887 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
One of the happiest events in the life 
of a man past 50 years is the unexpected 
meeting of some old friend. Men of mid¬ 
dle age rarely make new friends. They 
make acquaintances, but evidently the 
beginning of strong and enduring friend¬ 
ship belongs to youth. I do not know 
whether it. is because we become a trifle 
shy and suspicious as we grow in years. 
Perhaps friendship cannot stand the an¬ 
alysis which we apply as we grow wiser. 
Very likely true friendships must be 
planted in a soil of faith if it is to take 
root—and who does not know that most 
of us lose faith as we grow in years? At 
any rate, about the finest thing that can 
happen to any of us is to have some old 
friend step out from the long shadows of 
the years and show the same old simple 
character and kindly spirit that appealed 
to us years ago. 1 know men who feel 
a little ashamed of some of these old 
friends—still awkward or uncouth, yet 
with the old mellow kindness and under¬ 
standing. Some of these men would not 
take plain Bill or Jack home to the fash¬ 
ionable wife and daughter. I feel sorry 
for them, far more so than for the man 
who has lost his money or his place, for 
they have lost out of their lives one of 
the most precious things that youth 
handed them as a love token. 
***** 
I was passing by one of the great de¬ 
partment stores in a Western city when 
a rough-looking man in overalls and 
jumper walked up to me and held out a 
hand well blackened with grease and dirt. 
“You don't remem'ber me, but I'll .bet 
you $5 your front name is Bert. T never 
can think of that long back name of yours, 
but Bert was what we called you !” There 
was something simple and hearty about 
this man that appealed to me. TIis face 
was old and wrinkled, and he had a 
beard—a strange thing to see in the city. 
I remembered the eyes, and I suddenly 
thought that if you could shave off that 
beard you would find a deep scar on the 
chin. 
“You don’t remember me, but I’ll bet 
you remember the time we went to that 
lap supper down to Mother Gainer’s. 
Them boys from Crystal Camp came over 
to clean "us out. You got up an’ spoke 
one of them pieces about the engineer that 
got drunk and run over his own kid, and 
that big fellow went out and smashed his 
bottle.” That was enough. I knew him. 
It was Dave McKelvie. I worked with 
him in a lumber camp in Northern Michi¬ 
gan nearly 40 years ago, and right there 
on Main street, in the rush and roar of 
the great city, Dave and T went back into 
the snow—back into that glorious time 
of youth. 
“Say, Bert, you remember that time I 
and you went after the load of hay? On 
our way we met that bum from Crystal 
Camp. He got a little fresh and I got 
down and squared off at him. Then you 
says: ‘Boys, why not fight it out with 
pitchforks? Tom, you get on the wagon, 
and Dave, you pitch off the stack. If 
Dave can bury you he’s a better man.’ 
Well, sir, I buried that fellow so we had 
to pull him out, and that settled it.” 
“Yes, Dave, you remember that time 
we came out from town in a blizzard?” 
“Say, Bert, it was fierce, wasn’t it?” 
“We met a half-crazy woman with two 
little children wandering in the snow. 
She had left home and lost her way. Do 
you remember how you packed both of 
those kids on your back for over a mile? 
We got them home, where the man was 
lying sick. You stayed and cut his wood 
while I did the chores.” 
“Sure, Bert, sure. I remember—and 
much the same came to me later on”— 
and Dave’s kindly face clouded for a mo¬ 
ment. 
“How was that, Dave? How does it 
haopen that you turn up in this big town? 
I thought you were a farmer.” 
“Well. Bert, it’s a long story—as all 
life is. I saved my wages, bought a little 
farm and married the woman. She was 
one of them little city girls—a waitress 
in a hotel. I went in one night to get 
my supper, and she left the table where 
she was waiting and came right to me. 
Then I knew she was the woman I 
wanted. I ought to have known she 
couldn’t stand the life, but she was bent 
on it. and we started. First year the 
drought killed everything. Then a fire 
broke away from us and burned all we 
had but the buildings. Then I raised a 
crop and shipped it to Chicago. Them 
middlemen stole it all. That was three 
strikes and out, and my wife went out. 
The hard, lonely life was too much for 
her. and her head went wrong. I got a 
doctor, and he said she would be dead or 
crazy in six months more of it. So I 
packed up the woman and the kid and 
swore I’d never touch farming again.” 
“Tough luck that was, Dave.” 
“You said it. The day we left the farm 
we come to a little hill and looked back. 
There was the little house—I built it 
mvself—with the trees and flowers we 
planted. I hadn’t paid for it all. It 
went with the mortgage. The woman 
was all in. She jest whispered to me: 
“Cuss it. Dave, cuss it out!” Say, Bert, 
you know I could use language in them 
days.” 
