1100 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
Nature opened her oven on the Fourth 
of July and pulled out a hot one. No use 
telling what the thermometer registered. 
There was not a cloud in the sky. The 
sun blazed down upon our hills with 
hardly a whisper of breeze. What there 
was merely seemed to drive the heat in 
and ask "Is this hot enough for you?” 
The hay was all in the barn. We never 
were able to say that on July 4 before. 
All in the barn and most of it the best 
we ever had—sweet and smelling like 
tea. The green oats were just, ready to 
cut. about five acres of sweet corn needed 
cultivating, and the suckers were to be 
pulled in as many more. But the Hope 
Farm folks had struck against labor. The 
country town was to welcome the soldiers 
back and celebrate peace generally, and 
our folks were going to help. . They had- 
roasted in the cornfield, fried in the hay 
field and stewed in the barn, and now it 
was sandwiches in the county town. 
tje * $ * ❖ 
I thought at first I would not go. It 
seemed too hot for a man to stray very far 
from the hills. So I got up rather early 
and began hoeing those strawberries, 
while the children, in a safe place, away 
from the buildings, let off a few fire¬ 
crackers. But as the women piled up 
their mountain of sandwiches, and as I 
saw Thomas and the children decorating 
the truck. I became more of a patriot. 
So when little Rose, all in white, came 
running into the strawberry patch and 
ordered. “You got to go!” I was quite 
willing to hang up the hoe and come along. 
‘‘Now you must hurry !” said mother, “or 
we won’t see that parade.” Some of these 
good ladies surely can keep a man on the 
jump when he gets a little behind. But 
I was ready with the rest, and we finally 
all climbed' into the truck. We had two 
benches at the sides for seats, and a short 
ladder behind for climbing. The last 
human package and food basket w T as 
finally packed in. and with Thomas at the 
wheel, off we started. The little flags 
fluttered and the truck snorted and 
coughed along about like Broker or big 
Tom trying to show some of those trot¬ 
ters how to eat up the miles. There were 
13 of us aboard, and we left two at home. 
Some of you may say “13 is an unlucky 
number.” We never bothered with that, 
hut remembered that there were 13 orig¬ 
inal States in the Union. Count the 
years from Rose to Aunt Eleanor and 
you will have more than two full gener¬ 
ations. but we were all youngsters as the 
truck sped along with all its little flags 
streaming out behind. 
* * * * * 
We were in full time for the parade. 
We pa ssed an occasional farmer cultivat¬ 
ing or hoeing in the corn or tomatoes, and 
a few were haying. Possibly these men 
were more useful than we were, since 
they were producing food, but it is doubt¬ 
ful if any of us will see the end of an¬ 
other great world war. and “man shall 
not live by bread alone,” or sweet corn 
or tomatoes or hay. We stood on a street 
corner and saw the parade. At the head 
rode the last of the Grand Army men— 
perhaps a dozen white-haired veterans 
of the Civil War. Here was the past of 
the nation in black hat and blue uniform. 
Following them came the nation’s present 
—fine, husky young fellows in khaki— 
marching straight and true. There were 
two lines of colored soldiers. One of 
them, black as ink. wore on his breast a 
little ribbon and piece of metal which a 
man could not buy for a million dollars. 
Then came the Red Cross workers, the 
nurses, the men and women who had 
Worked silently and unknown. They 
were all marching by—not exultant and 
cheering, but solemn, thoughtful, like men 
and women who realized the mighty re¬ 
sponsibility of the work they had done. 
There were no fireworks, no shouting— 
just the silent parade of earnest, thought¬ 
ful men and women who had looked over 
into the great gulf of destiny and come 
back to carry something of the great 
mystery of life. 
***** 
It was hot in that town. I can tell 
you. but the old-fashioned house where 
we had our picnic dinner had cool rooms 
that were comfortable. They built these 
old-time houses in such a way that there 
was always one room cool on the hottest 
days, and another sunny and warm on 
the coldest days. You are not interested 
in statistics, so why should I tell how 
many sandwiches our party took care of? 
After dinner the boys and I decided to go 
to the ball game. You should have seen 
Cherry-top on a front seat behind the 
home plate, watching the curves. It was 
surely more fun than pulling suckers 
from the sweet corn, or raking hay. It 
was a good game, and I enjoyed it with 
the boys. When I first came to Bergen 
County I played a game of ball one 
Fourth of July, and every man on the 
ball field had a good old-time American 
name. Several of them had a “Van,” or 
a "De” as a rudder on that name—as 
was right in a county settled originally 
by the Dutch and the Huguenots. Yet 
in this game the crisis came with the 
following situation. A man. evidently a 
Polock, had reached first base. A Ger¬ 
man went to bat. An American of French 
blood pitched the ball, and the German 
knocked a high fly. A Jew ran out after 
it and dropped it. lie picked it up and 
threw to an Englishman on second, who 
threw' to an Irishman on first, and both 
German and Polock were out! Who plays 
the great American game, anyway? 
Where I sat in the stand I could have 
reached out and put my hand on a Ger¬ 
man. a Russian Jew. an Italian and a 
negro. There was a group of colored 
men who became quite excited when there 
were two players put out. One black man 
became very indignant at what he called 
“the rotten empire.” In his wrath at the 
“empire” he seemed to grow’ about 10 
shades whiter. He finally pulled out. $2 
and offered to bet anybody that the "em¬ 
pire” was wrong. Thereupon a soldier 
produced $2 and the money was put up 
in the hands of the man sitting next to 
me. Then the soldier proceeded to ex¬ 
plain the rules and the play so clearly 
and good-naturedly that the colored man 
finally scratched his head and admitted : 
“ ‘Pears to me dat am right, after all.” 
