1454 
December 17, 1921 
Tbt RURAL NEW-YORKER 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
It was quite evident that little Rose 
had something of great importance to 
communicate. She was trying to tell me. 
Her eyes were bright, she danced about 
in glee, and her little face was flushed 
with pleasure. She tried to express her¬ 
self without words—in the language of 
the deaf. She jumped into a chair to 
suggest a rise in the word, and then tried 
to "boss'" the other children by pointing 
her finger at them and pushing them into 
line. I could not quite get it, and so she 
borrowed my pen and went to the table 
to try to express herself in writing. I 
watched her slowly putting her message 
on paper—her little head at one side, the 
small face working and the rosebud of a 
mouth slowly spelling out the words. It 
took some time, but finally she brought 
me the following: 
A 
^ . ___ 
-*=£- 
^2 
She stood proudly watching me as I 
read her message, and then she ran and 
jumped on my knee and snuggled up 
against my side. She might well be 
proud, for had she not climbed out of the 
valley and reached the first point on the 
hill of education? You may think this 
ability to read and write a very common 
and uneventful thing, but really it is the 
most wonderful accomplishment of the 
human race. Of all the “talents” ever 
given us, it is the one most likely to be 
abused or least likely to be fully invested. 
I find that Mother and her daughter 
and I have, between us, five "degrees”— 
with A and II and M and I.’s well mixed 
together. Naturally there was some lit¬ 
tle satisfaction when those letters were 
plastered upon us. They are man-made 
decorations, which may or may not be 
well deserved. But all this feeling of 
satisfaction bundled together and multi¬ 
plied by three cannot equal the pride of 
this little student as she passes out of 
the first grade and starts her journey to 
the temple of knowledge! Such things 
are finer as we look at them th v ough the 
rosy dawn which opens before tin* future 
than they ever can be as we glance back 
through the fog of the past. That is be¬ 
cause imagination walks along with youth. 
It becomes tired of its companion when 
the man or woman dries up and loses the 
spirit and glory of life. I think it must 
be with deep regret that imagination 
leaves its dull partner to journey on 
alone and goes back for a more hopeful 
companion. 
“Oh. I suppose the entire class 
promoted.” I said to her to try her. 
she shook her head vigorously and 
up one little finger. She was the 
one to “graduate.” 
.-lad monitor! What do you think 
that? 
Well. T think President Ilarding is a 
good man. I think he is plain and hum¬ 
ble in spirit, and that he wonders some¬ 
times how he came to be elected Presi¬ 
dent. I can imagine how he felt on 
election night when it became sure that 
he had been selected out of something like 
110.000.000 people as the one man to 
stand at the head of this great (Govern¬ 
ment. There must have been a mingled 
sense of pride and responsibility that was 
almost overpowering. Yet I question if 
the occasion brought him any greater sat¬ 
isfaction than that which fills the heart 
and soul of this little black-haired citizen 
who snuggles up against me here. Second 
grade and monitor! There you have the 
great beginning in the search for knowl¬ 
edge and power which is the aim and 
ambition of every human life. 
was 
But 
held 
only 
of 
Rose seems to think that she must 
prove her right to the promotion. So she 
b’’nts her little “reader” and climbs on 
Mother's knee to read today’s lesson. T 
see her following that little finger across 
the page with her face working along 
with her thought. During the past 50 
years I have heard some great speakers: 
President G v nnt. James G. Blaine. Robert 
Tngersoll. Roscoe Conkling. President 
Wilson. Theodore Roosevelt and many of 
the modern statesmen, but it seems to me 
that not one of them ever put the power 
of earnest conviction into their words 
which this little “monitor” throws into: 
“Little Boy Blue, 
Come blow your horn; 
The sheep are in the meadow. 
The cows are in the corn.” 
This little student feels that she has a 
right to blow her horn—and she is do¬ 
ing jt. 
When Rose started this educational ex¬ 
hibition I was reading Wells’ “Outline 
of History.” It is a ponderous and 
thoughtful book in which the author at¬ 
tempts to trace the growth and develop¬ 
ment of the human mind in its struggle 
for a right to freedom and self-govern¬ 
ment. It is a question whether the de¬ 
velopment of the fingers of the hand or 
the growth and training of the brain 
have done most to bring mankind up from 
barbarism. lie isn’t out of if yet. as you 
may notice when anger and other pas¬ 
sions overpower us. This is a great 
moment for little Rose. Half a dozen 
years ago she was but 
“An infant crying in the night. 
An infant crying for the light. 
And with no language but a cry.” 
And now here she is reaching out after 
language which would have been impossible 
in earlier man. It seems evident that 
ages ago primeval man. whatever else we 
may say of him. had little audible and 
no written language. He evidently com¬ 
municated largely by signs, or by that 
strange influence which we may call a 
sixth sense, and which is now possessed 
by horses, dogs and other more intelligent 
animals. The blind and the deaf will 
fell you that as they drop the faculty of 
try inf) to see or listen they gain some¬ 
thing of this strange influence which man¬ 
kind has forgotten since written and 
spoken language came to him. But think 
of it—this little girl has gained in five 
years what primeval man hardly acquired 
in 5.000 years. 
