626 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
April 23, 1921 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
Wtipn this old grippe loosened his clutch 
at my head I thought the battle was over. 
I felt as though I had gone through a 
wrestling match with a headloek applied 
for several days, and I was well satisfied 
to end the match and call it a draw. 1'he 
Japanese boy took my temperature, and 
after much consultation with little Rose 
and the girls, said there was no rise! 
The doctor smiled, but refused to accept 
their testimony, so he tried it himself, 
but had to admit that they were right. 
Now, 1 thought. T shall get up and knock 
things down in great shape; let me at 
this pile of work; it will disappear like 
ice cream before the children. But some¬ 
how I did not feel like doing it as I ex¬ 
pected. There seemed to be an accumula¬ 
tion of rust at every joint. I started to 
walk briskly up our steep hill, and to my 
surprise, found it a job to reach the top. 
Then it became easy to understand what 
they all told me beforehand—that the 
hardest part of this grippe comes when 
you try to get over it. As soon as I 
understood that and realized that one 
must slack up for a time, the thing got 
easier, and now the machine is moving 
better, and will be improved as a result 
of this overhauling. 
sjc n* 
As is the case with most patients, I sup¬ 
pose, there has been much volunteer ad¬ 
vice about treatment. One man advises 
me to take pills of strychnine, another 
savs: "Keep away from all doctors.” It 
seem« to me that these “self-eurers” are a 
little in advance of the faith curers. for 
they appear to graft self-conceit upon 
faith. Very likely most of us object to 
discipline. We are natural rebels, and 
come under orders only when we are 
forced to. We would all be better off 
if we “fell in” at command. As for me. 
I am not a self-curer. and I do not intend 
to turn my body into an experiment sta¬ 
tion. Having been advised to try almost 
everything, from olive oil to strychnine, 
1 conclude that I will try nothing except 
on the doctor's advice. When you believe 
your doctor to be an honest man, with 
reasonable skill in bis profession, my ad¬ 
vice is to do what he tells you. and let 
the self-curers alone. Some of them put 
up a good argument, but T am well satis¬ 
fied that something more than argument 
is needed to cure a case of the grippe. 
We think we know how to handle cases 
of bruise or cuts or simple ailments, but 
when any of the children get out of sorts 
our plan is to put a clinical thermometer 
right under the tongue and get the tem¬ 
perature. If it is too high and remains 
high in spite of simple home remedies, 
get. the doctor. I have lived in families 
where they seemed to use a shingle in 
place of a thermometer. I have seen chil¬ 
dren who acted “dumpy” and slow 
whipped or cuffed when they should have 
been put to bed and nursed. I know some 
people who seem to regard doctors as 
mere trouble-makers or hold-up men. I 
do not; T am sure T can name a dozen 
men and women of my acquaintance who 
are now forced to go through life under 
a heavy physical handicap because some 
honest doctor did not look them over and 
prescribe for them while they were small. 
* * if if * 
The worst thing I find about this grippe 
recovery is the terrible depression which 
gets you by the throat whenever you feel 
tired or worried. I think I may fairly 
claim to be something of an optimist, but 
in some unaccountable way for two weeks 
after that siege with grippe the entire 
scheme of life looked wrong. The trees 
burst out into leaf and never gave prom¬ 
ise of a finer crop. All I could think of 
was the danger from a late frost. It be¬ 
came a conviction with me that the buds 
will all be killed! The Black Jersey 
Giants are laying well, and we are get- 
ling all the eggs into incubators or under 
hens; but I could not escape the belief 
that most of them would prove infertile, 
or that the chicks would die. It was the 
most curious sensation that ever came to 
me—this inability to see anything of the 
bright side of life. I conclude that the 
man with the darkened mind, of whom 
we read in the Bible, was very likely 
recovering from the grippe ! I must say 
that I have come to have greater charity 
and a more kindly feeling for those who, 
plunged in depression, throw up their 
hands and go down out of sight. The 
best cure that 1 have found is a combi¬ 
nation of sleep and children. There are 
those who seem to think it a disgrace or 
evidence of weakness to take extra hours 
of sleep. I do not, and so when the end 
of the weary days came and I began to 
imagine all sorts of probable misfortunes, 
I did not sit still and listen to any tale 
of woe, but after a little round with the 
children I went to bed and forgot it all in 
sleep. Of all the blessed privileges of 
life. T think the one most to be desired is 
the ability to lie down at any time and 
fall asleep in 10 minutes. Of course, the 
hustlers and the boosters will say that 
the world is not much influenced by peo¬ 
ple who are asleep. It is my opinion 
that the world would be saner and more 
efficient if some of these hustlers spent 
more time in sleeping. They might not 
sift quite as much “pep” into the oyster 
stew of life, but sleep would turn some 
of that “pep” into salt, which is the savior 
of human society. But, at any rate, I 
found sleep and children combined a sure 
antidote for the poison which the grippe 
leaves in your bones, your joints and your 
imagination. 
