cost him 
about half of what his Fall hogs brought. 
But he said nothing, and under the direc¬ 
tion of his wife and daughter sought to 
make their guest feel at home. Picnics, 
rides and dances were arranged, which 
mightily put them out, and caused the 
poor mother to slave the harder. But be¬ 
fore the week was over Miss Harris was 
plainly bored, and at the same time 
vented her displeasure on the boy who 
was her promised husband. On the other 
hand, Amy Wells comforted her old play¬ 
mate. 
Quarrels followed between the en¬ 
gaged couple at frequent intervals after 
that. The breach widened. The crisis 
came when Esther announced that she 
never wanted to see a farm again, and 
that those who lived on them were bores 
and fools. It seemed that there was 
some of the old Jones stock in the boy, as 
he flared up and told her a few things, 
too. The upshot of the matter was that 
the girl went back to her home minus the 
engagement ring. 
Two months later Robert married Amy, 
and settled down on an eighty near her 
father’s farm. Jones, Senior, and his 
He Could Find No Fault With Her 
Biscuits. 
wife breathed a sigh of relief and the 
lines of trouble and worry which had 
furrowed their faces gradually disap¬ 
peared. G. ,1. TIIIESSEN. 
MORAL.—It is a true saying that you 
can lead a colt to water but cannot make 
him drink. That is because the critter 
knows you want it to stick its nose in 
the trough. G. j. thiessen. 
Country Manners at Grandfather’s. 
Ul\/TY dear boy, I am so glad and 
lVA thankful to see you looking so 
well,” exclaimed Robert Dexter, as he 
clasped his only son in his arms as the 
boy stepped from the team. 
“I could not help getting well, father, 
in the beautiful country, and at grand¬ 
pa’s too. I just hated to come back to 
this dirty old city, but I did want to 
see you and mother.” 
“I wish your mother loved the country, 
my boy, we would go there to live.” 
“Would you, father?” If mother 
would only go and she I am sure she 
would.” 
It is evening, the pretty home is lit up 
and Mr. and Mrs. Dexter are at dinner 
with their boy; all bright and cheerful. 
There are servants to wait upon them, 
and costly food. Harold sits by his 
father, and as the first course is brought 
he looks at his father and says: 
“Grandpa always thanks God for the 
food every meal. Ain’t you thankful, 
father?” Before the father could reply 
Mrs. Dexter answers: 
“Grandpa is old-fashioned, Harold; 
people do not say grace any more except 
in the country.” A hurt look came into 
the boy’s eyes. 
Ain’t you glad I got well, mother?” 
Of course I am, child.” 
“Well, grandpa asked God every day 
to make a well boy of me and He did.” 
“God had nothing to do with it.” ex¬ 
claimed Mrs. Dexter flushing. 
“Yes, Harold, my boy. God had some¬ 
thing to do with it, but fresh sweet air 
and change with different food helped 
very much. Mother is a little off to 
night,” and Robert Dexter gave his wife 
a warning look. 
“These peas are not sweet and good 
like grandma’s. You told me, mother, 
when I went away I must eat and act as 
I did at home. When I tried to eat 
peas with a fork grandma laughed and 
said ‘Take your spoon, Harold, that nice 
cream juice is the best part,’ and I did. 
If you could see the lot of cream, yes, 
real thick cream, she put in the peas, 
you would want to eat it, and you can’t 
with a fork. 
“I am glad, Harold, you had such a 
good time, but I do not like the coun¬ 
try, and wonder your father lived there 
as long as he did.” 
“Oh father, I wore your boots when it 
was wet.” 
“My boots, child, what do you mean?” 
“The ones you wore when a little boy, 
just my age, grandma said; they were 
a little large for mo, but they had cop¬ 
per toes and were so funny. Grandma 
said you outgrew them before any holes 
came in them, and she always kept them 
to remember her little boy by, and sin- 
cried a little.” 
A mist came before the eyes of Rob¬ 
ert Dexter as he replied. 
“I am sorry we have not been to see 
mother; a little visit would do her 
world’s of good. Some way I have been 
so eager to get on in the world that she 
and father have been left out the last 
few years. I wish we might all go for 
a little visit at Thanksgiving.” 
Harold clapped his hands and almost 
shouted. 
“Oh will you, father and mother? It 
would make me so happy.” 
“Don’t make such a racket, son. the 
butler will think you are just from the 
woods,” said his mother. 
“I can shout and laugh as loud as I 
want to in the country; every boy and 
girl does, and you said, mother, grand¬ 
pa was poor. He is not. he had lots of 
COWS and horses, pigs and sheep and such 
dear little lambs. They have a big car¬ 
riage and he drives Billy and Polly, they 
are so slick and fat. grandpa says he 
rather have the money in the bank than 
in an automobile. I think the horses are 
lots nicer; won’t you go. mother?” 
“Your father can go with you on 
Thanksgiving, but I don’t care to go,” 
answered Mrs. Dexter. Tears came to 
the boy’s eyes, which he brushed away 
and busied himself with his dessert. 
The tears were too much for the moth¬ 
er heart after all and she said. “Never 
mind, sonny, perhaps mother will go. I 
will think about it.” The glad look from 
the boy’s eyes and the “thank you dear” 
from her husband was enough to decide 
she would go. and bury her dislike for 
country life for their sakes. 
And at Thanksgiving at the old home¬ 
stead found Robert Dexter with his wife 
and boy gathered around the big table 
with his parents for the first time in 
years and as the father and grandfather 
asked God’s blessing on the food before 
them and thanked Him for the home com¬ 
ing of the loved ones which had tarried 
away so long there was a tremble in the 
voice, and Robert Dexter joined in the 
Amen. mrs. Frederick c. Johnson. 
Dyeing a Coat. 
HAVE a dyed black dogskin coat, and 
when packed away for the Summer 
chemical action took place so as to 
turn it dark red. Do you know of anv 
method by which I can successfully dye 
it at home? Only a few small places 
affected. s. s. c. 
Dying a coat of this character is nat¬ 
urally a delicate piece of work and more 
particularly when it is to be done in 
small places only. The great difficulty 
S. S. 0. will encounter will be matching 
the shade of black. I would suggest the 
following: Take a small quantity of ni¬ 
trate of silver, dilute it with an equa' 
quantity of water. Take a rather coarse 
fine-tooth comb, dip the comb in the solu¬ 
tion and comb the hair where it is discol¬ 
ored. Continue applying this solution 
until the desired shade of black is ob¬ 
tained. To make it blacker increase the 
quantity of nitrate of silver. To make 
a brown shade increase the quantity of 
water in the solution. Be careful not to 
get any of the nitrate on the hands, as 
it will make a black spot and no known 
chemical will remove it. It will have to 
wear off. Nitrate of silver was formerly 
used as a hair dye and was applied to 
the hair or whiskers in exactly this man¬ 
ner. By exercising care the exact shade 
of the rest of the coat can be obtained. 
E. A. C. 