* * * * * 
Surely she is “heir of all the ages, in 
the ceaseless march of time.” The school 
teacher is the guardian of her great 
legacy—the schoolhouse is the service 
station where she may connect with the 
power which education has put into the 
world. I see my children growing up 
and absorbing some of this power at their 
school, and it rather fills me with won¬ 
der. The plainest common sense and the 
most ordinary review of my own life con¬ 
vinces me that a good share of what my 
children are studying will never be of any 
practical use to them in life. Some of it 
will be a positive disadvantage, yet— 
what can be done about it? Let me go 
to some of these smart and confident 
young teachers and tell them what life 
has burned into me. and unless I can 
control the school board and force my 
ideas with a thumb-screw these smart 
educators will look at me with that smil¬ 
ing and indulgent tolerance which is ever 
reserved for children, “cranks” or mildly 
insane people. Tt is not unlike the case 
of the woman who came to talk at a 
"Mothers’ Meeting” at a church. This 
woman had never raised any children— 
she had not even been married—but she 
told the company just how children should 
be trained. When she finished the meet¬ 
ing was “thrown open.” and a little gray¬ 
haired woman got up and with some hesi¬ 
tation ventured to differ with the speaker. 
This lady was a little provoked at the 
gentle criticism, and demanded what 
authority the little woman had for her 
statement. 
“Oh. nothing, except that I have raised 
a family of five children—all my own.” 
And. strange as it may seem, the 
majority of the women present sided with 
the woman who had never raised any 
children, because her theories seemed 
plausible. 
***** 
That is why a plain old-timer like my¬ 
self, with little or no real school training, 
has no chance against modern education. 
Let him go out and tell the truth about 
his own life, and it will be of little more 
avail than “the voice of one crying in 
the wilderness.” The foxes or the wood¬ 
chucks or the b’rds might be impressed 
so that they would continue to train their 
children for the battle of life, but the 
“educators” who control things will only 
tap their heads and say among them¬ 
selves : 
“He means well, but he’s old-fashioned. 
He doesn’t understand our modern meth¬ 
ods. (Give us more money and we will 
have finer buildings and fixtures. This 
old-timer belongs to the past!” 
Your children will get much the same 
idea unless you can keep hold of them. 
I was thinking about this the other day 
as I walked along the road to the sta¬ 
tion. We have just had our roads re¬ 
built—they are black and shiny as a 
blackboard. At one point in the road 
some schoolboy artist had displayed his 
skill with chalk. There were pictures of 
human beings and animals, very much 
like the rude drawings made on rocks or 
day banks thousands of years ago when 
drawing was the only recorded language. 
And at one point the recorder had 
scrawled across the road in big chalk 
letters: 
“Herbert is a Thinse /” 
I stopped in the road and read it over 
carefully. My children explained that 
“Herbert” is a little colored boy, but I 
went on considering whether this may not 
be a direct message from youth to the 
effect that “youth must be served.” Am 
I not a “dunse” for thinking that the 
picture presented on looking back over 
50 years can ever equal in the eyes of 
youth the rosy view of modern educa¬ 
tion? I begin to think so at last. It 
seems clear to me that we old-timers can¬ 
not hope to have much direct influence 
upon modern methods of teaching our 
children We are expected to pay taxes 
and smile. No matter what we think, 
growling at things in general will do 
harm to the school and to the children. 
The best thing that I can see 's to keep 
(Continued on Page 14(53) 
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A Suitable Christinas Present 
W hat could he better than a book? It will be read over and 
over, each time with pleasant thoughts of the giver. Such a 
book is 
HOPE FARM NOTES 
It pleases everyone—those who live in tlie country and those 
who live in town. The pastor of a great church held a service on 
Thanksgiving Eve. and instead of preaching a sermon read the 
story “Ike Sawyer's Hotel,” one of 25 in Hope Farm Notes. 
Here is the sincere tribute of one reader: 
“/ have a co\)]) of ‘Hope Form Notes,' and there isn't any¬ 
thing I can sag too good for it, / icisli all of the notes could be 
preserved in 1took form. No one can read that booh without being 
the better for it. It is an unusual book, a clean book, an uplifting 
book. Everyone ought to read it. I would not part with my copy, 
permanently, for anything:' Herman W. Smith. 
Do you not care to have your friends feel that way about your 
Christmas gift? They surely will if you give them tiiis book. If 
desired, we will send autographed copies for these Christmas gifts, 
the Dope Farm Man writing his name in them. 
RURAL NEW-YORKER, 333 West 30th St.. New York 
Gentlemen—Enclosed find remittance of $1.50, for which send me 
postpaid a copy of "Hope Farm Notes.” 
Name. 
Town. 
State. R. F. D. or Street No. 
0 
When you write advertisers mention The R. N.-Y. and you’ll get a 
quick reply and a “square deal.” See guarantee editorial page. 