“I remember, Dave; you were an ex¬ 
pert ” 
“Well, I done the job of my life that 
day. What I said I hoped would happen 
to ns if we ever went near a farm again 
would shock you, Bert, in spite of old 
times. We meant it, too. for hadn’t the 
farm cleaned us out? Well, I got a job. 
We moved from place to place, and here 
we are. The woman is fine and the chil¬ 
dren are grown up.” 
“Doing well, I hope?” 
“Fine. Two of the girls are salesladies 
in this store. The other a teachc One 
of my boys is going to make a lawyer. 
You'll laugh when I tell you what the 
other is.” 
“And how about you, Dave?” 
“I’m all right. I drive this truck. 
The woman and I have a little money 
well invested, and after a month more no 
boss will be over me, telling me what to 
do. I’ll be my own boss then.” 
“That’s fine. I suppose you will buy 
out some trucking business.” 
“Not me. It’s a strange story, and 
I’ll tell it. That youngest boy of mine 
always was a strange child. He never did 
like the town. A good handy boy, but all 
for the country—said it was in his blood, 
though me and his mother told him how 
the country nearly ruined us. Two years 
ago the boss let me take the .ruck and I 
took the family out into the country one 
Sunday for a picnic. We stopped for 
dinner on a lonely road near a farmhouse. 
While we were eating an old man came 
out of the yard leading a colt. At the 
sight of our truck that colt jumped and 
reared, bi’oke away from the old man and 
went smashing all over the place. The 
old man was helpless. We tried to catch 
the colt, but the more we chased him. the 
harder he ran. Then my boy says: ‘Keep 
back and let me try him alone!’ Say, that 
colt just stood still and let the boy walk 
up to him. I never saw anything like it.” 
“Why, Dave, the boy was a born 
farmer, like you.” 
“He was that. It’s what the old man 
said. The boy went in and looked around 
and pretty soon out comes the old man 
and opens up. 
“ ‘Say,’ he says, ‘I want that boy of 
yours to help me here. You’re spoiling a 
good farmer to keep him in the city.* My 
wife and I are alone here, with no chil¬ 
dren or near relatives. That boy just 
suits me, and he wants to stay.’ ” 
“And my guess is he stayed.” 
“He did. Even his mother couldn’t 
stop him. He worked there a year and 
then the old man made him a proposition. 
He’d sell him the farm on easy terms. He 
wanted .$750 down and the rest on a mort¬ 
gage—the old man and his. wife privileged 
to stay there for life. The'boy had saved 
$250, and he wanted me to lend him $500 
to clow the deal. Think of that! Bert, 
me and ma, who had cussed farming as 
nobody ever did before.” 
“Well, Dave, I think I know what you 
did.” 
“Me and ma sat up all night arguing 
over it. We had our money in a joint 
account in a savings bank, and we just 
sat there and remembered those awful 
days on that farm. Yet there was the 
boy. Everybody said he looked like ma 
and was shaped like me, and say, Bert, 
what are we here for if it ain’t to give 
our children a clean start along the road? 
Ma wouldn’t say yes or no, and I couldn’t. 
Next day I went to work thinking about 
it. When I went home to dinner. thinks 
l, I’ll go up and look at the bank book, 
anyway. I took it out of the bureau 
drawer—and I’ll give you my word there 
was an entry that very day for $500 
drawn out. Ma had beat me to it!” 
“Dave, you must have a great wife.” 
“You bet I have. When I got down 
staii’s. she stood there crying, with a big 
wad of money in her fingers.” 
“ ‘Dave,’ she said, ‘I just had to do it. 
I knew vou couldn’t the wav you feel, so 
I did it.’ 
“ ‘But what about that cussin’ at farm¬ 
ing we done?’ says I. ‘Didn’t we mean 
it? Don’t you believe that cusses will 
live ?’ 
“ ‘No. I don’t,’ says she. ’That boy of 
ours will change it to a blessin’.’ ” 
“Well, how did it come out?” 
“Two months ago the old man died. 
When they came to read his will they 
find he’d fixed it so the mortgage comes 
back to my boy. The old lady has a life 
interest in it, but at her death the boy 
owns, the farm. Ain’t it great? One of 
m. v girls is going to marry a young feller 
who came from a farm. They are both 
tired of city life and they are going out 
to work with the boy.” 
“How about you. Dave?” 
“Well. sir. me and ma are going, too— 
back to the farm. T want a pair of those 
big gray horses. Ma wants an old-fash¬ 
ioned flower garden, like we started on 
that old place. Say, Bert, do you think 
the Leghorns are better than the Reds? 
