i 1296 
August V, 1920 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
The Public Confidence 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
I would like to have you in this sweat- 
box today. Even if you are one of the 
tillage experts who believe that those who 
advocate the mulch system are insane men 
or criminals, I would like to have you 
here. And it is a sweat-box on this hot 
and sultry .Tilly 24. We are over in 
“Westward Ilo!” That is what I named 
this pocket or opening in the woods at 
the extreme western end of the farm. I 
had read Kingsley’s story, and this farm 
or fruit adventure off into the woods was 
about as daring to me as was the voyage 
of the hardy men who sailed off into the 
unknown Western world. When wo 
bought this farm we had little capital and 
Jess cash. The farm is about 500 feet 
wide, and over a mile from one end to the 
other, with a very steep hill and a swamp 
between the two ends. It would seem as 
if plain, common sense dictated the plan 
of putting our work on the fairly level 
land at one end, near the house. But in 
wandering through the woods I came 
upon the ruins of an old house or home 
(for there is nothing left now but a hole 
in the ground and a bunch of lilacs). 
What was evidently once a farm had gone 
back to the woods, except this small 
pocket. Here someone had made a fight 
against the forces of nature, but had 
evidently been beaten, for the field was 
full of bushes and cedars—on its way 
back to the forest. That appealed to me 
somehow—the struggle of a piece of land 
to retain some sort of a hold upon civili¬ 
zation. It seemed like a man or race— 
slipping back into barbarism and making 
a desperate struggle to hold on. So, 
against the advice of my family (and the 
advice was at times pointedly presented) 
I cleared up this pocket and held it and 
“saved it for humanity,” as I once heard 
an orator say. 
* » * * * 
It was a job, for “man. mentality and 
matter” all seemed against us. The 
men hated to work in this lonely place. I 
am sure these stone walls and shady trees 
could all tell tales of blissful repose when 
the hired man was supposed to be at 
work. Every neighbor laughed at the 
plan, for I confess that there were weeds 
in our front fields while we toiled here at 
the brush and stones. That first year we 
ripped out the brush and seeded to cow 
peas. There was a good crop, and we 
plowed them under and seeded to rye. 
That crop stood nearly as high as a man, 
but we could not get the binder through 
the woods, and it was almost impossible 
to haul half a load through the swamp. 
Then we planted corn, using lime, cover 
crops and chemicals. The yields were 
good, but unless we dropped other work 
and husked early the squirrels and coons 
got most of the grain. As the labor prob¬ 
lem grew harder I became convinced that 
an apple orchard handled on some modi¬ 
fication of the mulch system was the l ight 
crop for this pocket. About everything 
else we tried found a hole in the pocket 
and slipped out. .So we planted a mixed 
orchard of Wealthy, McIntosh and Bald¬ 
win, seeded to rye and Alsike clover and 
left the pocket alone. It is hardly fair 
to say that, for we have given the trees 
some care, but it is remarkable how little 
they have had, compared with the usual 
program for developing an orchard. The 
trees have been pruned by clipping off the 
suckers and inside branches, but they 
have been largely left to head themselves. 
They have been sprayed and dusted, and 
have had at times a small application of 
chicken manure and Barum-phosphate. I 
doubt if many trees were ever grown to 
two and three-barrel production at less 
outlay of time and material than these 
in “Westward Ho!” 
* * * * * 
Here we arc today doing our annual 
cultivating with mower and fork. And 
it is hot! In truth, this is a sweat-box. 
This pocket is surrounded on all sides 
but one by thick woods, and there is a 
heavy wind-break on the other. Out off 
Sandy Hook, some 35 miles away, the 
wind is so high that the yacht race has 
been called off—but you never would think 
it here. Last night we had the worst 
electric storm T have known, with floods 
of rain. Now the sun is out with full 
blaze, and the heat beats down into this 
wet pocket like a blast from a furnace. 
A thick steam rises from the wet soil— 
it is indeed a sweat-box/ and I wish you 
were here. You could have your choice 
of a scythe or pitchfork. The field is 
thick with a rank growth of Alsike clover, 
Bed-top and “Black-eyed Susan,” with 
various other weeds crowded in. Some 
of the Alsike is three feet tall when 
straightened up. I suppose this one 
field would cut at least 3,000 lbs. per acre 
of dry hay, whereas a few years ago you 
could get barely 500. We wait until the 
Alsike and Red-top make seed, and then 
cut and leave it all on the ground. Thus 
through the years there has come a 
thicker and heavier stand. These trees 
were sprayed with “Scalecide” in March, 
and dusted once in May with sulphur and 
dry arsenate. Last. Winter a few inside 
limbs were cut out, and during May T 
put a small quantity of sulphate of am¬ 
monia around some of the lighter-colored 
trees. 
* * * •* * 
Here we are today “cultivating.” 
