654 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
Pastoral Parson and His Country Folks 
By Rev. George B. Gilbert 
IIe Tolled the Bell. —A stranger was 
riding along through an Ohio town the 
other day, and he heard a bell tolling. It 
tolled and tolled and tolled. At last he 
came in sight of the church, and expected 
to see the signs of a funeral ranged round 
about the edifice. But there was nothing 
there—not even a person in sight. Look¬ 
ing inside the door, there was one lone 
man, tolling and tolling the bell. “I 
thought ther^ must be somebody dead,” 
Sister and Little “Ta •” 
he said, half apologetically. “Well.” an¬ 
swered the man, “1 came here and rang 
the bell and rang it, and no one came and 
no one was in sight, and so I began toll¬ 
ing it. No ; no one in particular is dead. 
Just the church is dead, that’s all.” 
Didn’t Have To. —But we didn’t have 
to toll the old bell down at the Parson's 
country church the last time he was 
down. We had a fine congregation and 
the largest number to communion we have 
had for a long time. We had our annual 
meeting, and our treasury showed a bal¬ 
ance of almost $70, with all bills paid. 
Then all who could stayed and had dinner 
together—2S sat down to the table. Ilow 
happy and cheerful and friendly every¬ 
thing was! Then while the women folks 
were doing up the dishes came the ball 
game. Bight on the church lawn, too. 
The Parson brought down a bat and a 
big indoor baseball. Such a ball is soft 
and will hurt no one; neither can it be 
batted far and lost. All the men and 
boys played, and such a time as we had! 
The women visited and talked and sat in 
the church door and watched the game. 
Is It Contagious? —Is Christianity 
contagious? The Parson heard Dean 
Shailer Mathews of Chicago talking the 
other day. And he said real (notice the 
real) Christianity was contagious. Now 
the Parson would eay that church-going 
today, especially among the young folks 
and young men. was about as popular as 
a skunk in a henvard. How do people 
regard Sunday in your church? Do they 
look forward to it all the week? If they 
dread it and would rather go anywhere 
else, then you might as well go toll the 
bell. Didn’t they used to sing “Every 
Day Will Be Sunday By and By?” And 
didn’t the boys and young fellows drop 
out and beat it before that terrible day 
got too near? 
In a Village at That. —The Parson 
tried out this same idea of cheerfulness 
and sociability in a village mission the 
other day. We had the service in the 
afternoon and then about 5 o’clock we all 
went down in the basement and had coffee 
and sandwiches and sat round little tables 
and visited for an hour or more. It cer¬ 
tainly was a nice time we had. 
Still Worse. —In another village 
where the boys and the Parson had been 
wont to go over on the ball ground after 
service and cook dinner and play games, 
it has seemed but right to the Parson that 
the girls should have a chance to go along, 
too! Strangely enough, the girls are en¬ 
thusiastic over the idea. What if the 
plan should extend to the whole congre¬ 
gation. and after morning service go 
trooping, chatting and smiling with picnic 
boxes under their arms, over to the town 
playgrounds. The Parson more than half 
suspicions that before the Summer is over 
this very thing will happen. He has been 
oiling up the three-gallon ice cream freez¬ 
er against the day. 
A Trip to College. —The Parson has 
been up to Amherst Agricultural College 
to a conference on agricultural missions. 
This is a new line in mission work, and 
promises great things. Where, as in 
India, more than a hundred million people 
lie down hungry at night, the first thing 
to do is to help raise something to eat. 
That this common-sense, practical idea of 
improving the farming appeals to people 
here may be seen by t.he fact that the 
head of this kind of work in India is just 
returning with pledges of .$50,000 a year 
for five years, to use in this kind of work. 
Quite Farming. —It was an eye-open¬ 
er to the Parson to learn how much is 
being done now in the mission field in the 
way of fanning. There are 231 stations 
now in which something of this sort is 
being done. In Africa alone, the Metho¬ 
dists own one farm of 2,000 acres, an¬ 
other of 3.000, and have just bought an¬ 
other of 12,000 acres for .$12,000. They 
have a farm of 400 acres in France to 
demonstrate American machinery and 
stock raising. The Presbyterians own 
one farm of 10,000 and another of 12,000 
acres in Brazil. Perhaps the most aston¬ 
ishing thing in this line is great American 
tractors starting to plow the vast Punjab 
of India—more than twenty million acres. 
Four acres of this land will support a 
family. Just think of a project that 
might move four or five million families 
of the outcasts of India on their own 
land, making them self-supporting and 
self-respecting at the same time. Word 
comes from the mission field that results 
from the work are decreasing because not 
more closely connected with the economic 
interests of the people. John W. Woods 
says that the great approach in mission 
work in the next ten years will be the 
agricultural one. 
Practical Teaching. —As the Parson 
nosed around the Agricultural College at. 
