206 
7bt  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
February  10,  1923 
HOPE  FARM  NOTES 
“Walnuto  Extracto” 
Part  II. 
My  investment  in  literature  did  not 
make  what  one  may  call  a  “hit”  with  the 
old  folks.  They  went  through  the  song 
book  and  tore  out  about  half  the  pages. 
These  “dangerous”  songs  were  consigned 
to  the  stove — but,  as  it  happened  I  had 
committed  most  of  them  to  memory  on 
the  way  home.  The  Yankee  brain  is  a 
good  storage  house.  After  the  Revolution 
England  decided  to  cripple  or  prevent 
cloth  manufacturing  in  this  country  by 
refusing  to  send  any  weaving  machines. 
The  Yankees  got  around  that  by  import¬ 
ing  a  man  who  had  a  clear  picture  of 
every  part  of  a  machine  printed  on  his 
train.  He  made  what  was  wanted  here. 
It  will  be  hard  for  the  young  people  of 
today  to  realize  what  these  ridiculous 
“song  books”  meant  to  that  old  genera¬ 
tion.  In  those  days  there  was  little 
music  for  us.  Only  here  and  there  could 
be  found  a  parlor  organ.  I  do  not  think 
there  were  half  a  dozen  pianos  in  the 
whole  township.  There  was  never  any 
music  at  our  house,  except  when  I  got  off 
into  the  barn  and  practiced  from  that 
“song  book.  ’  “Blowing  the  church  or¬ 
gan”  was  the  nearest  I  ever  came  to 
using  a  musical  instrument.  Yet  there 
were,  as  has  always  been  true  of  every 
community,  people  who  had  the  soul  of 
music  within  them,  and  they  surely  made 
violent  and  often  painful  efforts  to  let 
it  escape.  The  “song  books”  were  filled 
with  trash — sentimental  or  lovesick  songs 
or  coarse  or  vulgar  ditties.  They  gave 
us  something  to  sing,  at  least.  I  think 
the  failure  to  provide  good  music  for  chil¬ 
dren  of  that  generation  was  a  frightful 
mistake — a  serious  defect  in  our  bring¬ 
ing  up.  We  never  should  have  been 
driven  to  those  disreputable  “song  books” 
when  there  was  so  much  beautiful  music 
waiting  for  us !  My  uncle  assigned  him¬ 
self  the  pleasant  task  of  music  censor  for 
our  household.  I  can  see  him  yet  beside 
the  evening  lamp  peering  through  his 
great  glasses  and  spelling  ponderously 
through  the  words  of  these  songs.  I  sat 
on  my  little  cricket  by  the  stove,  hoping 
that  m.v  favorites  would  escape  his  eagle 
eye.  Finally  he  came  to  a  popular  song 
of  the  day,  entitled.  “My  Mary  Ann.”  He 
read  it  slowly  through  : 
“I’ll  never  find  another  girl 
Like  my  Mary  Ann. 
I’ll  never  find  another  girl 
Like  my  Mary  Ann. 
Till  good  hash  is  make  by  cooking. 
Till  Ben  Butler  grows  good  looking, 
I’ll  never  find  another  girl 
Like  my  Mary  Ann.” 
I  expected  to  see  that  page  go  promptly 
into  the  fire.  But  the  old  gentleman  put 
the  books  on  the  table,  pushed  his  glasses 
up  to  the  top  of  his  bald  head  and  looked 
long  and  earnestly  at  his  wife.  Her  name 
was  Mary  Ann.  She  was  his  fourth  wife, 
and  she  led  him  something  of  a  dance  be¬ 
fore  his  duty.  As  she  sat  there  in  the 
lamplight,  with  her  stiffened  hands  held 
out  before  her,  and  with  that  hard,  stony 
glare  which  forms  itself  on  the  face  of 
some  deaf  people,  she  really  seemed  to 
me  the  most  unlovely  character  I  ever 
saw.  Suddenly  her  hard  eye  fell  upon 
me,  and  she  read  some  mischief  in  the  ex¬ 
pression  on  my  face.  I  can  tell  you  that 
some  of  these  suspicious  deaf  people  can 
quickly  read  the  mind  through  the  coun¬ 
tenance.  She  aimed  her  long  finger  at  me 
like  a  highwayman  demanding  your  for¬ 
tune. 
“Boy,  are  you  doing  right?” 
