1016 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
August 13, 1921 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
I knew a man once who attempted to 
advertise himself as a great citizen when 
he went abroad. At home he was rather 
a humble citizen, who was forced to take 
the dust from most of his neighbors, hut 
take him on a visit among strangers; he 
could put on airs, and, as my children say, 
“get away with it.” On the train or in 
public places he would admonish his wife: 
“Now please put on a little style, look 
dignified and make those children sit up 
with some distinguished air. If we do, 
people will be saying, ‘That’s probably 
our Congressman ; what a‘ fine family he 
has’!” The poor woman would try to be 
dignified, hut it was not in her line; and 
as for the children, they were mostly dis¬ 
tinguished for their appetite, their curi¬ 
osity and their freckles. This man did 
his best to impress the people, but just as 
he thought he was succeeding some old 
friend would turn up and upset all his 
plans with : 
“ ’Co, Sam; what’s the good word?” 
It may he that some very ordinary peo¬ 
ple can pass themselves off as Congress¬ 
men, but most of us will do better to 
stand right in our own shoes for just 
•what we are. 
***** 
At any rate, 1 am very sure that no one 
on the Providence boat that night took 
the Hope Farm man for a Congressman, 
or saw anything distinguished about his 
family. It requires a genius to eat a 
cold lunch in public with any particular 
dignity, but that is what we were doing 
as the steamer swept around Manhattan 
Island and started for Long Island Sound. 
Mother and I. with three of the children, 
were starting for an outing on the Massa¬ 
chusetts coast. Little Rose and two of 
the Red-heads were with us, the rest of 
our family expecting to make the long 
journey from Hope Farm in the car. We 
must have looked like a regular country 
family as we sat in one corner of the 
deck, eating our sandwiches and hard- 
boiled eggs and gingerbread. .Some of the 
guests in the dining room looked out at us 
in a patronizing way, for I presume it is 
not good form to carry your own lunch 
when you have a chance to spend money 
for stylish food. As we never were very 
strong on “form” this thought did not 
trouble us. There was rain when we 
started, but the clouds finally broke, and 
the steamer plowed on into Long Island 
Sound with the evening sun bathing us as 
in a blaze of glory, The water was calm 
when we went to bed, but about 1 o’clock 
the steamer began to pitch and toss like 
an old-fashioned baseball game. We 
seemed to be rounding Point Judith, 
where the ocean water comes slapping 
against the Sound, and it surely did shake 
us up for a time. But we were not sea¬ 
sick, and soon the steamed glided on into 
the calmer waters of Narragansett Bay, 
and we all went to sleep again. In the 
morning we missed one train and nearly 
missed two others, but no one seemed to 
care greatly, for our folks were out for a 
vacation, and the only motto worth car¬ 
rying on such a trip is “Don’t worry.” 
But finally, after many miles and much 
dust we came rolling into the station at 
Plymouth, Mass., and stepped from the 
train into a bewildering display of flags 
and bunting. 
***** 
But what is all this about? What are 
these Hope Farm folks doing off on an 
idle vacation? Why are they not at home 
picking apples and working? What busi¬ 
ness has a farmer to leave his job and go 
visiting? Well, sir. I haven’t time to 
answer all such questions. I do not know 
why a farmer is not as much entitled to a 
vacation as any other man. Your city 
worker gets his two weeks or more, with 
pay, and goes off to do as he pleases. In 
many cases the boss must hire a substi¬ 
tute and pay the bills himself in order 
that the clerk may have his “vacation.“ 
For many years farmers have concluded 
that the “vacation” is a city institution, 
and not for them. I think they should 
break away from that idea and try to plan 
their work so as to have a little outing of 
their own. That is what we have done 
this year. It is ffOO years since the May¬ 
flower came sailing into Plymouth Har¬ 
bor. Very properly the old town is cele¬ 
brating this event. It is a great thing 
to do. not only for the town but for the 
nation. Like every other man or woman 
who traces back to the old colony, our 
folks felt the call this year, and we con¬ 
cluded to let some- things at the farm go 
rather than miss this celebration. 
***** 
We have quite a sizable group of young 
Americans in our house, and as a part of 
their education I want them to get some¬ 
thing of the true spirit of Plymouth his¬ 
tory, For whatever you may say about 
them, those Pilgrim Fathers had the true 
' bulldog spirit. After that first terrible 
Winter, when half their number died, no 
one could have blamed them for turning 
back and leaving these barren shores. But 
they had come here for a certain definite 
purpose, and nothing but death could 
drive them from it. They hung on in the 
face of what seemed like sure defeat, and 
won out. I want my children to soak 
that idea so thoroughly into mind that 
nothing can ever take it out. And right 
here in this land of the Pilgrims is the 
place for them to do it. It is a part of 
their education—something they cannot 
learn in school. So they will all be here; 
Rose, the Japanese bov, and all the rest. 
