682 
rHE RURAL, WBW-YORKKR 
May 8, 1915, 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
Peach Planting. —Saturday. April 24, 
was a great day in the history of Hope 
Farm, for we planted our prize orchard. 
A great area I suppose—several thousand 
trees very likely? No—just 50 trees. 
Now of course you peach kings and 
other horticultural giants will lose inter¬ 
est at once and we hope there is matter 
of your size in other parts of the paper. 
This 50-tree acre belongs to the five 
smaller children, and when I say “we” 
1 include the Hope Farm man to make 
an even half dozen. Each child received 
a present of 30 J. H. Hale trees, and 
when you average nine years of age that 
means more than any bearing orchard of 
1.000 trees can ever mean at 50. For 
< ur planting we chose a rough piece of 
land at the back of the farm—one of the 
old loafer fields that we cleared up some 
years ago. This was where we planted 
that old Stringfellow orchard by punching 
a hole in the ground with a crowbar and 
sticking the root of the tree down into it. 
.T. II. Hale is a wonderful shipping or 
handling peach, and it will stand the 
rough journey down the hills far better 
than Carman or the other tender peaches. 
Getting Heady. —The trees were lit¬ 
tle dune buds, and they could come with¬ 
out trouble by parcel post. As soon as 
they got here they were unpacked and 
“heeled in” where the soil is moist. The 
field was in rye last year, and a growth 
of weeds and grass came in after the rye 
ripened. This was Fall-plowed. Usually 
we like to have a cover crop for Spring 
plowing, but in this tough, hard soil the 
Fall plowing exposed the rough furrows 
to the weather and helped break up the 
clods. This Spring we put 2,500 pounds 
of slaked lime on about two acres, and 
worked it in with the Cutaway. Then, 
after getting what we call our base lime 
started we put in stakes where the peach 
trees were to stand. 
An Excursion. —All this was done 
ahead of the planting, and on Saturday 
afternoon I turned up ready to act as 
general manager. The boys had old Bob 
hitched to the small wagon with ax and 
spade and clippers and the bundles of 
trees, with the roots fully protected from 
the wind and sun. The two little girls 
went along and when all were aboard 
Bob started at the very dignified walk he 
assumes when moving away from the 
barn. It is a pleasant ride for us up 
through the lane of our farm. It might 
not interest you, but to us every field has 
its possibilities for fruit of some sort, 
and when you belong to a group with an 
average age of nine or less possibilities 
are cheerful companions. When we be¬ 
gan to climb the hill we plunged at once 
into the orchard. The trees were a shim¬ 
mer of leaves with the pink of bloom just 
beginning to show. The hill is so steep 
that Bob had to zig-zag across the hill 
and back, crawling along until we reached 
the top, far above the surrounding coun¬ 
try. Off East stood the Palisades—a 
puff of smoke showing where a steamer 
was sailing up the Hudson. To the south 
in the clear sky several great buildings on 
Manhattan Island shot up above the Jer¬ 
sey hills to show us how close our soli¬ 
tude really lies to the rush and roar of 
New York. But we cannot stop to view 
the prospect o’er while the hands of the 
clock are flying and peach trees must be 
planted. Little Redhead and I cut across 
lots to see how the Italian comes on with 
his work, while the others drove round 
through the woods. Our Italian friend is 
cutting out “fillers.” These are peach 
trees put at the center of each four apple 
trees when the orchard was first planted. 
They have given us five good crops, and 
might give more, but for the past two 
years they have interfered more or less 
with the growth of the apple trees. It 
seems like a sin to take them out. That 
is the way one always feels about these 
■ fillers,” but the Italian has no senti¬ 
ment about it. He obeys orders as he 
would if he were in the Italian army and 
was ordered to the front. 
