16 
January  6,  1923 
The  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
HOPE  FARM  NOTES 
“Santa  Claus,  Jr.” 
Part  II 
You  could  save  quite  a  distance  along 
our  crooked  roads  by  cutting  through  the 
woods,  so  I  climbed  the  wall  at  Deacon 
Drake’s  pasture  and  entered  the  scrub 
oaks.  I  suppose  this  piece  of  ground  had 
been  “cleared”  half  a  dozen  times  since 
the  original  settlers  moved  out  of  Ply¬ 
mouth  and  squatted  among  the  rocks. 
Generation  after  generation  had  been 
supplied  with  fuel  from  this  field.  Father 
would  cut  it  off  and  then  abandon  it.  It 
grew  up  "with  the  baby,  and  when  he 
came  to  middle  age  he  cut  it  again  and 
left  it  as  a  legacy  for  his  child.  No  one 
stop ued  to  thank  an  abused  and  generous 
earth  which  took  more  and  more  out  of 
her  bosom  to  keep  New  England  fires 
going.  Now  a  nasty  substitute  for  clean 
Yankee  wood  was  creeping  in  with  the 
railroad — coal.  My  uncle  grieved  because 
it  would  hardly  pay  to  cut  the  trees  again, 
and  I  felt  a  little  guilty  as  I  tramped 
through  the  snow  to  feel  that  I  hoped 
the  trees  would  always  be  left.  For  there 
was  genuine  companionship  for  the  lonely 
boy  in  the  quiet  of  the  woods.  This  great 
white,  solemn  stillness  seemed  somehow 
like  the  Englishman’s  singing  in  the 
church.  Once  a  partridge  whirled  up  be¬ 
fore  me.  A  gray  squirrel  scolded  from  a 
log.  He  should"  have  known  better  than 
to  reveal  his  hoard  of  nuts,  for  your 
true  Yankee  seldom  talks  of  his  wealth. 
Now  and  then  a  clump  of  snow  would 
fall  from  some  birch  tree  bent  over  by  the 
storm.  These  trees  impressed  me  like 
people  forced  by  fate  to  carry  heavy  bur¬ 
dens,  until  they  bend  beneath  the  weight. 
But  though  crushed  down,  they  would  not 
yield.  The  springs  and  fibers  of  resist¬ 
ance  within  them  would  not  slacken,  and 
finally  the  weight  Ml  away,  and,  like 
these  birch  trees,  the  burden-bearers 
started  upright  and  free  once  more.  I 
was  not  in  the  least  frightened.  There 
was  nothing  to  hurt  me,  and  there  seemed 
some  protective  presence  in  those  silent 
woods. 
*  sjc  Sjs  *  # 
Out  in  the  road  once  more,  I  faced  the 
storm  again.  It  was  a  bitter  wind,  and 
by  the  time  I  reached  Peleg  Leonard’s 
house  I  was  beginning  to  lose  quite  a 
little  of  that  Christmas  spirit — which  I 
have  learned  finds  its  best  setting  in  com¬ 
fortable  places.  As  I  trudged  by  in  the 
snow  Mrs.  Leonard  rapped  on  the  window 
and  beckoned  for  me  to  come  in.  I  sup¬ 
pose  I  should  not  have  entered,  for  these 
Leonards  were  worse  than  the  Orthodox — 
they  never  went  to  church  at  all.  Peleg 
Leonard  chewed  tobacco  and  went  to  a 
circus !  It  seemed  something  like  enter¬ 
ing  a  den  of  infamy  to  pass  in,  but  my 
fingers  were  cold  and  I  entered  through 
the  woodshed.  Mrs.  Leonard  “broomed 
me  off”  before  I  went  in  by  the  fire  to 
warm. 
"Ain’t  it  a  shame  to  send  a  little  boy 
like  that  all  the  way  to  the  Center— -a  day 
like  this?” 
It  was  the  first  word  of  sympathy  I  had 
beard,  and,  strangely  enough,  I  resented 
it. 
“But  I  ain’t  so  small.  I  wanted  to 
come.  I  ain’t  cold.” 
Old  Grandpa  Leonard  sat  in  the  rock¬ 
ing  chair  by  the  fire.  He  fixed  his  dim 
eyes  on  me. 
“Who  is  this  here  boy?” 
“Why,  father,  he’s  the  little  boy  Deacon 
Reed  has  taken  to  bring  up.” 
“Took  a  boy  to  bring  up.  did  he?  M  by 
ain't  the  boy’s  folks  kept  him? 