I spent only two days on this trip and then 
went home to finish my work, but I shall 
be down again for 10 days a little later. 
I want to tell our folks something about 
this Pilgrim country—the land, the work, 
the farming and the people. Hope Farm 
is prospering. Jack and his wife and 
Thomas and Philip are there, getting off 
the Wealthy apples and sweet corn. 
***** 
We spent but a few minutes in Ply¬ 
mouth on this first trip, only long enough 
to get a train for our place on the outer 
beach. If you take a map of Massachu¬ 
setts and follow the shore line down 
southeast from Boston you will finally 
come to Brant Rock. Just beyond the 
rock is a little dent in the coast line 
where Cut River enters. The little vil¬ 
lage is called Green Harbor, and we are 
some two miles south along the great 
curving beach which stretches, to Gurnet 
Point and forms the outer defense of Ply¬ 
mouth Harbor. We have hired a cottage 
right on the beach. As we look out east 
across the blue waters there is nothing 
between us and Europe. The waves smgsh 
and curl on the beach all day long. At 
low tide the sands glitter in the hot sun. 
The shore birds run about and the gulls 
circle overhead. Back of the house Dux- 
bury Marsh stretches away, a great level 
green waste, with here and there a salt 
creek of glittering water or a little island 
of dry land covered with small trees. 
Miles away, at the further edge of this 
marsh, hills rise abruptly, covered with 
trees, with here and there a farmhouse 
with its green fields of corn or grass. The 
wind across this marsh is never still. It 
blows freely to the ocean, with something 
like a low hum, or gantle music, as it 
sweeps through the coarse marsh grass. 
When I was a boy I thought I would like 
to live in this country forever. I find 
that desire gone now. I am well content 
to live on our New Jersey hills. But what 
a glorious place this is for a Summer 
vacation. 
***** 
I had only one night there on this trip, 
and as the sun went down little Rose and 
I sat in the sweeping wind and watched 
the shadows creep up the marsh. To the 
child the day had been one long-drawn-out 
wonder and delight. Bhe sat in her little 
blue bathing suit. I' think the waves had 
broken over her. Then she had rolled in 
the sand and let the wind dry her 1 The 
entrance to the harbor, the white whirl 
of the breakers, the singing eel grass, 
were to her as new as a first glimpse of 
the gates of Paradise. To me they were 
old. yet new. How many years can it be 
since I tramped over these marshes, 
“gunning” with Fnele Charles? I do not 
like to number them. Cut River then ran 
back for miles into the marsh. The tide 
ebbed and flowed through it far up to the 
hills. Our old swimming hole in those 
days was five miles away. At low tide 
it was empty, the sun baking down upon 
its mud. We would sit on the bank and 
wait for the inflowing tide. Finally, far 
down the marsh we would see it coming— 
a white wave in the river. It poured into 
our swimming hole, the water warm from 
its long journey over the hot mud. Now 
all this has gone. They threw a dyke 
across the river and held the tide back. 
This, they claimed, would turn the salt 
marsh into good farm land, such as they 
have in Holland. IIow the hunters and 
fishermen cursed this work. The dyke has 
certainly ruined the harbor. It has slow¬ 
ly filled with sand until now at low tide 
there is only a narrow channel left. The 
soil above, on the marsh, looks better with 
more trees. I am going up there later to 
see if it has made farm land. Far across 
that marsh to the left is the place where 
we used to wait with our guns for “plun- 
kets.” These birds were big night herons. 
They roosted in the upland swamps by 
day and flew Into the marsh at night to 
feed. I remember how each one carried 
a “lantern” on his breast—a bunch of 
feathers apparently containing a sub¬ 
stance like phosphorus. We would come 
with our muskets and lie beside the stone 
wall at the edge of the marsh until the 
“plunkets” flew over. Then we blazed 
away at them. They were great days— 
“the days that are no more,” I expect. 
Little Rose is tired and she will soon be 
asleep. Mother comes and takes her up¬ 
stairs. where she will soon wander off 
into a land full of dim ocean murmurs. 
Here I sit alone, thinking of the beach 
and marsh as it was long before these cot¬ 
tages, with these electric lights and run¬ 
ning water. Just as I begin to think 
there is nothing of the old life left, far 
across the marsh I see a moving shape | 
coming out of the hills. There is no mis¬ 
taking those long, waving wings. It is a 
“plunket” flying out for his supper, just 
as other “plunkets” have done for ages— 
just as they will continue to do for ages 
yet to come—regardless of the changes in 
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