Thomas has Tom and Broker on the mow¬ 
ing machine. They drive through the 
rows, slashing down grass, weeds and 
clover, leaving a strip about three feet 
wide along the rows. George follows 
with a sharp scythe, cutting these strips, 
while the rest of us come after with forks, 
throwing the weeds and clover up around 
the trees. The boys want to throw it all 
up close to the trunk, but it is better to 
scatter it. out as far as the branches ex¬ 
tend. The feeding roots are not close in 
to the trunk, but outside. I suppose we 
are putting about the equivalent of a big 
hay cock around each tree. Tom and 
Broker are wringing wet with sweat, and 
they stop to cool off at one place where a 
little wind blows through the wind-break. 
Broker is about all Pereheron—a fine 
worker, but not a very searching brain. 
“I call it a shame,” lie is saying to Tom. 
“to leave all this fine hay to rot on the 
ground. Next Winter we will have to eat 
dry cornstalks. A mouthful of this.clover 
and daisy would taste good. I think an 
honest horse should come in ahead of a 
tree when it comes to feeding hay. I’ve 
a notion to balk and not pull this mower 
as a protest against such folly.” 
Now Tom has a touch of warm running 
blood far back in his pedigree. You never 
would think it to see him on the road, 
but he has some reasoning power as a 
result of it. 
“No, you won’t balk,” he says. “If 
you do I’ll pull the mower right tip to 
you. You’ve always had enough to eat. 
and you will always have it on this farm. 
What do you know about raising fruit? 
Where would your grain come from if 
there were no cash sales here? This man 
knows what he is doing, or he wouldn’t 
keep on doing it. Your business is not to 
boss the job, but to pull when the word 
comes.” 
The word came right then. “Get up.” 
said Thomas, and the habit of the faithful 
Pereheron asserted itself and Broker 
threw his mighty shoulders into the collar. 
***** 
I am sure that some who read this will 
have much the same idea as Broker. Why 
waste all this hay? It is worth $50 and 
more per ton. Why not. buy a couple of 
cows and feed it out. We prefer to feed 
it to the trees, and experience has shown 
that, counting all things, the apples pay 
us better than milk. On some orchards 
nearer the barn we cut the grass and haul 
most of it in as hay, but in such cases 
manure and weeds are hauled hack as sub¬ 
stitutes. In this lonely and inaccessible 
place it is difficult to get the hay out or 
any substitute in. Therefore, it seems 
better to feed the grass to the trees. The 
result of this has been profitable thus 
far. Considering labor and time spent on 
it, no field on the farm gives greater net 
profit than this pocket in the woods. You 
can see that there is but little expense, 
and if you could see some of these trees 
bending to the ground with fruit, you 
would realize that they are well fed. As 
for quality, last year some of the Mc¬ 
Intosh from this field sold at $9 per barrel 
right off the truck, without any attempt 
to sort out the best. I am sure that a 
good apple expert—one with a good eye-^- 
can sort out plates of Wealthy. Baldwin 
and McIntosh from these trees that would 
hold their own for beauty and quality in 
any fruit show in this country. By cut¬ 
ting the clover each year after it forms 
seed we thicken the stand and increase 
the crop, for this late cutting gives a 
good reseeding. After today there will be 
nothing to do in this orchard until pick¬ 
ing, although I usually come here once a 
week during the entire season to study 
the trees and the way they develop. It 
seems to me that we have learned many 
things not found in the books—for trees 
vary nearly as much as human beings in 
their requirements and disposition. 
***** 
It surely is hot! Here comes one of 
the little girls with a message from my 
daughter. Some one has called on the 
long-distance ’phone for information. 
This little messenger came all the way 
through the woods and across the swamp. 
She is barefooted and plastered with mud 
to her knees. It requires all this trouble 
to send a message a mile on the farm, 
while after I get to the house our folks 
can talk with friends for over 500 miles 
without leaving their chair. Sometime 
there will be a little pocket wireless de¬ 
veloped, so that a farmer in a back field, 
like this one, may keep in touch with the 
house. It will soon be time for dinner, 
anyway, so I will leave the rest at work 
and go home to deliver my message. It 
will have to be a large dinner, for there 
are 10 of us today. The oldest boy lias 
just been married, and has brought his 
bride home for a little vacation. Then 
there is a little Japanese boy on hand for 
the Summer. Our folks are boarding and 
tutoring him—so that all told there are 
16 of us to be fed and housed. Some of 
you women may ask yourselves how you 
would like to cook and wash dishes for 
10 hearty eaters! All our folks help, and 
you may imagine that it is a case of the 
simple life, with very plain food. Today 
for dinner we shall have fried meat balls, 
potatoes, boiled beets and string beans, 
With all the milk you want, and whole 
wheat bread and butter. By some acci¬ 
dent my daughter has found enough stale 
bread to make a bread pudding. Tonight 
there will be a big pot of baked beans and 
a big dish of apple sauce, with bread 
and milk in plenty. I fear our table 
service might shock some of those who 
are accustomed to seeing a dignified butler 
or trim and neat waiter flitting about. 
One or more of the children will “wait on 
the table,” and nil tlm children help wash 
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