1366 
THE RURAL NEW-YOK KER 
November 21, 
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I|:: Hope Farm :: || 
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THE STORY OF A DAY. 
LECTION.—Election clay dawned 
clear and bright. I once worked for 
a farmer in 1 lie West who called such a 
day “Republican weather.” That was 
the time they herded the “floaters” up 
like sheep and stood over them while they 
voted. Call it what yon like, the day 
was perfect. Merrill had started with a 
load of apples before I got up. These 
are lively times with the. fruit, and day 
by day the big wagon goes to the county 
town smelling like a great bouquet all 
along the road. A Baldwin from our hills 
—just beginning to “mellow up”—beats a 
rose for perfume. We are selling our 
apples early, for later in the season I ex¬ 
pect to see a big share of the nation’s 
crop dumped into this territory. Already 
I see in New York peddlers selling beau¬ 
tiful Hood River apples at three for five 
cents. So our crop is elected for early 
sale by a large majority. We have no 
trouble in selling it all within 15 miles of 
the farm. I would rather not ship it 
away. 
Red Hens. —The children were up 
waiting for me, for important events had 
happened. We had breakfast together. 
A simple meal—baked apple, oatmeal, 
toast, coffee and an egg. Then I must 
come out and see the new hens. You see 
I have obtained the pen of R. I. Reds 
which Dr. .7. A. Fritchev had at the egg- 
laying contest. They were second among 
Reds—laying 1.614 eggs during the year. 
The 11 hens had come, and the children 
were greatly excited over them. I have 
always wanted to try my hand at develop¬ 
ing a good strain of poultry. But why 
select the Reds? They certainly match 
the children in one way at least, and I 
think the public will come back to a gen¬ 
eral purpose breed. The present craze is 
for Leghorns, I know, but I think it will 
be overdone and there will be a great 
future demand for meat. They tell me 
the Reds are “broody,” and some say 
lazy, but I notice the best of them lay 
when eggs are bringing highest prices. At 
any rate the children and I make our bow 
as “Red” breeders! Philip and I plan a 
house exactly like those used at the egg- 
laying contest, and the hens will be fed 
on the same plan. I want to buy one or 
two of the finest utility males I can get. 
If possible I will buy the son or father 
or some hen with a high certified record 
and see what we can do. Now please do 
not come after eggs and stock from this 
pen, for we have none to sell. This first 
year will be devoted to starting our 
flock. At any rate, it would not be fair 
for us to compete with other breeders in 
the sale of stock. Our plan is to breed 
in the best lines we can find and enter a 
pen of our pullets in the next egg-laying 
contest. I do not know any better way 
of showing what you have. 
Work. —While Merrill was gone with 
his load Philip went at the great mound 
of apples in the cellar, preparing for the 
next day. The warm Fall has been bad 
for the fruit, and the Greenings and Spys 
begin to show decay. We sort over every¬ 
thing with great care, the idea being to 
give' our customers more than they ex¬ 
pected. One of the Italians went into the 
ditch. We are preparing to pipe water 
from our hillside spring down to the 
house. This spring was dug out and a 
concrete cistern built around it. From this 
the water will be brought to the house 
so as to give good pressure. Some day I 
expect to sell this spring water—at any 
rate, it will now supply the house and 
give us a chance to irrigate the garden. 
This Italian is an old mason, who knows 
how to do such jobs. The other Italian 
goes to pulling mangels. The crop is fair. 
We have let it stand as long as seems 
safe. Now we pull the roots and throw 
into piles. A little later the* tops will be 
cut and stored for cow feeding, and the 
roots put into lime bags for sale and 
storage. 
Young Financiers. —School does not 
begin until nine o’clock and the children 
all ask for a job. They are put at pulling 
mangels. No, the Hope Farm children 
are not models of industry. They want 
to earn some money for a special pur¬ 
pose. Our children are not given spend¬ 
ing money, but they are paid for their 
labor. The boys want to buy a bicycle, 
but Mother tells them they must first 
show a balance in the savings bank of 
?50—then they can save for the wheel. 
The first bank deposit was made four or 
five years ago. Now one of them has over 
$50 and another about $48. Thus they 
are hunting for “jobs” in order to elect 
that wheel. They pulled mangels until 
the school bell rung. I peeped into the 
school room and saw Mother drilling our 
little folks and some of the neighbors’ 
children—then I went back to study the 
new hens. I might have had a nomina¬ 
tion for Congress in our district this year, 
but up here on the hills to-day I am sat¬ 
isfied that I stand a better chance for elec¬ 
tion by these Red hens than I ever could 
at the hands of my fellow citizens. I 
have an optimistic friend who figures this 
way: These 11 hens ought to give you 
2.000 eggs. Suppose you sell 20 sittings 
at $G each and hatch out and raise 100 
each pullets and roosters, and then sell 00 
dozen eggs at an average of 30 cents. 
See what you have : 
Sitting eggs .$120 
100 pullets at $3. 300 
100 roosters at $5.500 
Eggs. 27 
Total.$047 
I presume that even a Prohibitionist 
might become intoxicated on figures and 
still retain his party standing, but this 
is too much for me. It is not unlikely 
that more than half of this sum could be 
obtained from a pen that won first prize 
at our egg-laying contest. I know that 
breeders ask $20 and more for a single 
bird guaranteed to be brother or son of a 
high-record hen. I have no dreams of 
any such windfall blowing off the Hope 
Farm plum tree, but somewhere along 
this line lies opportunity for some patient 
young man. 
