I Of 0 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
“John’s Rose” 
“So bold, great actions, that are seen too 
near, _ . . 
Look rash and foolish to unthinking 
eyes; 
They need the past for distance to appear 
In their true grandeur. Let us yet be 
ivise 
'And not too soon our neighbor's deed 
malign, 
For what seems coarse is often good 
and fine!'' 
I came upon that the other day. The 
author is-unknown—one of the humble 
souls who, as the years pass on, drop a 
thought in the current of human life. It 
passes on—the author unforgotten, but 
the lesson,is long remembered. The poem 
from which this is taken is entitled “The 
Statue,” and tells of the contest in ancient 
Athens between two sculptors. A great 
column was reared in honor of Minerva, 
and a statue of that goddess was demand¬ 
ed for the top. Two sculptors, Alcamenes 
and Phidias, competed for a prize. The 
first carved a beautiful figure, exactly 
proportional—almost like living marble, 
but he forgot that people were to lpok 
at it 100 feet or more in the air. He 
carved it as if it were to stand, like other 
statues, close at hand. Phidias realized 
that his statue was to stand on top of 
the column. He made the lines coarse 
and heavy, knowing that distance would 
blend and refine them. When the two 
were shown the people hooted at Phidias, 
called his work coarse, and demanded the 
other, which seemed so fine and beautiful 
at close view. So they hoisted this one 
to the top, but at that distance it seemed 
email and mean, all out of proportion as 
viewed from the ground—not worthy of 
Minerva. So they pulled it down and 
substituted the other. Then they found 
that distance mellowed the coarse lines 
and gave a beauty and strength to face 
and figure which well expressed their 
feelings. The thought is that things seen 
close at hand for the first time often seem 
coarse or radical or out of place, and we 
laugh at or reject them. Yet time will 
give them proportion and thought would 
mellow their hard lines, if we could only 
have the vision to look into the future as 
the people of Athens looked up at that 
statue. 
* * * * * 
Of course, the finely cut, beautiful fig¬ 
ure means the present; the coarser and 
rougher statue the future. I think of 
this as Decoration Day passes. Most of 
the veterans of the Civil War have passed 
on. A few are left, and the day is a sad 
one for them. I saw many of these old 
veterans on Decoration Day when I was 
a boy 50 years ago. They were thpn in 
the pride and joy of manhood, and Could 
not look forward into the future to see 
what the years were to bring them. I 
have often felt that these men in their 
youth looked at life and at their public 
duties about as the Athenians looked at 
that beautiful statue. The present was 
bright and fair, and he who pointed out 
trouble and danger iu our national ten¬ 
dencies seemed like the sculptor who pre¬ 
sented the coarse and heavy-lined figure. 
Looking back upon it now I think most 
of us will agree that iu those days people 
expended too much of their energy in 
fighting the wrong “enemy.” We were 
taught and believed that the people of the 
South were our natural enemies. The 
thought seemed as clear as the statue of 
Alcamenes. And when a few men with 
vision and truth came and pointed out 
the actual enemies, like the growth of 
monopolies, of the money power and of 
special privileges of every sort—why, it 
seemed too coarse, too far away and we 
rejected it. That is one thing which 
always occurred to me on Decoration Day. 
The other is whether this age and this 
generation can ever muster the devotion 
and the loyalty which were born of the 
Civil War. I can tell you that if the 
story of some of the lonely, abandoned 
hillside farms in New England could be 
told by some sympathetic historian, you 
would have the noblest war memories in 
all the world’s literature. 
***** 
On a steep hillside above the Connec¬ 
ticut River you will find a beautiful es¬ 
tate. Money has been spent lavishly upon 
it. Beautiful shrubs and flowers from 
all over the world are planted there. As 
I look at the place it seems to me some¬ 
how as if some bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked 
New Hampshire girl had discarded her 
natural bloom and beauty for the costly 
cosmetics and drapery of the “beauty par¬ 
lor” and the milliner. Yet in the'midst 
of all this finery, right on the lawn in 
front of the house, is a great climbing 
rose bush clinging to a rude frame or 
trellis. It is not one of the newer and 
famous roses, but just a common wild 
rose, like thousands of others. Most of 
us would regard it as a weed and root it 
out of those beautiful grounds. Yet there 
it stands, all out of keeping with its sur¬ 
roundings—rough and thorny with just 
a few brief days of glory each year, when 
the buds burst into bloom and its sweet 
perfume fills the Summer air. Now and 
again a fat. pompous, faded woman and 
a stern-faced, “rich” looking man come out 
of the house and about the grounds. They 
will pause before this wild rose bush and 
look at it in disgust. 
“We must have that hideous thing dug 
out at once.” the* worn an will say. 
And a bright-eyed slip of a girl will 
come fluttering out of the house and an¬ 
swer r 
Tie RURAL NEW-YORKER 
"No, mother; you cannot do that. You 
know what I promised.” 
And the practical man will shrug his 
shoulders and glance at his wife. 
“Wait. Alice. Some extra hard Win¬ 
ter will kill the thing so it will never 
start up again.” 
