836 
The RURAL NEW-YORKER 
May 31, 1924 
Hope Farm Notes 
A May Day 
Part III 
The wind is rising, and it begins to 
shake the petals from the cherry trees a 
little. They seem to go willingly—hap¬ 
pily, ae if they would say—“We have 
played our part. We have done our duty 
as best we could. We covered and pro¬ 
tected the fruit grown in the tender bud. 
We have had our day of beauty and now 
we go. Men will forget us, yet the fruit 
which will follow us is ours. We give it 
to the future. We may be forgotten but 
we have had our weeks of service and 
our day of glory and we are content.” 
Sitting on this windswept hill with 
the leaves shaking, the breeze murmuring 
and the valley with its flecks of color 
spread out before us I fell to wondering 
why men after their stormy years of 
service cannot be content to view their 
ending days as a time of glory—as the 
cherry petals do. Have they not spent 
their years in guarding and maturing 
some bud of life in children or in some 
ideal which may make the world happier 
and better? Why not pass off like the 
cherry petals, full of glory, that they may 
leave' behind them something that will 
bloom sweet and true in the years to 
come? They may be forgotten but the 
eternal justice will finally give them their 
day of glory if they do not have it now. 
* * * * 
Sitting here on m.v rock at the top of 
the hill it seems natural for me to go 
sifting through the years after some ex¬ 
perience which falls in line with today’s 
thought. Years ago when my boys were 
little things and the trees were even 
smaller we would sit here and plan for 
the future. At least the boys would tell 
of the wonderful things this farm was 
to work out. I listened and talked, but 
my mind was usually hunting through the 
years for something great and satisfying 
enough to fit these giant plans which lit¬ 
tle folks can develop. Strange as it may 
seem. I always hit upon something which 
seemed very poor and unimportant—and 
yet could not be driven out of mind. So 
it is this evening. The peace and glory 
of the earth as it spreads out before me 
makes me wonder what great thing man 
can do right now to wipe out the In¬ 
justice and heal the bitter feeling which 
is undoubtedly growing in this country. 
What is the labor, what the sacrifice 
which Americans can give to help their 
country and save it from present tenden¬ 
cies? My old Grand Army friend has 
marched away on his last long journey. 
If he were here he would tell me that 
Decoration Day as it used to be typifies 
the greatest sacrifice which Americans 
have ever made for their country. I have 
heard such men talk of what real devo¬ 
tion to the country means and there were 
young folks present who went off tapping 
their heads. 
“The old man is a little off,” they 
would say. “It’s all right, of course, but 
such ideas are old-fashioned now.” 
It seems somehow as if the old soldier 
were here tonight. Those bright spots 
under the tree may be little pieces of 
glass with the sun shining on them, Put 
they remind me of the brass buttons on 
the blue coat and the gold braid on the 
G. A. R. hat. It seems to bring some¬ 
thing old-fashioned and homelike into the 
orchard, and there flashes into mind a 
memory of the time when Henry Rawson 
broke ' down on his Decoration Day 
speech. 
* * * * * 
That was not his real name, but I 
knew the young fellow well. He thought 
he was something of an orator, and at 
that time his own voice had a very pleas¬ 
ant sound to him. It was more than 40 
years ago, and Henry was struggling 
through college when he heard that the 
people in a little town half a dozen miles 
away were to have a fine Decoration Day 
program. There was to be a parade, 
brass bands, “appropriate ceremonies at 
the graves,” and speeches by General 
Gardner and “other distinguished citi¬ 
zens.” Now Henry knew that he was a 
citizen, and some day he meant to he 
“distinguished”—and so why not? And 
then the girl (not the best girl, perhaps, 
but one of the near best) had written: 
“Come on down. You can get a chance 
to speak, after old Gardner runs down, 
and we’re planning a dance for the even¬ 
ing !” 
Just why there should be a dance as 
part of the ceremony of decorating graves 
is something that I must leave to the 
young folks for explanation. I was young 
once, but I have forgotten the argument. 
Lack of available funds put Henry out of 
reach of any conveyance except "shank’s 
mare,” and he started to walk. But what 
is a walk of six miles over country roads 
when youth demands life and there is a 
chance for a little oratory—and a girl—at 
the end of the route? You and I would 
need Home stronger attraction to pull us 
that distance along the road. They say 
that no man over 50 will walk a mile to 
see Romeo and Juliet played. But Henry 
tramped on through the dust, repeating 
hie speech over and over—all the way 
from “Ladies and gentlemen” to the “we 
consecrate our lives to the defence of that 
starry banner.” You see this verbal con¬ 
secration is comparatively easy when the 
local newspaper is to print “loud ap¬ 
plause,” and various young women are 
ready with “You done splendid,” or 
“Wasn’t it lovely?” So Henry, the bud¬ 
ding orator, went on, well satisfied with 
himself! 