“The  boy’s  father  was  killed  in  the 
"r  was  an  unfortunate  statement  under 
the  circumstances,  for  Grandpa  Leonard 
was  a  war  Democrat.  There  were  a  few 
of  '  them  in  every  rural  neighborhood. 
“Copperheads,”  we  called  thenu  . 
“Killed  in  the  war?  Served  him  right. 
No  business  to  go  to  war.  You  can  t 
coerce  a  sovereign  State!” 
“Oh,  father,  don’t  talk  that  way  before 
this  bov.  It  wasn’t  his  fault.” 
“But  ain't  it  true?  1  tell^  you  you 
can't  coerce  a  sovereign  State!” 
Peleg  Leonard  was  mending  a  harness 
at  the  table.  He  did  not  share  Grandpa  s 
political  views. 
“But  'pears  to  me  they  got  em  coerced 
pretty  dum  tight— whether  you  can  do 
!t  “Well!  how'd  they  do  it?  Not  by  no 
legal  means,  says  I.  Men  like  this  boy  s 
father  went  down  and  over-rid  em. 
Served  him  right!”  .  ,  A 
The  old  man  went  raving  on.  but  Mrs. 
Leonard  tied  my  comforter,  slipped  a 
doughnut  into  my  hand  and  led  me  to  the 
(1°“Don't  mind  grandpa,”  she  said.  “Be 
a  good  bov.  and  Merry  Christmas. 
But  I  did  mind.  My  little  heart  was 
full  of  anger.  I  never  knew  my  father, 
but  it  had  been  my  pride  to  think  ot  him 
as  one  who  ranked  with  the  great  soldiers 
I  had  read  about  in  the  Bible  and  in  his¬ 
tory.  Yet  here  was  Grandpa  Leonard 
accusing  him  of  trying  to  coerce  a  sov¬ 
ereign  State — surely  an  unmentionable 
crime ! 
“Peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men. 
The  Englishman  in  the  Orthodox 
church  had  sung  that,  and  it  seemed  very 
real  until  Grandpa  Leonard — life  turned 
cold  and  weary  as  I  went  on  through  the 
snow.  I  had  no  good  will  for  Grandpa 
Leonard. 
There  was  a  little  village  at  the  Center, 
grouped  around  a  small  cotton  mill.  A 
long  valley  had  been  built  up  at  one  end 
to  form  a  mill  pond,  which  provided  power 
for  the  mill.  Over  the  door  of  an  old 
building  on  the  corner  was  a  faded  sign, 
on  which  I  read  “James  Lincoln — Gen¬ 
eral  Store.”  There  was  a  big  stove  in 
the  middle  of  the  room,  red  hot  and  roar¬ 
ing,  and  around  it  on  a  set  of  low  benches 
sat  the  wise  men  of  the  village.  In  that 
day  it  was  around  the  stove  in  Jim 
Lincoln’s  store  at.  the  Center,  not  in  the 
State  House  in  Boston,  that  Massachu¬ 
setts  was  governed.  Far  back  to  Plymouth 
Rock  New  England’ has  been  famous  for 
her  town  meetings  and  her  big  legislature, 
where  every  town  is  represented.  The 
“clean”  men,  as  they  called  themselves, 
who  did  not  chew  tobacco  or  sit  around 
the  stove  at  the  store,  could  not  under¬ 
stand  why  at  town  meeting  day  these 
“setters”  usually  carried  the  election. 
The  “setters”  were  organized,  and  be¬ 
tween  their  puffs  of  smoke  they  analyzed 
or  dissected  every  reputation  and  propo¬ 
sition  in  town.  As  I  stood  by  the  stove 
with  my  mittens  off,  warming  my  hands, 
I  became  aware  that  the  subject  for  dis¬ 
cussion  was  Christmas.  I  had  been  told 
never  to  listen  to  the  sinful  talk  around 
the  stove,  but  the  surest  way  to  get  a 
boy  to  do  a  thing  is  tc  tell  him  he  must 
not  do  it. 
“What  I  can't  understand  about  the 
doings  in  your  church,”  said  an  old  gray- 
beard,  “is  why  you  dress  up  that  tree 
with  all  them  candles  and  red  balls. 
What’s  the  idee?  You  don’t  suppose — ” 
But  that  was  the  last  I  heard  of  the 
first  public  theological  discussion  I  ever 
started.  Jim  Lincoln  called  me  over  to 
the  counter,  for  he  had  made  a  discovery. 
