786 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
“Oh, what is so rare as a day in June?” 
Lowell wrote that in a damp, bleak cor¬ 
ner of New England, where the icy breath 
from the Atlantic compels Spring to wear 
her furs. Had he lived in New Jersey 
this year, I think Lowell would have 
edited or revised his statement. Spring 
came dancing up our valley far ahead of 
time this year, and May 21 might well 
stand as the perfect day. At least, so it 
seemed to me, as I looked out across the 
glittering lawn, where the early sunlight 
had turned the dewdrops into “sparklers.” 
A group of robins came hopping into 
view—early birds hunting for lazy and 
belated worms. It has always seemed to 
me that the robin is a solitary and selfish 
bird, but the very joy of morning seemed 
to have brought this group together. 
Around the corner of the house came 
Roger Red and several of his wives— 
early risers, not hunting for work, but 
for worms. I was forced to admit that 
while Mrs. Robin and Mrs. Red had 
shown themselves worthy housekeepers, 
the ladies of my own household were still 
asleep. Daylight-saving does not appeal 
to them ! For breakfast Thomas and I 
had oatmeal and cream, pancakes and 
syrup, and all the milk we wanted. In 
our household we all agree with Dr. Mc¬ 
Collum, that milk is the great "protec¬ 
tive” food, and, therefore, there is family , 
free trade in milk. Thus well fortified 
with vitamines, we went out into the per¬ 
fect day all ready for work. 
***** 
The beauty of the picture spread out 
before us from our hill was beyond hu¬ 
man power of expression. Billowy waves 
of green stretched away to the east. In 
the sunny spots the dew had disappeared, 
but here and there were patches on the 
west side of the hills where the dew had 
waited for the sun, and they were now 
sparkling like great diamonds against the 
green of the woods and grass. There 
were little patches of blue water, and 
here and there silver ribbons where little 
brooks ran down from hidden springs to 
join the larger brooks and rivers. And 
over it all the deep blue of the sky, with¬ 
out a cloud or a shadow to mar the glori¬ 
ous roof arched far above us. Far to 
the north through the clear sky great hills 
stood up as if seeking to cure their bald 
old heads by bathing them in the sun¬ 
light. To the south, across a more level 
country, we could look to the great city 
where gilded towers and dark housetops 
were shining in the sunlight. A gentle 
wind was moving the tree tops in a soft 
wavy motion, stirring the polished green 
leaves until it seemed as if waves of elec¬ 
tric light were passing over them. A beau¬ 
tiful day! A perfect day. it seemed to 
us. in the freshness of morning. Mingled 
with the great joy of living came a feel¬ 
ing of regret for those unfortunate souls 
w'ho spend their days in town and city 
without ever knowing the joy and glory 
of true farm life. 
ft jfc 
But there is one thing about the joy 
and glory of life which should be remem¬ 
bered. It may be possible for those who 
handle and sell farm products (or their 
heirs) to view the pleasant things of life 
without great labor. Tf a farmer under¬ 
took to spend a perfect day viewing the 
landscape and dreaming, he would prob¬ 
ably have a rude awakening in the poor- 
house or in some other job. So Thomas 
and I laid our plans for labor, not for 
loafing. We have about six acres of 
sweet corn planted, two acres of potatoes, 
about 2.500 tomato plants, four acres of 
oats, the ground ready for about five acres 
of field corn, a great garden and big 
patches for cucumbers, peppers and string 
beans. There will probably be about five 
acres more of sweet corn. The trees have 
been dusted, and there is little more to 
do with them before picking, except to 
clip the grass twice and let it lie on the 
ground. Thomas and the day man pile 
in a load of fertilizer and start for the 
Alabama field at the back of the farm, 
where we have nearly four acres of 
“Sheeminie” sweet corn. All our fields 
are named. This one was started as a 
peach orchard—the trees coming from 
Alabama. 'When the trees were pulled 
out we retained the name because six of 
our children were born in that State. 
Broker and Tom pull the big load of fer¬ 
tilizer up the hill and disappear over the 
top. We shall not, see them again until 
dinner time. Philip does the chores, and 
then finished putting the wire fence 
around the lower orchard. Our poultry 
W’ill be confined here all Summer. The 
geese became a nuisance in the early 
sweet corn. As fast as it came above 
ground these gray gluttons waddled 
through the field nipping off the sprouts. 
They were worse than crows, because 
they can eat more, and prohibition is the 
only remedy. So they will spend the 
Summer in the orchard of big apple trees 
near the barn. A little brook runs 
through it. and there is good pasture. 
