566 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
Mere I am flat on my back in bed. The 
room has been darkened, and I seem to 
be gazing stupidly about with nothing 
particular in view. I have counted the 
roses on that strip of wallpaper at least 
50 times. There are exactly 35 on the 
east wall. I have verified that count 
until I will swear to it. No doubt there 
are as many more on the other side of 
the room, but somehow I do not seem to 
have enough ambition to turn my head so 
ae to count them. There are four pic¬ 
tures and two calendars on the wall, and 
exactly 37 tucks or wrinkles in that cur¬ 
tain. I do not quite understand what 
is the matter with my back. I have al¬ 
ways been active, and when in normal 
condition I think T can “sit up and take 
notice” as promptly and surely as any¬ 
one. Yet a moment ago. when I thought, 
to sit up and give my folks an opinion 
regarding the meal they brought me, some¬ 
how the familiar old back refused to func¬ 
tion. It seemed more like a collection 
of bony rings hanging on a string with¬ 
out cohesion or vital life. At any rate, I 
concluded that I did not care to sit up 
and notice anything for long; hadn’t the 
needed backbone for the job. Then this 
head of mine is certainly on a strike. 
From the top of the head down to the 
eyes there is a dull pain, as if some little 
machine inside the skull were grinding 
away in an effort to bore a hole through 
fi’om the inside and let something out. 
And the pain seems to be like lime in 
water. It’« heavy and has slowly de¬ 
posited until now it has formed a coat¬ 
ing around my eyes. This right one in 
particular has filled up on pain. It is 
running, too. Every now and then I put 
up my hand and feel a small rivulet 
trickling down my cheek. There seems 
to have been so much of it that the salt 
which usually flavors tears has all been 
washed away. My shoulders, too—well, 
every time I try to move my shoulder 
blades they feel like the blades of a dull 
jack-knife carving out a good-sized place 
for exercise! 
* * * * * 
There are other symptoms, of course. 
For instance, this nose of mine seems to 
have been packed as hard with “wadding” 
as the old musket I used when we went 
hunting years ago. We pounded the pa¬ 
per into that gun with an iron ramrod. 
Then when it was fired off it made a 
noise somewhat like what comes to me 
when I try to blow this nose. And tem¬ 
perature ! The Japanese boy came and 
put the little thermometer under my 
tongue. When it had been there long 
enough he took it to the window to read 
the figures. I can see him standing there 
wise and dignified as he announces “103!” 
But what nonsense that is! 103? Why, 
I know it is 130 degrees, and who can 
tell better than I? Do I need any ther¬ 
mometer? I think I will throw away 
about three of these covers and cool off. 
But what’s the use? Over there by the 
window sits a forcible, though silent, 
lady, who would not say a word, but 
would simply come and put the covers 
back and tuck them in securely.. I lie 
here trying to remember any similar ex¬ 
perience I have ever had before. In all 
my life I never spent over three days in 
bed at one time. Some of these people 
become so accustomed to sickness that 
thev really seem to enjoy it. I cannot 
truthfully say that I do. even though it 
brings me into the most intimate relation 
with my family. Yet as I lie.here with 
mind concentrated on the subject I can 
remember one occasion when I did feel 
much like this. A good many years.ago, 
in a lumber camp in Northern Michigan. 
I put on the gloves and boxed about 12 
strenuous rounds with a man who thought 
himself the local champion. When I 
woke up the following morning, as I re¬ 
member it, my eye felt about as this right 
one does now. My shoulders carried 
much the same pain, and a couple of ribs 
felt as if they had been roasted. I got 
up and went to work, feeling very willing 
to let the other man continue to call him¬ 
self “champion.” To my surprise I found 
that he could not get out of bed. I went 
to see him, and we shook hands as he 
remarked: “7" shall have to hand it to 
you!” Youth is seldom wise, but most 
of its foolishness is free from crime, or 
meanness, and as T lie here remembering 
that incident I determine to put up a 
good battle against this thing that has 
me in a corner at the moment, fight it 
off and make it say: “/ shall have to 
hand it to you.” 
***** 
I came home 36 hours ago (it seems 
like 36 days) and went to bed, thinking 
I would get up the next, morning feeling 
like a colt. When mother saw me she 
took my temperature and never said a 
word. I gave full instructions not to 
send for any doctor, for I knew full well 
what these' fellows advise; but first I 
knew after a brief doze there stood the 
doctor beside me with a cool hand and 
that cooler smile, which seems so exas¬ 
perating to the sick man. Well, he felt 
my pulse, looked at my eye and throat, 
thumped me in the ribs, listened at my 
bade—I presume you know it all. Then 
he looked wise and gave me.the sign lan¬ 
guage of shaking hands with himself— 
which meant grippe! I was to lie in 
this bed for at least three days, eat noth¬ 
ing but liquid food and take such “dope” 
as he suggested. 
“If you don’t do it you’ll take a chance 
Tht RURAL P 
on pneumonia.” he said. Then he smiled 
and went off to look over other patients, 
feeling confident that mother and daugh¬ 
ter will keep me in prison. They will. 
