782 
The RURAL NEW.YORKER 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
There is a tale that a traveler, coming 
to the inn in a small town late at night, 
was at first refused shelter. Finally, 
after hearing him plead not to be turned 
out, the owner said: “I’ll tell you the 
facts. I have one room, but right 
next to it is my best-paying guest. He 
is worth more to me than any three 
other fellows, and he is very nervous and 
troubled with insomnia. Now, if you 
can get into bed without a light and with¬ 
out any noise, you can sleep there; but 
not a bit of noise, either now or when you 
get up.” The guest promised faithfully, 
and all was quiet till he took off a shoe, 
lost his hold on it and it slammed to the 
floor. lie was doubly quiet from then on, 
crawled into bed and was just getting 
asleep when there was a knock on the 
wall, and a raucous voice: 
“Darn you! Take off that other shoe /” 
Now tell us what you found in that 
coffin !—see pags 594. F. d. c. 
Well, you will remember that I went 
out in the dark to find the spectacles lying 
on a coffin. When I reached out to take 
them up I felt that coffin move, and heard 
a strange, unearthly cry within it. No 
use talking, that is what happened, and 
we organized a band of “minute men” 
and went out to investigate. Our folks 
were not of that class who get into bed 
and put out the lights when strange 
things occur in the night. That farm was 
right in the territory where King Philip 
operated in 1675, when he nearly succeed¬ 
ed in driving the whites out of New Eng¬ 
land ! Many of our ancestors had been 
roused at night by the savages. It is 
recorded of one man that he thought his 
house was attacked by Indian spirits. He 
felt that a bullet of lead would never 
harm them, so he took the only silver coin 
he had, pounded it into a bullet and fired 
it at night in the direction from whence 
came a fearful or unearthly cry. In the 
morning they found a strange bird dead 
in the bushes. But these old-timers never 
ran away from trouble, and they no doubt 
led us on as we marched out to attack 
that coffin. I can remember, as we passed 
through the barn, how the old horse 
stretched out his long head and gave a 
“whinny” that sent the chills down my 
back. The calf jumped up with a great 
rattle, and the cow blinked at the light <>f 
our lantern. They frightened me at the 
time, but now I know they were only 
quoting Shakespeare at our warlike 
group: 
“What fools these mortals be/” 
***** 
Now, several days before. "Malty,” our 
gray cat. had done a strange thing! That 
“Malty” was a character. I well remem¬ 
ber the hot Summer day when she crawled 
into the big “airtight stove” for a nap. 
She curled upon the ashes and bits of 
paper with pleasant dreams of rats—and 
of the 50 or more kittens she had con¬ 
tributed to the neighborhood. The cus¬ 
tom in those days was to sweep and dust 
the rooms, take up the refuse in a dust¬ 
pan and dump it into the airtight stove. 
By and by there would accumulate, enough 
of this fuel to heat a pot of coffee, 
and thus save wood or coal. These 
were the small economies which for many 
years made New England the pocket-book 
of the nation. Perhai*? it is partly be¬ 
cause these Yankees kept these economies 
up too long that the pocket-book is mov¬ 
ing west. At any rate. “Malty” was sleep¬ 
ing on a soft bed of these “sweepings.” 
and the farmer’s wife was struck by one 
of those uncontrollable impulses to “clean 
house!” No one could hunt for dirt with 
a keener eye, as I often found to my sor¬ 
row when I swept a room and she re¬ 
viewed my work! At any rate, she swept 
up two big pans full of dry “dirt” and 
dumped them into the stove, right in front 
of “Malty.” The woman did not have her 
spectacles on. and the gray cat was much 
the same color as the ashes, so no one 
knew the stove was occupied! After her 
exertions the farmer’s wife concluded a 
cup of tea would taste good. The teapot 
always had several inches of old 
“grounds” at the bottom, and all you had 
to do when you wanted to tan your stom¬ 
ach was to pour in a little water and put 
the pot on a fire. Here was just the 
chance to utilize those “sweepings.” So 
this woman “watered the tea grounds,” 
put the teapot inside the stove and touched 
a match to the refuse—all unconscious 
that “Malty” was peacefully sleeping on 
this bedding. There was a quick blaze 
and then a great scream of agony and a 
blazing cat darted out of that stove and 
made for the door. Cats do not like water 
any more than some men I have known, 
but they all have to come to it.—under 
pain or prohibition. The cat made 
straight for a rain puddle and rolled in it. 
Then .she looked reproachfully at the 
house and disappeared behind the barn. 
Later, I saw her down by the brook, lying 
with her front paws and breast in the 
cool water. There she remained until 
the burns healed. 
***** 
After that “Malty” fought shy of that 
stove. A few days before our adventure 
with the coffin the farmer and his wife 
had had a somewhat hot evening discus¬ 
sion over the old cat. I wonder if grown¬ 
up men and women quarrel over such 
mean and trivial things now. The old 
gentleman said the cat was useless and 
ought to be killed, because she was not 
much account as a mouser and had to be 
fed! His wife put up a good and con¬ 
vincing argument for the cat. “Malty” 
and I as companions and old friends, lis¬ 
tened to the discussion. She was not 
permitted to come into the house at night, 
but had I not often opened my window 
and lot her in to sleep on my bed? Some¬ 
times when the house beams creaked with 
the frost I would start up in terror and 
imagine all sort of evil shapes in the 
shadows. But wise old “Malty” would 
open one eye, look at me assuringly, and 
go to sleep again. And I knew that the 
instinct of the wild animal in her would 
detect the danger if there were any. 
“I'll kill that eat tomorrow /” 
“No. you won't!” 