Yes. sir, we’re going back to the farm. 
If anyone had told me five years ago that 
I would ever head there I’d have knocked 
’em down. Won’t it be great to run your 
own business with your own children? 
What do you think about it, Bert, any¬ 
way ?” 
The whistle blew and Dave went back 
to his job. In a month he would be 
doing his own whistling. I went on my 
way, thinking how the love of the soil 
had been born in that boy—how it had 
proved stronger than prejudice or hatred— 
how it had finally conquered. I do not 
think Dave would have recognized the 
passage from the Psalms, which comes 
into my mind, yet I am sux*e he would 
have understood it: 
“And he .shall he like a tree planted by 
the rivers of water, that brinyeth forth 
his fruit in his season, his leaf also shall 
not wither; and whatsoever he doeth 
shall prosper .” H. W. c. 
A Trip on a Houseboat 
On page 403 one of your readers asks 
for some information as to houseboats, 
and while I would not care to pose as an 
“expert” on this or any other line, I will 
be glad to give what assistance I can. In 
the first place, a good deal depends on 
what he means by a houseboat. The 
modern houseboat of the cruising typo is 
a wide, shallow, gasoline-driven yacht, 
running in size from 40 ft. upwards. 
Such a boat now would cost for a 50-ft. 
boat about $15,000 complete. I know of. 
two boats about this size for sale second¬ 
hand. one for $3,000 (an old boat) and 
the other $10,000. I have also had of¬ 
fered me a 40-ft. boat for $5,000. You 
see, it just happens that I am looking 
for a boat of this type for myself at this 
time. 
What I think your reader has in mind 
is the scow type of houseboats; that is, 
simply a flat-bottomed scow with a low 
house built on it, divided inside to suit. 
Such a boat requires heavy construction 
to be tight, and a moderate-sized one 
could not be built today under $1,500 to 
$2,000 with lumber and labor where they 
now are. It might be possible to pick up 
a used boat, from some one who wanted 
to get rid of it for anywhere from $500 
upwards. I do not think he will find 
very many of them on the Upper Hud¬ 
son. Quite a number may be found near 
New York City, also in Great South 
Bay, L. I., and ax*ound Coney Island and 
Rockaway, but if he wants to start from 
the head of the river and work down it 
would cost as much as the boat is worth 
to tow it there if bought near New York. 
A launch capable of towing a medium- 
size scowboat should have a heavy, slow- 
speed motor, with a relatively large wheel 
turning at low speed, and if in good con¬ 
dition would certainly cost second-hand 
at least $400 or $500. In addition, you 
want a skiff or rowboat, which may cost 
from $25 upwards. Do not think that a 
small launch with a little high-speed 
motor will tow one of these scows. It 
may help to guide it when wind and cur¬ 
rent are favorable, but that is all. It 
would be possible to start from Troy. 
From there he can work down river to 
about opposite Grant’s Tomb, but it will 
take quite a while, and there will be a 
good deal more work to it than to :fn auto 
trip. As to towns along the way, would 
suggest that he get a time table of the 
New York Central for the east bank and 
the West Shoi - e Railroad for the west 
bank, and they will give him a fairly 
good line on the towns on each side. The 
population can be ascertained from any 
railroad guide, a copy of which will be 
found at any ticket office anywhere. 
Having given the desired information 
as nearly as I can, I am going to offer a 
little unasked and wholly gratuitous ad¬ 
vice. I think T. L. S. has visions of 
sitting peacefully on his houseboat and 
floating idly down the placid bosom of the 
bimad Hudson, and I want to warn him 
that in all 1 probability his dream will 
not work out just that way. I do not 
want to discourage him from taking the 
trip, but this sort of boat is not suited 
to travel on waters like the Hudson. It 
is all very well to moor along shoi’e and 
live aboard, occasionally changing your 
anchorage a few miles or so, but a« for 
any extended voyaging on this particular 
bit of water, especially by one whom I 
would judge from his letter is not familiar 
July 2, 1921 
with navigation, such a type of boat is 
utterly unsuited. These boats, being of 
shallow draft, with no hold on the water 
and with high topsides, will go off to 
leeward in a gust like a dry leaf on a 
mill pond, launch or no launch, and quite 
a nasty sea may be kicked up in some of 
the wider parts of the river on very short 
notice. Also the wash from the Albany 
boats has to be looked out for in the nar¬ 
row parts. 