Amherst he went into a place from 
whence seemed to come the sound of 
blacksmith hammers. Yes, there was a 
row of students working at a line of 
forges. What a great thing that is for 
them. What a help it would often have 
been to the Parson—to every farmer. Yes, 
and here is another place where they 
learn all about gas engines and how to 
overhaul them, and still further is a place 
where they are working on autos—over¬ 
hauling and putting together again. Right 
beside the carpenter shop where the stu¬ 
dents had been making and ironing a wag¬ 
on body, was a place where they learned 
about storage batteries, not only how 
they are re-charged, but how to take them 
apart and re-insulate them. It certainly 
makes one feel as though they wanted to 
start in and go to school all over again 
Over in a barn was a man feeding dried 
apple pomace to a small herd of Jersey 
cows as an experiment. While no exact 
data was available, the man said lie 
thought the cows were doing well on it. 
A Rainy Sunday. —Here is is. Sunday 
morning, and raining for all it is worth. 
It must have rained now for about three 
days. It is warm, and the grass is high 
enough to turn out to pasture—yet none 
have turned out, for fear of more cold 
weather. We had planned a great time 
down at the old church in the country. A 
delegation of college students and divinity 
men and professors were coming down to 
see the work—to eat dinner after church, 
and to play on the church lawn with the 
indoor baseball. But now it is all off, 
and the Parson only hopes the rain will 
keep up hard enough so he will not have 
to go away at all. Perhaps once or twice 
a year he has a quiet Sunday at home; 
otherwise he never has a real restful Sun¬ 
day. Of course he always thinks he will 
rest and read Monday, and if not Monday, 
then the first rainy day, but of course 
he never does, as there are always a thou¬ 
sand and one things waiting to be done. 
How many who could have a real Sunday 
don’t appreciate the fact, and don’t have 
one. Perhaps some time, though we hope 
not. they may have to work all day. and 
then they will. As the Parson and the 
boys closed the barn doors and headed for 
the house last Sunday night the clock over 
in the city was striking out the hour of 
midnight. 
The Baby Chicks. —This long rainy 
snell has been a bad time for the baby 
chicks. The boys have about 125 being 
cared for by hens. They have 25 to a hen. 
Some of these hens did not hatch any, but 
by putting the little incubator chicks un¬ 
der them at night after they have sat for 
a few days they will generally own them. 
We bought most of the chicks. There 
seems to be a tendency around here in 
Connecticut to increase the poultry busi¬ 
ness greatly. Never have there been so 
many day-old chicks sent in by mail. Not 
a few come from Chicago, and generally in 
excellent condition, with few or none 
dead. 
The Goslings. —Some little goslings 
are hatching under a hen today. The 
Parson has had to help 6ome of them out 
of the shell. As the Parson is away too 
much to look after them, he will probably 
sell them as “day-old goslings.” Last 
year such brought .$1 each, and probably 
will bring the same this year. There has 
been a tremendous call for goose eggs for 
setting—greater than for years. We have 
one old goose sitting on nine eggs—all 
we had at that t : me to put under her. 
Old Jerry keeps guard on the outside, 
and woe be to the boy or hen that hap¬ 
pens anywhere near that nest. 
Little Ta. —In the picture you see sis¬ 
ter and little “Ta” looking at the smoke¬ 
house arrangement. We started to call 
him Charles, or Charlesie Boy. But those 
names proved too long for everyday wear, 
so they reduced it clear down to “Ta.’ 
What an untold blessing such a little fel¬ 
low is in a family. He has always been 
so affectionate. As a baby he has always 
slept with his Mommo, always snuggling 
closer and closer. How he does love his 
Mommo and shadow her all day long. 
Though three and a half now, he always 
gets his rocking and loving after dinner 
with his nap. At night, too, he is rocked 
and loved to sleep. He is put to bed in 
his little cribbie, but most always before 
morning, and if not. then in the morning 
he comes crawling in “lide Mommo.” 
Then there is a great loving spell, as 
though he had been gone a month. 
Mine “Feet” Boy. —He is growing 
along on the complete supposition that 
he is the sweetest boy in the country. If 
he is told this once, he is told it a hundred 
times a day. It is the very fundamental 
of his existence. “Hard ticket, Ta,” his 
Poppo will jest with him. “No, me hard 
ticket, mine feet boy.” It certainly is 
lovely to see the fellow trying to live up 
to this idea. Just now he has come in 
from washing facie and flung the towel 
down on a chair in the dining room. “Oh, 
go and take the towel back in kitchen,” 
says Mrs. Parson. But he hesitates. He 
dosen’t want to go back—he is headed to 
go in and play with Sit. “Wh-e-r-e’s my 
sweet boy?” I hear his mom say. 
“Wh-e-r-e’s my sweet boy gone to?” Then 
he turns and gives her the sweetest smile 
you ever saw and goes and^ carries the 
towel back. 
Wiiat a Good Boy He Is. —That is 
what you can’t help saying all day long. 
Now that the children are getting older 
—Shelley is 17—we get off sometimes for 
an evening. His Mommo talks this all 
over with little Ta; how she is going to 
get ready to go up town. “Mine go up 
town?” he will say. “Not this time. 
Baby go up town, some other time him go 
up town wif Mommo.” “All right,” lie 
will say. “You be sweet boy and let 
Ister put you to beddie, and when you 
wake up, Mommo be right there.” “You 
be right lide me, Mommo?” he will say, 
and not a word or a tear. 