‘‘Well, I'd like to, anyway!” 
“ Well , likinys ain't doings.!” 
That was the way the discussion went, 
and as if to emphasize his remarks the 
farmer got up, opened the stove door and 
pushed in a big knot of oak. He looked 
at the cat as much as to say: 
“I'd like to put you in here, too!' 
* * * * * 
Now. I knew they didn't mean any¬ 
thing in particular by all this; it was 
just their way. “Malty” ought to have 
known it, too, but somehow the old cat 
seemed to understand what they said, and 
when the farmer pushed that knot into 
the stove she started up and made for the 
door. She may have been a handsome cat 
in her youth, but when age walks arm in 
arm with trouble, and the latter gets on 
the road home, beauty seems to take a 
long vacation. What I saw as I got up 
to let “Malty” out was a scarred old vet¬ 
eran. She had broken one tooth over a 
tough rat. Another cat had bitten off 
part of one ear, a rat had left a scar on 
her nose, and part of the hair burned off 
her head had never grown out. You see 
most men, as they grow in years, like to 
have youth about them, while women take 
greater satisfaction in old companions. 
It is a great thing for many of us that 
this is so. I have lived more than 20.000 
days, and I never saw a more thoroughly 
reproachful look on any face than that 
which “Malty” cast upon that farmer as 
she stood by the door. I have seen some 
of the greatest actors of by-gone years 
play Julius Csesar. What pathos, what 
agony of betrayed friendship you may 
read on their faces as they say: 
"And thou, too, Brutus.” 
“Malty” outdid them all in facial ex¬ 
pression as she stood by the door. As I 
opened it she ran out into the darkness 
and disappeared. From that night until 
the night of the storm we had not seen 
or heard her! She did not even come 
through the open window to sleep on my 
bed. 
* * * * * 
So as we marched out to investigate 
that stormy night I think both the farmer 
and his wife were thinking of “Malty.” 
I know the woman was, for she reminded 
her husband that it might be a judgment 
upon his for his cruelty ! And while he 
answered “Nonsense!” I knew he w r as 
thinking about it. When we reached the 
coffin room we stood in the doorway and 
peered within. It was enough to make 
the stoutest nerve shake a little. The 
lonely farm, the great, rambling, echoing 
barn, the roar of the storm, a flapping 
shingle on the roof, and the wind sweep¬ 
ing over the wires where our seed corn 
hung like the song of an aeolian harp. 
And in the dim light of the lantern it is 
a fact that we saw that coffin shake, and 
we all heard that unearthly cry. I con¬ 
fess that the farmer and I were willing to 
leave the investigation until daylight, but 
the woman had more of the blood of 
heroes in her veins. Armed with the 
tongs, she marched up to that coffin and 
knocked off the loose cover. Then she 
held up the lantern and looked in. 
Curled up in one corner was "Malty” 
with a brood of six as fine kittens as you 
erer saw—all seven of them crying—six 
for food and one out of pride! 
The old cat looked up at us as if to 
say: 
".Vow, what do you say? You thought 
T was good for nothing—now then, con¬ 
sider this family!” 
And that was the ghost in the coffin. 
Since then I have had no fear of ghosts. 
“A coffin,” as the farmer said that night, 
“is nothing but a wooden box!” We 
marched back to the house, the farmer 
carrying “Malty” and his wife carrying 
the kittens in her apron. And, wonder 
April 17, 1920 
of wonders, the farmer fixed up a warm 
box by the stove where the entire cat fam¬ 
ily spent the night. Who’s afraid of 
ghosts? 
***** 
I was much interested in your Hope 
Farm Notes on page 370. At the same 
time I was disappointed that you did 
not take advantage of your opportunity 
to further a worthy cause. You wrote 
of reading Dr. Grenfell’s “A Labrador 
Doctor,” and mentioned “Dr. Grenfell or¬ 
ganized a little orphans’ home.” You did 
not mention the fact that the home was 
built of rough wood, and lets in the cold 
wind and the snow, and that Dr. Gren¬ 
fell is very anxious to build a brick or¬ 
phanage, and is calling on all. young and 
old, to help build it by subscribing for 
bricks at 25c a brick. I am getting to be 
a crank on that subject, having obtained 
nearly 500 bricks. I am 78 years old and 
I am hoping that I may live long enough 
to hear that it is built. s. n. STRONG. 
Setauket. L. I., N. Y. 
It is true that I neglected an oppor- 
unity in this, but “better late than nev¬ 
er.” That orphans’ home, far up in the 
tip or finger point of Newfoundland, is 
one of the most hopeful and useful insti¬ 
tutions in the world. It cares for chil¬ 
dren who would otherwise be neglected. 
It is far away from the usual byways of 
charity, and that is all the more reason 
why it should be helped and maintained. 
Those of us who live in the lower lati¬ 
tudes and under more comfortable condi¬ 
tions cannot realize what the frozen north 
means. Y 7 et it is necessary that this far 
country should be inhabited and devel¬ 
oped. The world needs what it has to 
offer, and. most of all, it needs the strong, 
bright children who live there. Here is a 
chance to put a “brick” where it will help 
build a solid wall for civilization. I sug¬ 
gest that we all “chip in” and send our 
“bricks” to Mr. Strong direct. H. w. 0. 
“Mb. Cleaver.” said the housewife, 
“how do you account for the fact that I 
found a piece of rubber tire in one of the 
sausages I bought here last week?” “My 
dear madam,” was the reply, “that only 
goes to show that the motor car is replac¬ 
ing the horse everywhere.”—New York 
Globe. 
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