:Je ♦ 4s $ * 
Why. here comes little Rose. 
“What da ya think?” she says. “I 
was weighed today, and I have gained 
six pounds since I came here!” 
True enough, the little thing has gained I 
00 ounces in :>0 days. She can almost i 
figure it out alone—three ounces of solid, 
rosy flesh per day. Milk and eggs, butter 
and cream, have put the bloom on this lit¬ 
tle face, the gleam in her eye and the 
nervous energy which throbs through her 
like little springs as she snuggles up in 
the chair beside me. And just see that 
new dress and those low shoes! Why, 
you cannot make little Rose believe that, 
the frost is to kill all our buds. This 
faint shimmer of white and pink now be¬ 
ginning to show on the apple trees is to 
her the great glory of the year. She will 
believe in it until it is actually killed, 
and then she will know that it will all 
come back again. Then here is Cherry- 
top. He went out on April 1 after trout. 
It rained hard, but he tramped for miles 
and caught one fish : we all had a taste 
of it. Then the boy has some new music, 
and he sits over there by the window mak¬ 
ing that violin talk and sing until it chases 
depression out into the rain—where it be¬ 
longs. And the little girl has given us 
a sample of her masterpiece. For we 
have just had a wedding anniversary at 
Hope Farm. When I came home with 
the usual bunch of roses, there was this 
girl just putting the “frosting” on a big 
cake—and mother cut it and I passed it 
around. Not much chance for old grippe 
to fasten his depression on this family ; 
we have too much to think about. If you 
want to get. entirely rid of it. come on 
with us out. to the kitchen and see my 
daughter mix the fishballs for tomorrow’s 
breakfast. 
***** 
In a New England family making and 
eating fishballs comes close to being a 
part of family worship. My daughter 
may be said to be 75 per cent 5 ankee by 
breeding, but that other 25 per cent has 
asserted' itself. 
“I like New England very well,” she 
says, “but sometimes I wish they would 
admit that ‘there are others.’ ” 
Oh. say! Get a purebred Yankee to 
admit that and his chief stock in trade 
is gone! As well expect him to swap 
horses without whittling a stick. Some¬ 
times when I get to speaking of the gap at 
debt this country owes to New England. 
I look across the table and there is this 
young woman with her hands clasped and 
her eyes rolled up as if in adoration of 
some saint. Rut, at. any rate, why not 
come out and see the fishballs made? I’ll 
guarantee that if you could eat one you , 
would vote for Gape God. They peel the 
potatoes and cut them into little cubes. 
These are slowly boiled in a closed dish 
until they are soft. The shredded codfish 
is picked fine and thoroughly mixed all 
through this hot potato. A couple of 
those brown eggs arc broken in and the 
whole mess thoroughly steamed and 
cooked. Tomorrow morning this mass 
will be cut in slices or patted into little 
cakes and fried crisp and brown over a 
hot fire. The fish “cakes” you order at 
a restaurant are soft and uncooked, with 
a ruinous dash of “tomato sauce ’ over 
them. Why, the Pilgrim Fathers never 
heard of tomato sauce—and see what they 
did on a diet of fish and cornmeal. But 
there goes my daughter with her imita- | 
tion of the adoration, and we will confine 
ourselves to praise of these fishballs. 
***** 
Nature does not act like one who is 
recovering from the grippe. Never have 
I see Spring come running so fast. By 
April 10 the erabapple trees and Carman 
peaches and cherries were in bloom. They 
are. of course, taking chances, but when 
the new sap stirs in the veins of youth, 
“chance” seems like a sure thing—and it 
is sure until frost gets to it. We hope 
to get through without a killing frost, but 
it will be a close shave. Farm work is 
well ahead, and we are ready to plant 
strawberries and potatoes. After many 
trials we have r. small patch of kudzu 
planted. The roots came from Florida, 
where this plant is said to be a wonder. 
Now we shall see what is will do in New 
Jersey. With annual Sweet clover for 
green manuring and kudzu as a perma¬ 
nent fodder crop, “we may be happy yet.” 
Our geese are standing by us nobly. Just 
now six of the geese are sitting—in odd 
corners, and there are eggs enough for 
the remaining two. Out on the lawn 
stands a group of ganders—like disconso¬ 
late husbands who know better than to 
disturb their busy wives. These feathered 
gentlemen seem to be keeping a sort of 
“bachelor’s hall.” and I must confess that 
they are doing it well. The cows are out, 
of the barn, kicking up their heels for 
joy; the hens are all busy, the rhubarb 
and watercress are nearly ready for us— 
there doesn’t «eem to be a thing on the 
farm that is really afflicted with this de¬ 
pression. It is aimost as I expected. All 
through the Winter we felt that this sea¬ 
son would be a good time to put on the 
brakes and ease up on production. Yet, i 
as is always the case, Spring not only re¬ 
news the buds, but starts up the old habit 
of work—and we are once more ready j 
for the job. H.w. c. 1 
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