1256 
October 22, 1921 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
We are likely to have our first frost to¬ 
night. It will be right up to date if it 
conies, for the average for many years has 
been October 8. As a rule the valley, 
down below us, feels the finger of old Jack 
Frost about a week earlier than we do 
up here on the hills. Jack Frost seems to 
be as cruel as a cat playing with a mouse, 
lie will wipe his biting finger along the 
valley or brim it up with icy air, and 
then slowly feel his way up the slopes 
until suddenly, without warning, he nips 
us as we sit in fancied security on the 
hills. As the years come and go we learn 
the habits of this cold-blooded tyrant and 
prepare for him ; but it is still hard for 
the young people to see him lay his sav¬ 
age hands upon the farm. I did not ex¬ 
pect him to climb the hill today when I 
first looked from the window this morn¬ 
ing. The “weather man” expected rain, 
but while there were clouds in the sky 
the sun seemed to be going strong, and 
quite capable of holding its own. A flock 
of Black Jersey Giant chickens moved 
slowly over the green lawn hunting for 
bugs and belated worms. These Jersey 
Blacks are certainly what you may call 
hustlers. Somewhere back in their pedi¬ 
gree will be found the blood of strong ad¬ 
venturers. Their dominant ancestors of 
many generations back came from Asia. 
That is supposed to be a sleepy continent. 
If it should ever really wake up it will 
dominate the world. Some of our best 
thinkers believe that this very thing will 
happen at some time in the future. If the 
great nations of the East acquire the 
knowledge and material power which go 
with Christianity, without its moral dis¬ 
cipline, they will certainly rip up the 
world as we now have it traced on the 
map. 
* * * * * 
Strange as it may seem, all this came 
to mind as that big black fellow with the 
shining feathers threw back his head and 
challenged the world. There was fire in 
his black eye, and it seemed as if nature 
bad used a wonderful shoe polish on his 
feathers. Many years ago some old sea 
captain brought the bird’s ancestors from 
China or Java. That old fellow was an 
iron man, but the chances are that the 
second generation from him has had most 
of the vigor blown out of it by gasoline 
and a soft job. The descendants of that 
old bird, however, have not degenerated. 
The drop of Asiatic blood has so tinctured 
the American that these Jersey Blacks 
have the bulk of the Brahma, the agility 
of the Game and the curiosity of the Leg¬ 
horn. They are the best foragers and 
most useful range fowls that I have ever 
seen. They remind me of our geese in 
their ability to get out and hunt their 
food. They were making much of what 
promised to be a good day. The farm 
swept back up the hill to the west. The 
trees at the summit were still green and 
in full leaf. Here and there a yellow 
patch stood out against the green where 
the corn was cut and shocked. On the 
rose trellis back of the house I noticed 
one late rose, standing out like a bright 
red. spot—truly “The Last Rose of Sum¬ 
mer.” Great masses of kudzu vines had 
crawled under the fence, creeping along 
the lawn toward the house as if they 
designed to pick up the building and 
carry it away. Out in the garden the 
Uma beans stood up like a forest. The 
tomatoes were still green, and the Hubam 
clover stood over four feet high. A tan¬ 
gle of green covered a field of pumpkins. 
I knew that the tip of old Jack’s, finger 
would change that green mass into a 
brown scar and reveal the big yellow 
pumpkins now concealed by the vines. It 
gave one a touch of sadness to think that 
one single night at Jack Frost’s movie 
show would blast all this beauty and 
bring us to the fiuneral of Summer. One 
would think that as we grow older and 
see these changes come and go they would 
become “a part of the game”—a matter 
of indifference—but that. I find, is not 
true. We do not fancy the approach of 
Winter. 
***** 
Our apple picking was about finished 
yesterday. It is the smallest crop we 
have had for years. The boys had planned 
to go to New York and see the baseball 
game between the “Giants” and the “Yan¬ 
kees,” who are battling for the world’s 
championship! They expected to sit in 
the “bleachers” and, as these seats, are not 
reserved, they would have to get in early 
and sit for several hours before the game 
began ! They carried what seemed to me 
like a peck of lunch, and their pockets 
full of apples. They begged me to go 
along with them, but I thought my ball¬ 
playing days are over! Of course you 
will say that these boys should have been 
at home, working. What business has a 
farmer or his family to play or enjoy life 
when he might be at work? I shall not 
attempt any argument in reply. There 
are a number of people in this world who 
strike me as having ceased to be human 
beings and have changed into machines. 
