•Pit rural new.yorker 
707 
A Farm Woman’s Notes 
• V 
Cedar 
The visitor stopped at the edge of a 
dull green patch of cedars and listened 
for the sound of a hammer along the line 
fence. The cow pasture lay all about 
him, rugged with boulders, shaggy with 
undergrowth. Here and there a load of 
Christmas trees had been cut, leaving 
the mute testimony of tiny stumps. The 
visitor saw them pricking up between 
the stones that seemed to cover the field 
with a freckled blanket. His eye moved 
thoughtfully over the great stretch of 
waste land that led on and on. The fel¬ 
low who had directed him here had said, 
“Don’t let any o’ them poor farmers slip 
a deed o’ their farms in yer pocket.” He 
had thought it a poor joke then, not be¬ 
ing able to imagine a piece of land en¬ 
tirely worthless. He loved soil. Cows 
browsing on their homeward journey 
breathed loudly in wonder at him. and 
now, far off, he heard the whack-whapk- 
whaCk of an iron-driven staple biting 
into wood. 
Later, when they had talked themselves 
silent, as friends will who have lost the 
thread of each other’s lives, they came to 
speak of the land. 
“I’d like to sell it,” its owner said dis- 
couragedly. “It’s might poor pasture for 
cows or sheep, but if I did clear it I 
couldn’t move the stone.” He laughed, 
a dry hard sound. “I presume you don’t 
ever have too many stones where you 
live. Here they seem to be a natural 
crop. No matter how many you pick off 
there’s always plenty more working up 
from the bottom. On the field where I 
grow corn, I’ve got 13 big stone piles on 
eight acres, and I’m gettin’ cramped for 
plowin’ space. You can strain your back 
and wear the skin off your hands, but all 
you get out of it is just more stones. 
This is a pretty worthless piece of land.” 
“It runs naturally to cedar,” observed 
his visitor, holding to the problem in 
spite of the grim lines in the other’s face. 
“Yes, ’twill grow cedar,” admitted his 
friend. “Once in a long while we can 
cut off some Christmas trees. Maybe 
this isn’t good land enough to make a 
quick crop. Seems as if the trees grow 
awful slow—too slow to make it pay for 
Christmas trees, when the cone takes two 
years to come to maturity, and hangs on 
the tree for years before the scales come 
off and the seeds are set free.” He took 
down a dry brown cone and resumed. 
“Funny, about cedar. To look at this 
undergrowth and see how slow it grows, 
you get to thinkin’ it isn’t much of a 
tree. But if you let it stand it’ll keep 
on growin’ for hundreds of years and get 
to be about eight feet through. Most 
trees are cut down before they have 
stood a hundred years in civilized coun¬ 
tries. Some authorities are inclined to 
think that a few of the cedars of Lebanon 
may possibly number some 2.000 years. 
The wood of the younger trees _ from 
which today’s cedar is produced is too 
soft and light, apt to crack in drying. 
It needs the time, more time than one 
man’s life can give it.” His voice made 
the words a reverence, and the other 
glanced up curiously. 
“There are stumps of some such old 
veterans back in the woods y5t. _ You 
see, when father bought this place it was 
pretty well covered with woods, and in 
hard times he paid off the mortgage with 
cedar. I never thought much of it as a 
money maker. It never has been for 
“It’s like this. If your father could 
have foreseen the future scarcity of ma¬ 
ture cedar he might have left you the 
younger trees. A woodlot is like prin¬ 
cipal in the bank. It accumulates. If 
you never use more than the interest, 
you always have the income and the 
principal, too. There are some people 
who spend their principal.. That seems 
to be the spirit of the thoughtless Amer¬ 
ican nation of today. Think I’m exagger¬ 
ating? Back’where I live, many of the 
larger farms haven’t a stick of timber 
left for firewood. And now they are 
paying interest in their coal bills.” 
“I’ve got 10 acres of the best kind of 
muck land,” the other said. “I’m more 
interested in that. But it, too, needs 
clearing! Nice smooth soil, easily drained 
and all. I’m thinking I’ll start to clear 
that next Fall and let this lie. Got a 
hankerin’ for raisin’ onions. If you raise 
onions every year you will strike the 
onion year. I’m done with this homely 
ground.” 
“It never should have been cleared,” 
interposed the visitor, sticking to the 
subject tenaciously. “It seems to be 
meant for just what it is. When you try 
to turn it into a dairy farm you’re work¬ 
ing right against nature. There never 
was a man yet who made a success of do¬ 
ing that. You can help nature, but you’d 
better not try standing in the way. It 
isn’t cows you want here; it’s trees. 