I  was,  and  I  made  that  claim.  My 
uncle,  with  a  deep  sigh,  like  one  who  re¬ 
members  happier  days,  tore  out  the  page 
of  “My  Mary  Ann,”  but  instead  of  throw¬ 
ing  it  into  the  fire,  put  it  safely  away  in 
his  pocketbook  !  Oh,  well,  let  him  have 
his  romance.  Life  was  hard  enough  at 
best.  Perhaps,  shorn  of  his  spectacles, 
he  saw  in  the  dim  lamplight,  not  a  stern¬ 
faced  old  lady,  but  a  bright-eyed  girl — 
“My  Mary  Ann !”  I  could  not  see  any 
such  character,  but.  for  the  moment,  no 
doubt  the  old  gentleman  was  younger 
than  I  was. 
Then  my  uncle  came  to  that  absurd 
song  we  all  used  to  sing  50  years  ago, 
“Shoo  Fly,  Don’t  Bodder  Me”  : 
I  feel.  I  feel,  I  feel, 
I  feel  like  a  morning  star ; 
I  feel,  I  feel  as  if  I  saw 
The  golden  gates  ajar ; 
I  feel  so  good  I  want  to  fly. 
That’s  what  my  mother  said  ; 
The  angels  pouring  'lasses  down 
Upon  this  darkey’s  head. 
Shoo  fly,  don’t  bother  me, 
I  belong  to  Company  B. 
I  cannot  begin  to  tell  you  how  popular 
that  foolish  song  was.  Everybody  sang 
or  whistled  it.  Under  ordinary  circum¬ 
stances  my  uncle  would  have  burned  it  as 
a  foolish  thing,  but  Ben  Butler  had  used 
it  to  the  glory  of  Massachusetts!  In 
Congress  there  had  been  a  fierce  debate, 
and  Congressman  Cox  of  New  York  had 
attacked  Butler  and  New  England  sav¬ 
agely.  Ever  since  a  group  of  Dutchmen 
from  New  York  went  to  Plymouth  to  de¬ 
cide  whether  they  had  better  try  to  clean 
out  the  town  there  has  been  no  love  lost 
between  New  England  and  the  big  city. 
Cox  did  what  is  called  “a  good  job” :  as 
we  would  say,  he  “put  it  all  over  Ben 
Butler.”  Now,  Cox  was  a  small  me  ’, 
while  Butler  was  a  big,  burly  fellow, 
about  twice  as  large  as  his  antagonist. 
Old  Ben  knew  he  had  no  answer  to  what 
Cox  had  said,  but  he  stood  up  and  ad¬ 
dressed  the  chair : 
“Mr.  Speaker,  I  do  not  need  to  reply  to 
the  gentleman.  My  answer  has  already 
been  made.  It  is  being  played  on  every 
street  corner,  sung  or  whistled  by  every 
urchin  on  the  street.  ‘ Shoo  fly,  don't  bod¬ 
der  me!’  ” 
That  was  all.  and  it  was  enough.  Men 
like  my  uncle  had  no  use  for  Ben  Butler, 
but  they  loved  him  for  getting  the  laugh 
on  New  York !  I  could  probably  have 
sung  the  song  right  then  into  my  aunt’s 
ear  trumpet  with  some  applause.  What 
songs  they  were !  A  wise  man  once  said 
that  if  you  would  let  him  write  the  songs 
of  a  nation  he  cared  not  who  made  the 
laws.  Perhaps  “Shoo  Fly,”  “My  Mary 
Ann,”  “Champagne  Charlie,”  “Captain 
Jinks”  and  “The  Man  On  the  Flying 
Trapeze”  are  responsible  for  some  of  our 
pi’esent  laws. 
*  *  *  *8s  * 
As  for  the  medicine,  my  uncle  saw  possi¬ 
bilities  in  that.  I  think  he  believed  at 
least  part  of  what  I  reported  of  the  medi¬ 
cine  man’s  speech.  Just  at  that  time  the 
revolution  in  the  shoe  business  was  upon 
us.  Before  that  time  the  heavier  shoes 
had  been  made  by  farmers  in  barns  or 
little  shops,  but  now  machines  were  doing 
it,  and  farmers  were  slowly  losing  their 
jobs.  They  needed  a  new  one.  Why  not 
make  medicine?  It  was  possible.  This 
new  stuff  did  not  promptly  relieve  stif¬ 
fened  fingers,  but  it  had  great  power  to 
loosen  the  tongue  of  the  patient,  and  she 
surely  felt  better  for  a  brief  period.  We 
tried  it  on  Daniel  Ames,  the  bad  man  of 
the  town.  He  always  had  some  sort  of 
“misery”  at  his  stomach.  Nothing  like 
“trying  it  on  the  dog,”  so  one  day  we 
called  Daniel  Ames  in  as  he  passed  along 
the  road. 
“How’s  your  health.  Daniel?” 
“Oh,  I  ain’t  well.  I’m  poorly,  poorly. 