The hens will keep them company inside 
a five-foot fence. Of course, we shall 
now kill off the roosters, and also the old 
hens as they stop laying. 
* * * * * 
As usual, the unpopular jobs were 
banded me—handed by myself. Out back 
of the house is a large patch of Alaska 
peas. The rows are three feet apart, and 
they have been kept clean. They are 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
not brushed, but I have hoed the soil up 
on both sides of the row, making a ridge 
which covers the weeds. My plan was 
to plant hills of Hubbard squash between 
every other row. Thomas and Philip 
shake their heads at this proceeding. 
They say we cannot keep them clean, but 
age sometimes brings courage to a farmer, 
and I shall try it. By this time the fam¬ 
ily have come into action. The children 
trickle out into the sunshine, and Rose 
and one of the girls volunteer to help me. 
We get a line of tarred rope and stretch 
it down the center between two rows of 
peas. Then with my hoe I make hills by 
stirring up the soil and patting it down 
firmly. The girls drop five seeds in each 
hill, and I cover them with loose dirt. 
With all these willing hands it doesn’t 
take long. I shall plant sweet corn be¬ 
tween the hills of squash. When the 
peas have been picked the vines will be 
pulled or plowed under, and then the en¬ 
tire fields will be left to the squash and 
corn. It will be a job to keep them 
clean, but a thick seeding of rye about 
August 10 will help keep the weeds out. 
Right beside us as we work the kudzu is 
warming up. That is true, for this plant 
seems to need warmth to push it on. The 
plants started, but have not done much 
during the cold w'oathor. Now they have 
the appearance of some thin-blooded man 
who gets ready to tear things apart when 
warm weather comes. Those who know 
this plant say that when it gets well 
started it will drive me out of the squash 
field, and almost lift the house off its 
foundation. We shall see about that. 
***** 
Up in Alabama Thomas and the day 
man are dropping fertilizer by hand. This 
is monotonous and mean work. A man 
with imagination might get something out 
of it, I suppose. This handful of bad¬ 
smelling stuff, which we put beside each 
hill of corn, might help us to a lesson in 
geography, if we were wise. The nitrate 
of soda came from those dry deserts in 
South America, where ages ago it was 
stored in the sand. Hopeless men have 
toiled and died in years past that the 
hideous deserts might provide these ni¬ 
trates for our corn. The sting of this 
dry dust in our nose and eyes is but the 
whip of the fierce hot. winds across the 
dry wastes of Chili. The blood and bone 
in this fertilizer came from some panting 
steer driven across dry, barren stretches 
in the Southwest, and finally fattened on 
some rich Alfalfa farm in the Mississippi 
Valley. Ages ago great herds of gigantic 
animals died in Southern and Western 
valleys. Their bones were petrified into 
“phosphate rock.” and finally dug from 
the earth, crushed and bitten by sulphuric 
acid into acid phosphate. Or it may be 
that leather was used. An old harness 
which galled a horse shot dead while 
hauling the cannon into action, the shoe 
which enclosed the foot, of royalty, a 
baby’s little boot, the tattered footgear of 
a tramp. All were thrown together, 
June 4 , 1921 
roasted or crushed and gnawed by the 
biting acid until the tough leather was 
fit to feed our corn. And then the pot¬ 
ash—dug from some German mine, 
leached or dried out of some bitter west¬ 
ern lake, or torn from the ocean as sea¬ 
weed—here it is at last in our New 
Jersey cornfield—passing on, ever on, 
through the eternal round of nature. But 
Thomas and the day man have little 
thought for such things. This is “fer¬ 
tilizer,” dusty, stinging and foul smelling. 
It will make the sweet corn grow, and 
they keep on their monotonous travel up 
and down the row's, with only an occa¬ 
sional glance at the sun, hoping that this 
biting fertilizer will keep the crow's away. 
***** 
Here comes the Japanese boy, asking 
for a job, with that look which plainly 
indicates his hope that I cannot find one. 
I can always find a job. Having finished 
the squash, I have another still more un¬ 
popular experiment. I am going to give 
that blight-proof potato a supreme test. 
Out back of the woodshed is a piece of 
well-shaded land, which looks to me like 
a sure blight trap. I have had it plowed ; 
now I will start these blight-proof pota¬ 
toes in my own way. So I cut them just 
as I want them. The day man stops to 
tell me I am wrong in not breaking off 
all the sprouts, but I want them on for 
a quick start. We run a line with our 
tarred rope across the patch and smqpth 
off the surface with a hand rake. Then 
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