* * * * * 
Perhaps two miles this side of town 
Henry went into a farmyard for a drink 
of water. It was a lonely place. There 
was no other house in sight. There were 
dark woods along the road on either side 
of the house. The narrow farm ran back 
up a gentle hill. Half way to the top 
there was an outerop of rock, and 
grouped about it a little orchard of old, 
neglected trees, in the full glory of bloom. 
At the agricultural college there was a 
smart young professor who said about 
such a place: 
“It is the duty of an enterprising young 
man to run away from it.” 
Henry pulled a bucket of water and 
was slowly drinking from the dipper 
when an old man came from the house. 
It was a little, stooping man, with a 
shock of white hair and a fringe of white 
running under his chin. Y r ou remember, 
no doubt, how some of these old-timers 
used to let their hair grow so that the 
face looked out from a white frame. At 
the front window appeared the face of 
an w ,qld lady, peering out at them. Tip, 
ok nan hobbled up to the well. 
“ ’Tain’t none of my business, but 
where you going?” 
“I’m on my way to the celebration. 1 
expect to make a speech there!” 
“Goin’ to make a speech, be ye? You 
the orator of the day, like enough.” 
“Well, you might call me that,” said 
Henry, swelling with pride. 
“Well now we’d like to have ye stop 
here and help us with our celebration. 
Help ye practice up a little on your 
speech.” 
“Celebration? Where’s the crowd?” 
“Well, there ain’t no crowd. Juet me 
and my wife and Comrades Drake and 
Phillips. They ain’t acceptable over yon¬ 
der in town, so we have our celebration 
at home.” 
Henry glanced down the road and saw 
two bent and shuffling figures coming out 
of the woods. 
“There they be now. They live in the 
poorhouse. Both of ’em in the army. 
Comrade Drake got scared in battle and 
started to run. They call him a deserter, 
and won’t associate with him. Comrade 
Phillips got drunk when they put him on 
guard. They started to hang him, but 
finally let him off. Despised and rejected 
of men they be, but don’t I know they 
done the best they could? We ain’t never 
had a speaker. It looks like you come 
along sorter providential.” 
* * * * * 
It would be hard to say what prompted 
Henry Rawson to accept. From what he 
tells me I think it was a mixture of van¬ 
ity, love of adventure and genuine pa¬ 
triotism. He soon found himself part of 
a little procession moving slowly up the 
farm lane. The old lady led the way. 
Then came Henry with the old man, with 
the two paupers shambling along behind. 
The old man carried a little flag. Com¬ 
rades Drake and Phillips wore blue over¬ 
alls and shabby army coats with black 
buttons stained or painted yellow. A 
black cow came to the fence and stared at 
them as they passed. A crow flew up 
from a cornfield, and a squirrel mocked 
at them from the fence. As Henry walked 
on he thought how in town the parade 
was winding in f ont of the speakers’ 
stand. Why was he not there with the 
other “distinguished citizens?” He turned 
to the old man impatiently. 
“Where are we going, anyway?” 
“Why, to the grave ! My boy is buried 
up in yonder orchard. Killed in the war. 
They sent him home, and me and Ma 
wanted him here—not off yonder in that 
crowded cemetery. Seems as if lie’s near¬ 
er to us here.” 
“A hero. I suppose,” said Henry, with 
a queer little feeling of shame creeping 
over him. 
‘'Well, I ain’t sure about that. He 
done his duty. He warn’t no soldier, so 
they put him to help the cook. He was 
ordered to carry a pot of coffee to the 
general’s tent. The enemy got the range 
on them and dropped shells right into the 
cookhouse. The rest of ’em all run, but 
my boy done his duty. He was on his 
way with that coffee when they shot him ! 
The general wrote me a letter and said 
he done his duty!” 
The old man told this proudly. To 
him these poor mean details of carrying 
coffee into the danger zone were glorified 
by that one thought—“he done his duty.” 
No man at the front in bloody conflict 
ever did more. I wish some great artist 
could picture the little group on that 
side hill under the orchard on that sweet 
May day. 
“We dug his grave here amongst the 
rocks,” said the old man, “so it will be 
preserved after we are gone. You see. 
they never can plow this place. They 
will have to let it alone.” 
The old lady picked apple blooms and 
laid them on the grave. Comrade Drake 
had a great bunch of lilacs; Comrade 
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