It is surprising how little energy I have 
left with which to protest against the 
infamy of lying 72 hours in bed. First 
I knew mother came in the dim light 
with what I took to be a glass of hot 
lemonade. That is about the only medi¬ 
cine I take for a cold, and it usually does 
the business. So T sat up as well as I 
could, and with the pleasantest of antici¬ 
pation started to pour down that fine liba¬ 
tion. Whew ! It wasn’t lemonade at all. 
but a strong dose of Epsom salts—a part 
of that doctor’s infernal and internal 
plot. Once as a hired man I held a 
heifer while the bos« poured a big dose 
of Epsom salts down her throat out of a 
bottle. As I lie here tonight I know 
just why that young cow seemed to look 
reproachfully at me every time I entered 
the barn. It surely was a surprise. 
At times like this, with nothing else to 
do. we search the past for comparisons. 
The only experience I can think of just 
like it is that time we first substituted 
dusting for spraying. I was afflicted 
with a throat trouble which defied treat¬ 
ment. A medical friend advised me to 
use dust instead of sprays or gargles. 
Nothing like experimenting, so I sat on 
the edge of the bed, opened my mouth 
and shut my eyes. Ma took a tin tube 
and put about a teaspoonful of dry cook¬ 
ing soda into it. She pushed this loaded 
tube into my mouth to within about two 
inches of the back of the throat, and 
blew into her end of the tube. Conversa¬ 
tion with a deaf husband had given her 
good lungs, and that charge of sodium 
bicarbonate hit me like a 10-inch shell. I 
am told that I turned a complete back 
somersault and came up on my feet at 
the back of the bed. It cured the throat 
and made me an advocate of dusting. 
EW-YORKER 
This dose of Epsom salts has given me a 
new argument against spraying. I can 
taste it yet. Well, there seems to be* 
nothing to it but bear it and try to grin. 
That lady sitting there darning stockings 
is in league with that doctor. I think 
I’ll turn over, try to find some soft spot 
on my back and take a nap. 
***** 
Later.—Well. I have killed two days 
of this bed grind, and it surely has not 
killed me. I feel better—perfectly well 
enough to get up and go out to see the 
spraying, if I could only convince these 
jailers of mine. They hold me to the 
full 72 hours, and then one more night. 
They seem to consider one glass of hot 
milk as a full meal for a grown-up man. 
Baked bean night came and went, but not 
for me. Baked apples are banned, but 
that pasteurized apple juice has the doc¬ 
tor's O. K. I am glad, for I confess that 
on the second night I tossed about vainly 
hunting for a soft spot on the bed. The 
jailer was asleep, and I remembered the 
jar of apple juice in the next room. I 
shall have to admit that I took one good 
pull at it, and it did me good. Do you 
know what it made me think of? That 
s witchell that Uncle Chax-les used to make 
in the hay field 50 years ago. I can see 
him now with his jug of spring water, 
putting in the molasses, vinegar, ginger 
and crushed peppermint leaves. But next 
morning the temperature was up a little 
and the jailer pointed her finger at me. 
“I told you so. You never will get 
that temperature down if you keep bob¬ 
bing out of bed and running around ! Why 
do you not stay nice and warm in that 
comfortable bed?” Of course, she told me 
so! When did a faithful wife fail in that 
duty. Without the energy to debate the 
statement, I can only analyze it. "I am 
nice, am I? I do not feel so. Warm 
bed? That, at least, is correct. Com- 
April 9, 1921 
fortable? I deny it! And I can prove 
my statement by the evidence of 50 dif¬ 
ferent bones.” 
One trouble with a sickness of this 
sort is that the children cannot come as 
near as I would like. They might “catch 
it,” as little Rose says. So they stand 
in the doorway and watch me, ready to 
run errands or do anything to help. Last 
night four of them sat in the doorway 
playing dominoes, so as to give me com¬ 
pany without coming too close. I think 
I can see. as I never quite did before, 
what a job it must be to organize such 
a big household as cure and keep it run¬ 
ning smoothly. The average man does 
not seem to realize that “there are oth¬ 
ers.” Some people evidently think that 
because they are the bread-winners or 
earners the rest of the household must 
be spenders and little more. It seems to 
require a “spell of sickness” to convince 
them that homekeeping i<s organized and 
skilled labor just as necessary as any 
other labor in the world. In fact, I 
think we shall find that the human race 
has improved and gained in real nobility 
not so much through brute, or even skilled 
labor of hand or mind, as through the 
development of home life. When a -woman 
shows herself equal to the great task of 
organizing her home so as to feed and 
clothe and train her family, and keep the 
wheels running smoothly, she is a great 
citizen, fully equal in her importance to 
society to any man. Then you think the 
bachelor who assumes no family respon¬ 
sibilities is a lower type of citizen than 
he who provides a family and then pro¬ 
vides fairly for it? You have my idea 
exactly, in case the men realize fairly 
what the mother’s influence amounts to. 
And the bachelor is a better citizen than 
the married man who has home and ample 
income, but no family, yet denies himself 
and wife the glory of providing for chil¬ 
dren. I think an increase in the number 
True economy calls for 
efficient machines 
W AS there ever a time when 
to get maximum production 
with the smallest possible ex¬ 
pense was so necessary as now? 
How are you going to do it? Prob¬ 
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Labor is hard to get, and expensive 
when you get it—too expensive to use 
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Chicago 
W8A 