Never Lied To. —One thing is certain ; 
he has never been lied to, so far as the 
Parson knows. He is never lied to about 
rats in the cellar that will eat him up, or 
policemen in town that wili come and 
carry him off, or anything else. Ilow hon¬ 
est and trustful and sweet a little child 
is, just fresh from the handiwork of God, 
till lie is deceived and lied to and threat¬ 
ened and frightened to do the same thing 
himself. Lie to them when they are lit¬ 
tle, and then lick them for lying to you 
when they get bigger. Isn’t that just 
about the amount of it? 
His Babies. —Everyone that comes to 
the house has to go and see his babies. 
He loves his babies. They are in the end 
of the long wood box behind the kitchen 
stove. He loves to stand at the end of 
the box and watch them and see Mamma 
Kitty come back to them and see them all 
cry out to greet her. He watches her 
love them and wash them and give them 
their dinner. He says Mamma Kitty 
goes to get mousie for her babies. The 
first day he was quite mystified. He saw 
old Trix get into that woodbox quite 
alone and then when he came in from out¬ 
doors there were three babies snuggled 
beside her. The Parson can never forget 
how honest and trustful the little fellow’s 
April 30, 1921 
expression was as he looked up to Poppo 
and said “Where did the babies come 
from?” And the Parson told him, as he 
stood there by the kitchen stove, just 
what Mrs. Parson told Ister when little 
Ta came. “Their mamma has been Car- 
Tying them around with her for a long 
time while they were so very little, but 
now they are bigger and stronger and 
she can leave them here by the warm stove 
while she goes off to look for mousie.” 
“Oh,” said little Ta, and was satisfied. 
Brushing a Meadow 
I w r ould advise J. J. G., page 533, to 
clear that old grass from his meadow, to 
make a brush drag by taking a piece of 
timber six or eight feet long, bore holes 
in it one foot apart, and wire brush on 
top by passing wire through the holes; 
elm or haw brush is best. Put on plenty 
of brush, with a board on top to stand 
on. Loop a chain for each horse to pull 
by. Give it a good brushing when dry, 
and the old grass will break up and rot 
out of the way before harvest. He can 
take his hay rake and give it a raking 
and haul the rakings off if the brush does 
not complete the job. E. B. wtlson. 
“The Haunted Chimney” 
The structure shown in the picture is 
known as the “haunted chimney” and 
stands at the head of a fertile valley lo¬ 
cated in Sandgate County, Vermont, and 
Washington County, New l r ork. It is 
about 28 ft. high and perhaps 8 ft. square 
at the base, is built of rough flat stone 
and clay. In the base, and what was 
probably a basement kitchen, is an im¬ 
mense fireplace, from one side of w T hich 
a powerful crane, capable of supporting 
several hundred pounds, still swings from 
its rusty hinges. On what was the next 
floor were three fireplaces on as many 
sides, and on the top floor one more fire¬ 
place served to warm the upper portion 
of the house. Its location in the foot¬ 
hills of the Green Mountains, its bubbling 
springs, the trout stream flowing down its 
side, together with the natural beauty of 
its scenery, make the valley a popular 
picnic place both for people residing near¬ 
by and from a distance. Innumerable 
tales are told at the picnic tables of the 
incident which gave the chimney the rep¬ 
utation of being haunted. 
That the chimney somewhat deserves 
its name seems to be shown by fairly 
well-authenticated accounts which have 
been handed down by past generations. 
In about the year 1838 the house for 
which the chimney was built was occu¬ 
pied by a family named Thompson, and 
consisted of a father, mother, son and 
daughter. They seemed to be people who 
kept closely at home, and most accounts 
seem to agree that the daughter, then a 
woman of about 40, was a large, eccentric 
woman with an enormous appetite, and 
was also a part owner of hte farm. One 
day in Summer she suddenly disappeared 
and all efforts to find her failed. The 
ponds in the woods were dragged, the 
woods thoroughly searched, and even the 
swamp south of the house was carefully 
gone over, to no avail. Shortly after¬ 
wards the father became insane and the 
neighbors became suspicious that foul 
play had occurred. The nearest neighbor 
recalled seeing a heavy black smoke pour¬ 
ing out of the chimney nearly all day one 
Sunday some time previous, and a pecu¬ 
liar smell in the air .like burning flesh. 
Other neighbors farther away had no¬ 
ticed the smell, although not near enough 
to see the smoke. Although no investiga¬ 
tion was made the family was left pretty 
much alone, and suddenly the place was 
sold and the family left the locality. 
Neighbors spoke vaguely of their having 
gone West, but no one seemed to know 
where. 
The place was occupied by another fam¬ 
ily, but for only a few years. Accounts 
The “Haunted Chimney” 
seem to differ as to whether the house 
was then torn down or burned, but the 
absence of any signs of fire on a few 
large timbers imbedded in the sides of the 
chimney would seem to show that the 
former was correct. Today the farm is 
owned by a resident of an adjoining val¬ 
ley, and nothing remains but the chim¬ 
ney, a mute witness of what may have 
been a grim tragedy of generations long 
past gone. JOHN C. COTTRELL. 