It’s  dyspepsy  of  the  liver.” 
“Well,  now,  try  this  new  medicine,  and 
see  if  it  don’t  help  you.” 
They  poured  out  a  generous  dose  and 
Daniel  smelled  of  it.  There  was  some¬ 
thing  natural  about  it,  and  he  drank  it 
quickly  and  held  out  the  cup  for  more. 
“My  disease  is  so  terrible  sot  that  I 
guess  another  will  help  it.” 
He  drank'  it  and  sat  down  by  the  stove. 
He  became  quite  affable,  took  off  the  stove 
cover  and  spit  into  the  fire  which,  in  our 
community,  was  one  great  test  of  com¬ 
radeship  and  good  feeling. 
“Why,  I  ain’t  felt  so  good  for  six 
months.  What’s  the  name  of  that  medi¬ 
cine?” 
This  and  other  incidents  which  I  re¬ 
member  convince  me  that  if  I  were  to 
handle  that  medicine  today  I  would  be 
in  danger  of  arrest  as  a  bootlegger. 
***** 
Ever  since  the  world  began  the  medical 
quacks  have  had  their  inning,  and  they 
make  many  home  runs.  Nature  has  tucked 
away  in  many  plants  and  minerals  cer¬ 
tain  principles  which  when  used  as  drugs 
act  in  a  certain  definite  way  upon  the  hu¬ 
man  boJ.y.  It  is  remarkable  to  me  how, 
long  years  ago,  savages  or  unlearned  men 
came  to  understand  the  medical  properties 
of  rhubarb,  wild  cherry,  burdock  or  dan¬ 
delion.  How  they  ever  did  it  is  a  mystery 
to  me.  What  a  book  of  fancies  one  could 
write  in  picturing  how  through  long  years 
the  wiser  and  more  observing  men  of 
a  tribe  learned  the  secrets  of  crude  medi¬ 
cal  practice.  It  is  but  natural  that  these 
wiser  and  more  observant  men  tried 
to  guard  their  knowledge  by  surrounding 
it  with  great  mystery,  or  attributing  some 
supernatural  power  to  their  drugs.  Who 
cculd  blame  them?  Even  in  this  enlight¬ 
ened  age  the  people  we  call  “quacks”  do 
the  same  thing,  with  much  success.  It  is 
even  possible  that  some  of  the  “legitimate 
profession”  have  given  pills  of  sugar  and 
flour  or  sweetened  water  with  a  little  sul¬ 
phur  and  aloes,  and  let  nature  and  psy¬ 
chology  “do  the  rest.”  Irvin  Cobb  tells 
the  story  of  the  “root-and-herb”  doctor 
who  prescribed  for  a  man  with  the  ague. 
He  took  a  root — probably  dandelion — 
from  his  saddle  bag  and  first  scraped  from 
the  crown  down  and  put  the  scrapings  in 
a  glass  of  water.  Then  he  turned  the 
root  over  and  scraped  the  other  way,  and 
put.  that  in  another  glass.  He  told  the 
patient  to  drink  the  contents  of  one  glass 
when  his  fever  was  high  and  the  other 
when  it  ran  down. 
Electricity  Works  for 
the  Farmer’s  Wife 
The  electric  washer,  the  electric  iron,  the 
vacuum  cleaner,  running  water  in  the  kitchen 
and  all  the  other  electric  household  helps  work 
for  the  farmer’s  wife  when  a  Westinghouse 
Light  and  Power  Plant  is  installed  on  the  farm. 
The  Coffee  Percolator,  the  Table  Stove  and 
the  Turnover  Toaster  to  grace  the  table  at 
meal  time,  the  Warming  Pad  that  is  such  a 
comfort  for  the  sick  person — all  these  and 
many  other  Westinghouse  appliances  add  to 
the  comfort  and  convenience  of  the  farm  home. 
The  Westinghouse  Light  and  Power  Plant 
is  easy  to  operate  and  easy  to  own.  It  is  so 
simple  in  design  and  mechanism  that  it  can  be 
operated  by  anyone  on  the  farm.  And  the 
special  deferred  payment  plan  offered  by 
Westinghouse  permits  you  to  enjoy  the  use  of 
a  Westinghouse  Light  and  Power  Plant  on 
your  farm  and  pay  for  it  on  terms  that  suit 
your  conditions  best. 
estinghouse 
Farming  Section,  Westinghouse  Electric  &  Manufacturing  Co. 
East  Pittsburgh,  Pa. 
Send  me  complete  information  about  the  Westinghouse  Light 
and  Power  Plant. 
Name . 
P.  O.  Address....  .  R.N.Y.-26 