Mind my saying so? Something that 
doesn’t chew hay and grain—a bee. The 
muck idea is good stuff, but yon can’t de¬ 
pend on muck; as you say, once in a 
while there comes a good year. Then 
while you are living off the rest of the 
farm, don’t forget to come back here 
once in the Spring and help nature a 
little by scattering these cedar cones 
where they will do the most good. It’ll 
be just like .pitting mo$ey in the bank. 
Twill be in a good safe place where you 
.can’t spend it. You’ll be surprised how 
you’ll come to like puttering around at a 
job like that. Seeing the trees grow lit¬ 
tle by little, and knowing that you’re 
helping create something that will last 
for centuries after you are dead and gone. 
It’s folks that are gettin’ old like you 
and me that can appreciate such things.” 
He paused. 
“Oh, it won’t pay to bother with this 
old strip o’ rough land. And like as not 
the next fellow would feel bound to cut 
off the timber!” The owner laughed 
silently, but without the old ring of bit¬ 
terness. “Why, it would take 15 years 
to make a fence post.” He glanced up 
the fence. “I’ve just put in three good 
cedar posts here,” he said, and then was 
silent. 
They sat quietly in the sylvan twilight 
until he spoke again. “I guess we ain’t 
either of us changed so much. Always 
did make me feel good to hear you talk 
this way. I’m going to keep this cedar 
even if it don’t pay cash. It’s a good 
thing to have something to tie to, like 
cedar.” mbs. f. h. ungeb. 
More About “Mother’s Day” 
In response to the article on page 546, 
signed Mrs. A. L. C., I just want to have 
a little to say. I read and reread the 
article which Mrs. Helen S. K. Willcox 
wrote, on page 312, and can truthfully 
say I have seldom enjoyed reading any 
article so much as I did that. Mrs. Will¬ 
cox writes so humanly on this subject 
that I can’t see how anyone could find 
much fault with it. 
No woman can judge fairly on a fam¬ 
ily of four children when she has but one 
herself. Mrs. A. L. C. may have a very 
bright hoy who does not have to be told 
anything more than once, but I am not 
so wonderfully blessed. I have noticed 
most children have to be told several 
times. I have three good husky boys who 
rush in from school half starved, you 
might think, to hear them yell at once 
for something to eat. I know that my 
children never fear being refused any¬ 
thing they should have, and as for me I 
firmly believe children know when they 
are used decently and love a kind, under¬ 
standing mother more than they do a 
mother who is too precise and “so -so!” 
When I put myself out of the way to 
cook something real nice for my boys they 
appreciate it, and let me know it by help¬ 
ing me in several nice little ways. 
Of course children should be taught 
good manners and be made to mind the 
parents and be courteous to everyone, but 
even this can be overdone to some extent. 
If Mrs. A. L. C. thinks her boy will al¬ 
ways do just as he is told or has been 
taught, she is bound to have a disappoint¬ 
ment, for when a boy is old enough to 
think for himself he will also act for him¬ 
self, and she will have to appeal to his 
good and better judgment by asking him 
somewhat politely. Leave it to the boy ; 
he knows when he is dealt with fairly. I 
know, for I have one 16 years old. As 
to children eating more than they should 
at once, I’ll say they have nothing on the 
“old folks.” 
A dozen things to cook for one family? 
Why not? Children are not animals; 
they relish something besides hay and 
grain, and one child of a family would 
starve almost while another one got fat 
on the same food. One of my boys didn’t 
like milk. There was no reason why he 
should have it crammed down when it 
made him sick, so it was up to mother to 
cook him something that about took its 
place, which she did, and any mother with 
common ordinary horse sense would. It 
may be Mrs. Willcox is a little over-indul¬ 
gent with her children, but they will nev¬ 
er be children but once. I do all my own 
work, including my washing and all my 
baking, and I don’t feel I am any martyr 
by any means. 
I read my children books by the dozen, 
go with them to church when I can, go 
fishing with them, visit their schools, both 
rural and high, go to shows once in a 
while, visit friends and relatives, yes, and 
even play baseball. I don’t belong to the 
farm organization at all, though I would 
like to well enough. 
No young one-child mother knows all 
about families of four children and more, 
but let’s hope they will be able to handle 
the situation as well as Mrs. Willcox 
does. MBS. m. e. c. 
Notes from a Sagebush Schoolma’am 
(Continued from Page 701) 
man’s farm, especially if they joined to¬ 
gether in co-operative marketing. Our 
farmers there are making a beginning 
with their bean association, and there is 
no reason why it cannot be extended to 
include all other crops. 
School closes here on May 16. It has 
been a very pleasant year, and I think 
profitable. We are to have a progi-am, 
in which the whole school, from the first 
grade up, take part. I am not a be¬ 
liever in programs. I have seen much 
time wasted in practice of which I could 
see no value. Let your children get their 
needed development in public speaking in 
the literary society or the class recitation. 
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