1482 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
“Well, boys, I'm going to q U it and call 
it a day !” As the Hope Farm man spoke 
he got up from his knees in the straw¬ 
berry patch and proceeded to straighten 
out his back. It was half past four on 
Saturday, September 4. Our week’s work 
was done—all but the chores. Our folks 
had picked and packed and shipped four 
big truckloads of produce, with a surplus 
of nearly 100 bushels of apples and 00 
baskets of tomatoes ahead for next week. 
This in addition to regular farm work— 
and one day off fishing for the boys. It 
did not seem possible'that September has 
come upon us! I do not know how she 
even got here—yet the big hand on the 
clock’s calendar points to the date. When 
the foolish finger of “daylight saving” 
appears on the clock we can discount it, 
but there is no discounting the mark on 
the calendar. That is like the finger of 
fate. Yet it seems out of date. We have 
not finished packing Gravenstein apples. 
In former years Labor Day found us 
cleaning up the McIntosh. This year we 
have not even touched them! Last year 
the Mammoth sweet corn was about 
cleaned out in August. Now we are be¬ 
ginning to pick. The season and the cal¬ 
endar are fighting this year. Now if they 
will both turn in and hold Jack Frost up 
for a couple of weeks later than usual 
we will forgive the season. 
# * * # * 
This morning I took this strawberry 
job from choice—surely no one else wanted 
it. Thomas had not come back from his 
night on the market. Philip cleaned up 
the chores, while the rest went to picking 
apples and tomatoes. My daughter goes 
across the lawn with 100 or more chick¬ 
ens at her heels. They are black Jersey 
Giants and II. I. Reds going to break¬ 
fast. Out on the cool back porch Mother 
is playing the part of family "Red.” 
That is, she is canning tomatoes. This 
porch is screened in, and there is an oil 
stove to put heat into the canning outfit. 
The lady is peeling a basket of big red 
fruit; her hands and arms are well 
smeared with the blood—not of martyrs, 
but of tomatoes! This job of mine would 
make one of those model gardeners too 
disgusted for comment. We set out the 
strawberry plants in April, in rows three 
feet apart, the plants two feet in the row. 
The soil is strong, and we wanted to push 
it hard. So in part of the patch we 
planted early peas between the rows, and 
in the rest early potatoes. The theory of 
this plan is sound enough. You get a 
big crop of peas and potatoes, and take 
them out in time for the berry plants to 
run out and cover the patch. In practice 
this does not always work. While the 
pea and potato vines stood up straight 
we kept the patch clean. Then came a 
time when these vines fell down and re¬ 
fused to get up. Then came the constant 
rains and the crab grass, and weeds came 
from all over to seek shelter under these 
vines. Before we could interfere the 
patch was a mass of this foul stuff, and 
the long rains kept it growing. The rich¬ 
ness of the soil delayed ripening of the 
potatoes, and by the time we got them 
out the strawberry plants seemed lost in 
the tangle. Here I am cleaning up this 
mess. Most of the work must be done 
with the fingers—a hoe would tear up too 
many runners. You have to g^t down on 
your knees and pull. As I crawl across 
the patch I leave a pile of weeds behind 
me like a windrow. I hold up my fingers 
and it seems surprising that they are 
not worn down at least half an inch. If 
I had kept those peas and potatoes out 
of here the berries would be far. better, 
and I would not have this crawling job. 
I am not to be alone here after all. That 
big black chicken leaves his crowd on the 
lawn and comes over here to scratch be¬ 
side me. The Jersey Giants are very 
tame and enterprising. This one stays 
right at my elbow for hours—the only 
member of my family to take this job from 
choice. He will have all the worms I can 
dig out! 
* # * * * 
There is a rattle and a sputter on the 
driveway and the truck comes snorting 
into the barnyard. At the same time 
Tom and Broker, the big grays, come 
down the hill with a load of apples. Tom 
scents the gasoline and pricks hack his 
ears with a snort. You can see him turn 
his head as if talking to sober old Broker: 
“That fellow thinks he’s smart, but 
what fearful breath he has! For years 
we went on the road like honest horses 
and did all the marketing on the farm. 
Why does this man keep such a great 
awkward thing around? It may have 
speed, but I’ll bet it eats him out of house 
and home!” _ 
“Well, now,” said old Broker, “every 
horse to his job. Working right on this 
farm is good enough for me. Let that 
truck do the road work, says I. No place 
like home for an honest horse like me.” 
“Not much. I like a little life now 
and then. I want to get out on the road 
among horses and see what is going on. 