But  Jim  Lincoln  had  something  more 
serious  than  a  theological  discussion  _  to 
report.  I  had  given  him  Cap’n  Hoxie’s 
list  of  goods  and  the  package  of  money, 
and,  lo  and  behold,  the  cash  was  14  cents 
short !  My  aunt  had  sized  the  captain 
properly,  and  she  had  saved  my  reputa¬ 
tion  by  using  the  sealing  wax.  What  was 
to  be  done?  The  storekeeper  proposed 
leaving  out  the  candy  and  cutting  4  cents’ 
worth  of  tobacco  from  one  plug.  But  I 
knew  I  should  be  accused  of  eating  the 
candy,  at  least,  and  I  argued  for  my 
reputation.  I  fear  I  should  have  lost  out, 
however,  had  it  not  been  for  Susie  Dean, 
the  storekeeper’s  granddaughter.  I  have 
never  had  many  women  or  girls  intercede 
for  me — most  of  those  with  whom  I  am 
acquainted  seem  to  feel  that  I  need  the 
discipline  which  comes  from  facing  the 
music.  But  Susie,  back  in  those  golden 
years,  made  her  plea : 
“Oh,  grandpa,  don’t  do  that.  He’s  an 
awful  nice  boy.  Make  old  Hoxie  pay  it.” 
“An  awful  nice  boy!”  Oh,  Susie,  far 
across  the  long  stretch  of  half  a  century 
I  can  see  your  briaht  eyes  and  eager, 
blushing  face!  We  were  both  children, 
and  the  “awful  nice  boy”  has  dropped  Lis 
right  to  the  title  somewhere  far  back 
among  the  Aveary  years,  but  even  now  I 
wish  I  could  see  you  and  thank  you  for 
that  kindly  deed. 
Jim  Lincoln  was  a  dried  old  customer 
if  there  ever  was  one ;  but  his  lean,  old 
face  puckered  into  a  kindly  smile  as  he 
listened. 
“All  right,  Susie ;  but  you’ll  have  to  be 
responsible  for  Iloxie.  Kinder  interested 
in  this  boy,  ain’t  ye?” 
“No  ;  I  am  not !” 
And,  like  many  another  grown-up 
woman,  Susie  flounced  away  to  the  room 
back  of  the  store,  where  her  grandmother 
was  making  fried  pies.  But  every  now 
and  then  she  came  and  looked  through  the 
door. 
“What  kind  o’  candy  you  want?”  asked 
the  storekeeper.  After  some  study  I  se¬ 
lected  10  cents  worth  of  little  red  and 
white  balls  about  the  size  of  buckshot, 
and  just  about  as  hard  and  tasteless.  I 
thought  that  would  fix  Cap’n  Hoxie. 
The  goods  were  all  packed  in  my  basket 
and  I  was  walking  to  the  door  when 
Susie  Dean  came  running  in  once  more 
with  a  little  package  in  her  hand.  She 
whispered  to  her  grandfather,  and  when 
the  old  man  nodded  his  head  Susie  ran 
to  the  box  of  oranges,  picked  out  a  big 
one  and  then  pushed  all  into  my  hand. 
“Two  of  grandma’s  fried  pies  and  an 
orange — all  for  you.  Merry  Christmas!” 
Then  she  walked  back  to  her  grand¬ 
mother,  her  head  high  and  her  nose  in  the 
air  as  she  passed  the  other  boys ! 
***** 
The  storm  was  raging  harder  than 
ever,  but  there  did  not  seem  to  be  any 
snow  on  the  ground,  as  I  started  home. 
The  basket  was  heavy,  but  I  seemed  to 
walk  on  air.  It  might  be  as  Grandpa 
Leonard  said,  that  you  can’t  coerce  a. 
sovereign  State,  but  here  was  a  sovereign 
young  lady  who  did  not  need  coercion. 
Ever  since  the  world  began  men  have 
braved  the  tyrant’s  frown  at  the  lady's 
smile.  I  went  on,  munching  my  fried 
pies  and  dreaming  of  a  time  when  I 
might  own  a  store  bigger  even  than  Jim 
Lincoln’s — and  perhaps  with  a  room  back 
of  it  where — who  knows?  Well,  sir,  look¬ 
ing  out  into  the  wild  storm  today,  1 
thank  God  for  the  hope  and  joy  of  youth 
and  the  faith  which  has  enabled  me  to 
(Continued  on  Page  25) 
Without  Kayso 
With  Kayso 
Without  Kayso 
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peach  on  the  left  sprayed  with  Lead  Arsenate — on  the  right 
with  Sulfur  Paste— both  without  KAYSO.  The  center  peach 
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Below  are  photographs  of  peach  branches  sprayed  with 
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