You see, he does not know, rich and 
powerful as he is, that love and devotion 
can never die. 
s}: J»c # >|c 
But why is the wild rose left in that 
beautiful place? It is not a long story. 
It goes well with Decoration Day and the 
old tale of the statue. In 1801 there 
was just a rough little farm on that hill¬ 
side—just like thousands of other little 
farms which once meant thousands of 
homes, but which have long since been 
scratched off the map by the fingernail 
of “progress.” Sallie Bell and her mother 
lived in this lonely place. John Bell vol¬ 
unteered at the first call, and was killed 
at Bull Run. They say that his wife 
slowly died of a broken heart in that 
sad old house on the hill.. Sallie lived 
on, for she was one of the New England 
girls who consider it a part of their 
religion to maintain the home and the 
farm where father and mother and then- 
forebears have fought the forest and the 
frost and the mortgage. Now and then 
of an evening John Hall would come up 
tlr> dusty road which clambered from the 
tiny village over in the next valley. And 
almost the only times that Sallie’s strong 
face showed what you might call bloom 
was when she stood iu her doorway and 
saw John climbing the hill. But John 
could not quite make up his mind. Sallie 
was the most “capable” girl in the neigh¬ 
borhood, but Alice Martin was prettier, 
and her father was the village lawyer. 
.Sallie’s farm was of little value, and 
you could not move her from it any more 
than you could move one of its big ledges. 
Alice’s old grandfather would die some 
day and leave her a little money, and 
she would quickly go anywhere that life 
promised to be easier or more lively than 
iu this lonely country. And so John hes¬ 
itated. Alice seemed to him like the 
finished statue with life near at hand. 
Sallie was more like the other figure— 
needing the mellowing of the future to 
bring out its full beauty. And John could 
not decide, and he volunteered and 
marched away without deciding. He 
wrote to both girls. Sallie lived on alone 
with that grim, obstinate, determined pur¬ 
pose of New England never to desert the 
old family home, even after it became 
apparent to others that Nature must 
finally foreclose and demand the land. 
***** 
Alice, light-hearted, selfish and shallow, 
soon forgot John. Ilenry Browning ap¬ 
peared. The son of a rich laud-owner, lie 
had hired a substitute and was making 
money out of war contracts. He saw 
in Alice the girl who would grow up into 
a woman who could serve as a fine adver¬ 
tising signboard for his money. And 
John, marching and fighting through the 
mud of Virginia, knew little of this, but 
as most men do, carried her brief, careless 
notes about with him. but paid little at¬ 
tention to Sallie’s strong and earnest 
letters. And one Spring day iu a Vir¬ 
ginia campaign John remembered the 
flowers on the hills around his home, lie 
dug a small rose bush from the garden 
on a Virginia farm and sent it to Alice, 
asking her to plant it and tend it for his 
sake. It came on the very day that Alice 
had agreed to marry Henry. She glanced 
at the letter and carelessly threw the rose 
bush over the fence into the road. We 
may not blame her. She did not care for 
John, and in her new dream of wealth and 
place a little slip of wild rose was of 
small importance. But later in the day 
Sallie Bell came through the town oil 
her way home and saw the package which 
A ice had thrown away. A little further 
along the road she met Alice and Ilenry. 
“I found this in front of your housej” 
she said. “Is it yours?” 
And Alice thought she could afford to 
be mean now that her coveted prize was 
in sight. 
“Oh, it’s from John. I do not dare 
for it now. You can have it.” 
Sallie passed on without a word, but 
that night, after supper, she planted the 
little rose bush in the yard in front of 
her house—and long after the stars came 
out she stood there in the sweet evening 
air. looking down the road as it turned 
and twisted up from the tiny village. And 
John? Something like a week later a 
squad of blue-coated soldiers marched 
along a lonely Virginia road. They came 
to a lit Je stream and stopped to drink. 
Suddenly out of the hills came the sharp 
crack of a rifle, and a man fell forward 
into the stream and the water grew sud¬ 
denly dark-colored as it trickled away. 
And at night the same old report was 
sent North, “All quiet along the Poto¬ 
mac.” 
***** 
The years went by. chasing each other 
with silent, tireless feet, as they ever have 
done. They were golden years for Alice 
and Ilenry, for wealth poured in upon 
them. They soon left the hills and eager¬ 
ly entered the selfish, glittering life of the 
big city. The few thousands of honest 
money which they took out of the New 
England valley and tossed into the gam¬ 
ble of the city multiplied over and over, 
and brought fortune and power. But. 
they were silent, grim years for Sallie 
Bell on her hillside farm. Most of the 
farmers grew tired of the struggle and 
slowly gave up to the forces of nature. 
One day Sallie suddenlv found herself a 
sharp-faced, gray-haired woman, short of 
breath and with a pain iu her chest. That 
dav ‘.lav noted that the field where 
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® NEVEP FAILED YET 
“It’s good to kuow at planting time,” says Silas Low, 
*’ that no mutter how big the com crop, ihero wou't bo 
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8o> II Coblcskill Mow fork 
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