Then, by common consent each man took 
back his $2 and that was typical of the 
entire spirit of the day. I did not see a 
single drunken man in all that big crowd ; 
not a quarrel or disturbance of any sort. 
And, by the way. that "empire” was a 
man. He was a little fellow, and again 
and again the entire 18 players surround¬ 
ed him with waving arms and verbal fire¬ 
works. At such times he was so small 
you could not see him. but the human 
waves always rolled back, and there was 
the “empire,” like a small rock, still mas¬ 
ter of the situation ! 
***** 
In the evening a great throng gathered 
on the old church green, now known as a 
Court of Honor. The Honor Roll re¬ 
quired a signboard at. least 40 ft. long, 
and there were 34 golden stars, and such 
names! I calculated that at least 12 
different nations had contributed names to 
that list. When Washington w r as driven 
out of New York his ragged and discour¬ 
aged army marched through what was 
then a Dutch town with a sprinkling of 
French Huguenots. How could he have 
dreamed that this world war was to re¬ 
veal through this "Honor Roll” what has 
been going into the great, melting pot? 
There were 13 names with the "Van” in 
front, six "Demarests,” seven “Williams” 
and a full list of Doremus and Banta 
and the rest of the old-timers. But what 
about Abt. Ayasse, Capozzie, Aotha, Ja- 
vanarkovetz and the rest of them? Then 
there was Felix Ilaymart. with the golden 
star at his name. We had lost track of 
Felix. I remember meeting him at the 
steamer when he came up from Florida 
years ago. A little, freckle-faced “crack¬ 
er” of a boy. lonely and silent. He ran 
away from the man who was to “bring 
him up,” and the great world seemed to 
swallow him. Now here is his name in 
golden letters on this “Honor Roll.” He 
died somewhere in France in order that 
the world might be better and safer for 
you and for me. You could tell from the 
names on this roll very much about the 
nationality of these men. Yet here was_a 
singular thing. The^e were 40 or 50 
colored soldiers, and they probably had 
the most thoroughly American names on 
the list. There are more separate nations 
in Africa than there are in Europe, but 
we never think of them when we see a 
negro and, happily, no one cares for the 
names of their ancestors. 
A military band of colored men gave a 
concert in front of the court house as 
night came on. They played lively dances 
and almost before you knew it the entire 
street was full of dancing couples. They 
whirled and skipped over the smooth as¬ 
phalt and made a beautiful picture. 
Searchlights were playing on the court 
house and over the great crowd, bringing 
out the bright colors of the women, the 
green of the grass, the white of the pil¬ 
lars and the masses of flags, the sombre 
old church with its ancient graveyard at 
one side and the old Mansion House, 
where Washington was once entertained. 
July 10, 1010 
It was a scene long to be remembered. 
Those stern old-timers who sleep in the 
churchyard frowned upon dancing and 
pleasure and human life generally. What 
would they have said if someone had 
prophesied such a scene as this? And 
yet here are happy young men and wom¬ 
en, gathered from all over the world, 
dancing, as it were, right over their 
graves, with no one to deny them ! What 
a dance the years have given us! Per¬ 
haps this war was needed to shake up 
creeds and habits into a newer form of 
tolerance. Standing on the court house 
steps watching the dancers I saw a tall, 
distinguished-looking woman with her 
daughter. It was easy to identify her as 
one of the “old families.” I have no 
doubt her old ancestor came out into the 
wilderness and started this town. It is 
coming to be less and less a matter of 
who started a thing. It is now more of 
who occupies it today. Some 40 years 
ago the pride of the “old family” blood 
would have encircled this woman like a 
social barbed-wire fence. Now the long 
years, culminating in this great war, had 
cut that wire fence down. So close that 
he almost touched her stood a stout, squat¬ 
ty man whose ancestors fought with John 
Sobioski. I could almost guarantee that 
the black-eyed woman who put out her 
hand to touch the arm of that blue- 
blooded girl had some ancestor who 
fought with Rienzi and others with Gari¬ 
baldi. That big blond giant looking over 
the lady’s shoulder no doubt traces back 
to the Vestergotlanders who revolted in 
Sweden four centuries ago. That black 
man in the Palm Beach suit with straw 
hat in his hand, listening so proudly to 
the colored band, is named, not inappro¬ 
priately. Brown, but he may be a cousin 
of Waterboer, the African chief. Right 
in front of our lady of breeding a little 
blond man wheels a baby carriage. lie 
lifts out a little boy and then we find that 
the carriage is a magazine of “sparklers" 
Your Tractor—and the Oil 
that heat does not break 
You may well be as guarded about the oil used 
as you were about choosing your tractor. Use 
the oil that maintains a constant protecting film 
over pistons and bearings. Use the oil that 
doesn’t break under excessive heat. 
Heat does not break Havoline Oil. 
One of these three grades of Havoline will 
meet every requirement on the farm: 
HAVOLINE “K”—A heavy, rugged, all¬ 
purpose oil. A barrel of this grade on hand fits 
you for all emergencies. It can be used in 
trucks, tractors, and all farm machinery. 
HAVOLINE “B”—For use when a some¬ 
what heavier oil than Havoline “K” is needed. 
HAVOLINE “A”—A lighter oil than Havo¬ 
line “K,” ideal for passenger cars and 
trucks, particularly when they’re new. 
Buy it by the barrel, and 
save extra trips to town on 
busy days. 
INDIAN REFINING COMPANY 
Incorporated 
NEW YORK 
Producers and Refiners of Petroleum 
Send today for the free “No Smoking” sign to tack on 
your barn. It may save your barn from burning down. 
HAVOLiNE OIL 
RE&.U.S.PAT. OFF. 
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It Makes a Difference 
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