Tiie Farm. — I try to make it a point 
to look into every nook and corner on 
election day. Formerly we always plant¬ 
ed trees, but I have given up Fall plant¬ 
ing. I well remember the election day 
when we planted our first orchard. At 
night I looked to the west and there were 
those little sticks on the hill standing up 
against the glowing sky. They looked 
puny enough that night, yet this Fall we 
picked over two barrels of apples from 
some of them. We may be able to elect 
our hens in much the same way. The 
farm never looked more promising than 
it does to-day. The strawberries are 
clean and have made a fine growth. Both 
peach and apple trees are loaded with 
fruit buds in spite of what they gave us 
this Fall. All over the hill the cover 
crops are bright and green, and next year 
we can again plow under the equivalent 
of eight tons of manure per acre—a free 
gift in return for our seed and seeding. 
He who puts his faith in political parties 
may or may not be elected, but rye, vetch, 
turnips and lime are sure as the sunrise. 
The corn fodder is fit, the mangels and 
carrots are ready—the farm never had 
greater cause for Thanksgiving. There is 
no rye growing on the mangel field to be 
sure, but the little swamp is close by, and 
we can haul out 30 loads this Winter, 
compost it with lime and spread it in 
Spring. 
Dinner. —Merrill got back about noon. 
Tom and Broker, the big gray horses, 
were tired, and their stalks and grain 
tasted good to them. We all lined up at 
dinner and made a tableful—though the 
first brood has grown too large for the 
old hen and gone out to work and school. 
We made an even dozen at dinner. There 
was a good stew, potatoes, beets, onions, 
hominy, bread and butter, baked apples 
and canned peaches. That is all this was 
in sight when we started. I do not speak 
of what was in sight when the last child 
was satisfied. You ought to read in the 
last Atlantic Monthly about the two little 
colored boys who never seemed to have 
enough to eat. As a last resort the cook 
proceeded to “stall” them—that is give 
them plate after plate until they could 
not possibly eat more! We never tried 
that, but even after this great dinner the 
children filled their pockets with apples 
before they went back to pulling mangels. 
I pulled with them for a while, and then 
went at the apples. There was another 
big load to go in the morning, and also 
four barrels to be shipped by freight. 
Merrill and Philip packed these while I 
went to vote. Years ago I was president 
of a campaign club and went around pick¬ 
ing up the voters. It is against our laws 
to do that now, and I am glad of it. I 
just walked into a booth, marked my bal¬ 
lot and voted. The men I voted for were 
not elected—except in one case where 
there was only one candidate—but that 
was my business, and I had to be satis¬ 
fied. When I got home the children were 
lined up for a new job. It seems that I 
had agreed to show them how to kill 
peach borers, so I sharpened up our 
knives and started in. It is getting rath¬ 
er painful for me to get down close to our 
low-headed trees, but the children crawl¬ 
ed under the limbs like cats. I taught 
them to hunt for the gum and the “saw¬ 
dust” in it, as sure indication of a borer. 
When they found the burrow they learned 
how to cut down and not across the trunk 
until they found the rascal at work. 
When they get a borer they put him in 
a bottle as proof of what they have done. 
Nightfall. —The November day ends 
early up among our hills, and there comes 
a sharp chill in the air as the sun goes 
low. The children bad their early supper 
of bread and milk, and then ran out for a 
last look at the Red hens, and the black 
calf, and for a last round of play. Mother 
has been writing letters and sewing, and 
she was glad to come down to sit before 
my roaring open fire. Merrill went with 
the freight and voted before he returned. 
Philip brought up the cow and did the 
chores. The big wagon was stuffed so 
full of apples that the side curtains bulged 
out. It was all ready for the trip. In 
the early morning Merrill will hitch the 
grays to it and off they will go through 
the frosty starlight in order that a dozen 
households may have apple sauce and pie. 
The mangels are all out, the ditch is ready 
for the pipe—and here comes the call for 
supper. To-night it is baked beans, pot 
cheese, salad and baked apples. 
I have known people who shudder at 
what they call the “lonely country 
nights!” No shudder comes to us as we 
pull down the shades and get ready for 
the evening. Before my fire as I write 
the little boys are studying a catalogue 
and comparing prices of bicycles. Mother 
is at the telephone chatting with friends 
who live a dozen miles away. If need be 
she could reach both of the big girls at 
school and college over the long distance. 
I look out into the bright starlight and 
am thankful that we can have our home 
up here among the quiet hills and enjoy 
this second brood of children where they 
can remain natural little boys and girls. 
In town and city men and even women 
are excited and nervous over the election 
—here among the quiet and lonely hills at 
the end of our working day we can appre¬ 
ciate Whittier’s old-fashioned poem, 
which so truly pictured the thought of 
country people in those bitter and trying 
days of the war: 
* * * “We have a country yet 
The praise, O God, be thine alone! 
Thou givest not for bread a stone; 
Thou hast not led us through the night 
To blind us with returning light: 
Nor through the furnace have we passed, 
To perish at its mouth at last. 
n. w. c. 
When you write advertisers mention The 
It. N.-Y. and you'll get a quick reply and a 
"square deal.” See guarantee editorial page. 
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