Planting. —Now I am well aware that 
some of you wise owls will say I do not 
know how to plant a tree. Remember 
that you do not have to follow the same 
plan unless you want to, but, happily, my 
five young planters have more faith in 
my system than you have. The theory 
is to turn the little tree into a cutting as 
nearly as possible, and then plant in a 
small bole with the soil packed hard 
around the roots. You probably know 
how small a June bud is. I took the 
clippers and cut off half the roots and 
about two-thirds of the top. This left a 
little stick from 12 to 15 inches long, 
about as large as a lead pencil. These 
may be planted with a trowel about as 
you would plant a strawberry or a to¬ 
mato plant. We put more work into it by 
digging small holes—about three licks 
with a good spade being needed to clear 
the opening. Then the boys took one of 
the little trees, trimmed to a stick, put 
it down into the hole, sighted both ways 
to get it in line and scratched the soil in, 
stamping it down firmly about the roots 
and scratching a little loose soil on top. 
We do not care for large holes or big trees. 
Let us get the Toots firm in the soil and 
four or five young buds above ground 
and you may have the cord wood. 
Nor Interested. —The little girls had 
to go down early, so we kept them in 
sight until they saw the house from the 
top of the hill and then went back to 
planting. One member of the band has 
no vision for the future—especially one 
in which he can have no part. That is 
old Bob. He grew tired of watching us 
at work, and while we were arguing 
about two stakes at the end of the field 
the old horse turned around and started 
through the woods home. While he 
crawled at a snail’s pace on his journey 
from the barn he gave a very fair, if 
clumsy, imitation of a racehorse on his 
way back. When we settled our argu¬ 
ment over the stake we looked up to find 
the motive member of the outfit out of 
sight. The boys ran after him to find 
that the Italian had caught Bob on his 
burst for freedom. So back the old horse 
came, looking his unspeakable disgust. 
New Varieties. —When the 50 J. II. 
Hale were safely planted we started a 
new job. I have secured specimens of 
some choice new varieties never yet in¬ 
troduced, which we are to try. I got the 
buds, and they were worked for us by 
expert budders, and now we are plautiug 
them for testing. There are a number of 
varieties with varying numbers of each, 
and they must be planted carefully, 
marked and recorded. These trees are 
larger than the June buds, and are han¬ 
dled in a little different way. I leave a 
little more stem and root, and of course 
a little larger hole is required, but in 
other respects the plan is the same—roots 
pruned as judgment decides. A hole just, 
large enough to hold the roots without 
cramping, and the soil jammed solidly 
around them. The boys have learned to 
do this right, and as the top starts we 
shall learn how to cut and shape it for 
business 
Busy Days. —Old Bob is one of these 
fellows who are never satisfied. When 
we turned him homeward he shook his 
head as if to say: “This is all right, 
but we ought to have started long ago.” 
You never can satisfy some people. The 
shadows were falling us we drove back 
through the woods, and even the nine- 
year average can see something of the 
serious side of life at such a time. The 
children talked of their coming orchard 
and of the chances of finding some great 
new variety among the new ones we are 
planting. If we do, it will be like getting 
a high score with our pullets at the next 
egg-laying contest. As for me, I was 
thinking of how Henderson Lewelling 
travelled from Iowa to Oregon with the 
vast fruit industry of the Pacific coast in 
his wagon bed. He filled the wagon bed 
with soil, planted little grafted trees 
closely and wet down the soil at every 
river and spring he passed. An ox team 
hauled this outfit from Iowa to Oregon, 
and from these few living trees grew mil¬ 
lions to create a vast fruit industry. I 
ought to have told this story to Bob, but 
he, sour old fellow, would have asked 
“Who thinks of these oxen now? But for 
them the trees never would have reached 
the coast, but who gave them a second 
thought?” But Bob is a little sour and 
disappointed. My boys and I do not much 
care who remembers us if our orchard 
proves a good one. We have certainly 
started it right. And so as we round the 
summit of the hill we ride slowly down 
to home and baked beans, a talk before 
the fire and sleep. The boys think they 
need it all, for on Monday there are 
1,700 asparagus plants to be dug, and 
who knows what more work is crowding? 
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