If I may offer a little more unasked 
advice, I would suggest that unless 
T. L. S. wishes to spend a good deal of 
money on his trip, he might like to con¬ 
sider chartering one of the small schoon¬ 
ers which ply up and down the river with 
sand and brick. He could charter one 
of these boats for a month for less than 
his second-hand houseboat of the cheapest 
kind would cost him, and with the hold 
swept out, a few berths rigged up below, 
an awning over the hatches and his own 
cooking and sleeping outfit, he could enjoy 
his trip with no work whatever to do,‘ as 
the owner of the boat and a man or so 
would attend to that, and could really 
have a little voyage that would be a rest, 
a recreation and with any kind of luck 
as to weather, a thing to be remembered 
through life. He could start up the river 
from whatever point was most convenient, 
go down the river, around the Battery, 
under Brooklyn Bridge, and up the sound 
to Montauk or Block Island, then down, 
homo again along the other shoi-e of the 
sound and back up the river. With a 
good, tight boat (preferably with a small 
auxiliary engine in it for calms and har¬ 
bor work) a skipper who took an interest 
in the excursion and a family who enjoyed 
that sort of thing, it would be a long time 
before he got done talking about it after 
he got home, and about the strongest im¬ 
pression he would have by the time he 
got half way down the river would be 
how glad he was that he was doing- it just 
that way, and not working his way down 
in a flatboat. 
There are hundreds of inland rivers 
where the flatboat type of houseboat or 
“cabin boats,” as they are sometimes 
called, can be used as T. L. S. has evi¬ 
dently planned, and I know of nothing 
more delightful. I have done it myself 
on the St. John’s in Florida, and it is just 
immense. But unless T. L. S. is more 
of a waterman than I would assume from 
his inquiries. I do not think the Hudson 
is the place for h'm to try flathoating. 
LARCHmont. 
Replying to T. L. S., page 463, the 
writer made a motorboat trip from New 
York City via Hudson River to Water- 
vliet, thence Champlain Canal to White¬ 
hall. down Lake Champlain as far as 
Burlington, Yt. T. L. S. says: “I de¬ 
sire to start as far north as possible.” 
I cannot tell if he wishes to come down 
the river or up. Anyway. I do not think 
it practical to navigate freely much after 
passing out of the slack water created by 
the Troy dam. 
Houseboats can be bought second-hand 
anywhere from $500 to any amount (very 
poor ones for $500). Any small launch 
will tow the houseboat. Powerboat or 
launches are to be had for $250 up. 
About a 30-ft. hunting cabin launch would 
be more advisable for such a trip. I 
have owned a houseboat and know some¬ 
thing about them, also motorboat. 
C. E. IIEERLEJN. 
So many times you have helped me and 
I am glad to be able to give a little infor¬ 
mation regarding the houseboat trip men¬ 
tioned on page 463. I myself have for 
many years been a sailoig and am now a 
baek-to-tlie-lauder. A fair-sized house¬ 
boat might be bought new for $700. and 
a second-hand boat cheaper, according to 
condition and age of same. A launch 
five or six horsepower,.about 15 or 16 ft. 
long, would pull a houseboat in good 
weather. In bad weather it would be 
necessary to tie up or anchor on the 
weather shore, if possible. One would 
pass many towns on the Hudson of 500 
population. The houseDoat would prob¬ 
ably displace about 4 ft. of water and the 
launch about 3 ft. The reader could start 
from any point where the river would 
follow up to a depth of 6 ft. of water or 
more. A map and guide book could prob¬ 
ably be pui*chased. wm. davis. 
In reply to T. L. S., on page 463, con¬ 
cerning a trip up the Hudson, price of 
boat, etc., the price of a houseboat will 
depend entirely on the buyer’s require¬ 
ments as to size and equipment. A cabin 
launch with covered cockpit is often used 
in preference to the barge type, but in 
either case towing will be unnecessary, as 
an engine may be installed in the barge 
type, making it easier to handle. The 
cabin launch will be cheaper, and will 
have plenty of room. It. is also faster 
and easier to navigate. I would advise 
the launch. He will be able to get. a 
launch in Albany or Troy, I think. Above 
Albany there are only a few towns hav¬ 
ing 500 inhabitants or over ; south of 
Albany there are several. If T. L. S. 
wishes to follow towns of 500 or over, he 
would better go up the Mohawk Canal. 
Nexv Yox-k. edw. b. lyons. 
“I’ll give you $5 a day spot cash.” 
said the farmer to the tramp who had 
stopped to beg a meal, “if you’ll help me 
dig potatoes. We’ll start right now,” 
he pointed at the big field, “because I’m 
afraid the frost will get them.” “No.” 
yawned the tramp. “You’d better dig 
’em. You planted ’em and you know 
just where they are.”—Successful 
Farming. 
Cultivating the Guinea Hen Crop 