That great, lazy, smelling thing has got 
us farm-bound where nobody sees us or 
knows what we are doing. And look at 
the gasoline that thing eats up, and its 
keep—my stars!” 
"Well, you have something of an appe¬ 
tite yourself. A gallon of oats costs some¬ 
thing, too. I’ll bet this man can’t feed 
and shoe and harness you for less than 
$200 a year! Let’s be glad this thing 
takes some of the work off our shoul¬ 
ders !” 
“But I saw this man’s bill for repairs” 
—but there came a jerk on the lines and 
“Get up!” and Torn put his mighty shoul¬ 
ders into the collar and pulled the load 
up to the shed, while the truck with a 
snort that sounded like a sneer moved on 
into the barn—just as if a repair bill for 
$273 was a very small matter. 
* # * * * 
Thomas was tired—as you might ex¬ 
pect after a night on the market. The 
load sold for $106.95. It was a mixture 
of corn, apples and tomatoes. That looks 
right at first thought, but one year ago 
the corresponding load of about the same 
class of goods brought $143. That is 
about the way they have gone this season. 
Our prices are certainly lower, and every 
item of cost is higher. There can be no 
question about that, yet our friends who 
buy food are paying as much as they 
ever did. But for the truck we would be 
worse off than we are now. We never 
could handle our crop with the horses. 
It is more and more necessary to get the 
goods right into market promptly and 
with no stop. While the truck has be¬ 
come a necessity, let no man think that 
it works for nothing. Old Tom is right 
in saying that I have a bill for $273 for 
refitting the truck this year and putting 
it in shape for the season. That item 
alone will add quite a few cents to the 
cost of carrying each package. Some of 
the smaller farmers on well-traveled 
roads are selling at roadside markets. 
This is a hard life, and includes Sunday 
work, and I understand that for some 
reason people arc not buying such goods 
as they did. The retail trade is rarely 
satisfactory where one produces a fairly 
large crop. I think (he plan for the 
future will mean a combination of farm¬ 
ers to open a store in the market town 
and retail and deliver their own goods co¬ 
operatively. 
* # * * * 
My back feels as if there were three 
hard knots in it. 1 must straighten them 
out by a change of occupation. I am 
going up on the hill to look at (he apple 
picking for a time. Little Rose, bare¬ 
footed and bareheaded, dressed in a pair 
of overalls, trots along with me. She 
eats two tomatoes on the way up, and 
then I find her a couple of mellow 
McIntosh. The dirt on the tomatoes has 
been transferred to her little face, and I 
think some .of it follows the apple into 
her mouth. Oh. well, these scientists will 
probably find vitamines in dirt before 
they are done. We are picking Graven- 
steins today—big rosy fellows—some of 
the trees running 15 bushels or more. I 
planted a block of these trees as an ex¬ 
periment. Now I wish I had more of 
them. The last lot brought. $5.25 per 
barrel. I do not care much for them for 
eating, but as baking apples they sell 
September 18, 1920 
well. This year any big apple brings a 
fair price. For instance, that despised 
Wolf River has been our best seller. The 
boys own several trees of Twenty Ounce, 
which are bringing about $20 per tree 
this year. Cherry-top is going to Pater¬ 
son this afternoon to put some of his 
apple money into a bicycle. I have told 
in past years how I gave my boys a few 
bearing apple trees and how they have 
bought others. These trees have given 
surprising returns. The larger boy is 
just starting for college, and his trees 
will go a long way toward paying ex¬ 
penses. The objection to giving such 
trees or selling at a low price is that the 
boy finds the income very “easy money.” 
It would be better for him to plant the 
young tree and stay by it till it comes in 
bearing. The only chemical I know of 
for extracting character out of money is 
warm sweat. I’d like to spend the day 
on the hills—here in the sunshine with 
the apples blushing on the trees and the 
grapes purpling on the walls and the 
clouds drifting over us. Rut that would 
never clean up those strawberries, and so 
little Rose and I go down on a load of 
apples—big Tom and Broker creeping 
down the steep hillside as if they realized 
that here was a job which the' truck 
could not copy. 
if * * * * 
I got at those weeds once more. Philip 
had carried several bushels to the geese, 
and these wise birds make much of them. 
The big sow, too, stands chewing a big 
red-root as a boy would chew candy. 
Nearby on a grassy corner little Missy 
^HUDSON, 
, SUPER, 
SIX 
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Why Are Hudson Owners 
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Zsn’f It Because Contentment In 
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Thousands of Hudson owners 
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Can Any Endorsement 
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Its Endurance Limits 
Still Undiscovered 
Years must elapse before we 
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Hudson Motor Car Company, Detroit, Michigan 
(4005 
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