The change became complete when they for¬ 
got how to play and lost the power to feel 
a thrill of excitement over some sport or 
contest. I want my boys to retain the 
ability to play and enjoy a close contest 
Jong past the time when they are able to 
take part in it themselves. You may not 
agree with that, and I know that you will 
receive a rude shock when I tell you that 
along about noon the Hope Farm man 
himself began t« realize that he was not 
living up to his own convictions. I pic¬ 
tured my boys sitting in that cheering 
crowd, and there arose before me a vision 
of that great game I played in Michigan 
40 years ago. Only once in a lifetime is 
it given to a man to make such a catch 
in center field. I thought the ball was 10 
feet, over my head, but I held up my hand 
while running at full speed and the ball 
lodged right in it. That saved the game, 
and if I were to be elected president in 
a campaign which I felt meant life or 
death to the republic, I could not feel a 
deeper satisfaction than came to me when 
that bit of horsehide stuck in my fingers 
and I knew that our college had wou. 
And all you human beings and “sports” 
will know what happened. I just shut 
my desk, went up to the Polo Grounds, 
bought a ticket and joined the great army 
of “fans.” 
***** 
The sun had been obscured and the day 
had turned dark and cheerless, but all of 
us who sat around the diamond were hop¬ 
ing that the rain would remain at home in 
the cl uds until the game was over. Far 
across the enclosure the “bleachers” were 
black with people, with here and there a 
red or white spot, showing where some 
woman had made her way in. Somewhere 
in that great throng my boys were prob¬ 
ably eating their sandwiches. It was as 
if about one-third of the population of the 
State Vermont had crowded into a 
15-acre field. Finally a group of men in 
white uniforms made their way across the 
field. The “Yankees” had come out. for 
practice. A little later the “Giants” in 
gray suits made their way across the field, 
and we all settled back for a perfect after¬ 
noon. The great “Babe Ruth” was cap¬ 
able of knocking a few balls out of sight, 
but a greater than he was to decide the 
game. We had forgotten the “weather 
man” in our exeitement. First thing we 
knew the “bleachers” presented a curious 
appearance. Squares of white began to 
appear in the black mass of humanity 
which filled the seats. These spots spread 
until more than half the surface looked 
as if some giant hand had run a white¬ 
wash brush over the crowd. These white 
spots were newspapers spread out over 
hats and heads in feeble imitation of um¬ 
brellas. For as sure and cruel as fate the 
rain had begun, and for once, at least, 
the weather man was right. Soon the 
drizzle turned to a downpour, and the 
newspapers were soon melted. Many of 
the “bleacherites” hung to their seats un¬ 
til they were soaked, but it was no use. 
You cannot play championship ball in the 
rain. The umpire called the game off, 
hnd the big crowd literally melted away. 
But I intend to see one of these games 
yet, and if I do I will tell about it. 
Having been denied the privilege of 
seeing “Babe Ruth” make a home run, it 
suddenly occurred to me that perhaps I 
could make a run for a babe who had, as 
we. thought, been ruthlessly taken from 
us. Up in Harlem somewhere, near the 
ball game, was little Rose. She had been 
taken from us again. There are family 
matters connected with this case which I 
cannot discuss, but at any rate the child 
had been taken from us, and I knew she 
was not thriving. I thought I would take 
a chance on getting to first base. So I 
walked through the rain and knocked at 
the door of the cellar tenement where 
Rose was staying. The day was dark 
and cheerless, and there was no light in¬ 
side. As I groped my way through a 
m rrow black passage there was a rush 
of little feet, the quick jump of a little 
body, and a pair of little arms around my 
neck, and though it was too dark to see 
anything T knew that Rose had “stolen 
home.” Well, there are some* things in 
life that you cannot well talk about. 
Some day I hope my daughter will write 
a story entitled “The Spring Valley 
Continued on page 1263) 
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