658 
If*  RURAL.  NEW. YORKER 
Hope  Farm  Notes 
“Consecrated  Ground'’ 
Past  I 
The  papers  have  reported  the  death  of 
Lord  Carnarvon,  who  conducted  the  work 
of  digging  into  the  tomb  of  that  old  Egyp¬ 
tian  king.  It  is  stated  that  Carnarvon 
was  bitten  by  some  venomous  insect. 
Blood  poisoning  set  in,  and  death  fol¬ 
lowed.  The  reports  do  not  seem  to  be 
clear,  but  I  understand  this  seems  to  be 
the  accepted  story.  It  is  entirely  prob¬ 
able.  Human  life  has  been  taken  in  that 
way  before  now.  There  are  a  number  of 
insects  which  seem  to  be  nearly  as  deadly 
as  rattlesnakes  to  certain  humans  who 
are  peculiarly  susceptible.  There  are 
cases  where  mosquitoes  have  actually 
killed  people.  Most  of  us  know  people 
who  suffer  for  life  with  malaria  as  a  re¬ 
sult  of  mosquito  bites.  The  story  seems 
very  probable  to  me.  The  death  of  (  arnar- 
von  resulted  from  natural  causes.  There 
are  those,  however,  who  will  not  have  it 
so.  They  say  that  something  of  the  super¬ 
natural  entered  into  this  case.  They  think 
the  old  king’s  grave  was  desecrated,  and 
that  some  poison  or  secret  charm  con¬ 
cealed  in  the  tomb  was  really  responsible 
for  Carnarvon’s  death.  And  this  feeling 
does  not  seem  to  be  confined  to  the  Egyp¬ 
tians.  I  hear  people  of  this  age,  intelli¬ 
gent  and  well-read  folks,  who  think  that 
a  grave  is  a  sacred  thing,  and  that  he 
who  mutilates  or  removes  it  either  through 
curiosity  or  for  gain,  comes  under  the 
spell  of  a  curse  which  will  take  his  life 
or  blight  the  most  valuable  thing  he  pos¬ 
sesses.  You  may  believe  what  you  like 
about  it,  but  I  have  seen  some  curious 
things  work  out,  and  I  have  heard  some 
strange  tales  from  country  people  about 
the  neglected  graveyards  one  often  sees 
in  the  back  country.  I  know  plenty  of 
people  who  will  never  believe  that  Lord 
Carnarvon  died  from  the  effect  of  an  in¬ 
sect’s  bite.  They  will  tell  you  that  stern 
judgment  fell  upon  him  because  he  was 
responsible  for  rifling  the  grave. 
*  *  *  *  * 
Most  of  us  who  have  traveled  about  the 
country  have  noticed  the  little  family 
graveyards  scattered  here  and  there,  often 
on  lonely  farms.  There  are  many  of  them 
where  I  live  in  Northern  New  Jersey,  and 
I  have  seen  many  more  in  the  Middle 
West.  They  generally  occupy  some  little 
hill  or  mound  in  a  lonely  corner  of  the 
farm.  I  often  think  that  the  original  lo¬ 
cation  was  decided  upon  as  a  compromise 
between  the  thrift  of  the  farmer  and  the 
reverence  and  natural  love  of  beauty  of  his 
wife.  Very  likely  the  farmer  wanted  some 
place  on  the  poorest  soil — a  place  which 
would  least  interfere  with  the  plow.  Thus 
he  voted  for  some  old  pasture — some  worn 
out  and  lonely  field,  a  fit  resting  place  for 
pioneers,  worn  out  and  broken  in  the 
struggle  for  life.  The  woman  must  have 
had  some  idea  of  beauty  and  greater  re¬ 
spect,  for  the  dead.  She  wanted  the  beauty 
spot  of  the  farm — some  little  hill  or 
mound  with  a  view  over  the  surrounding 
country,  and  good  soil  where  trees  and 
flowers  might  grow.  I  once  heard  a  de¬ 
bate  between  a  farmer  and  his  wife  over 
this. 
"What  odds  does  it  make,”  said  the 
farmer,  "where  they  are  buried,  Who’s 
going  to  care?  There  isn’t  anything  pretty 
about  death,  anyway.  What’s  the  use  in 
using  good,  fruitful  soil  for  something 
that  won’t  produce  any  crop?  Use  the 
poorest  soil  you  have  got  for  a  grave¬ 
yard,  says  I.” 
His  wife  could  not  agree ;  she  wanted 
to  use  a  beautiful  little  hill  south  of  the 
house,  where  great  maples  grew,  and 
where  the  birds  loved  to  congregate. 
"I  do  not  think  so,  John.  I  think  we 
should  give  the  best  we  have  to  the  mem¬ 
ory  of  the  dead.  They  have  only  passed 
away  from  us  for  a  time.  We  want  our 
children  and  all  who  follow  us  to  remem¬ 
ber  them  kindly.  Thev  are  entitled  to  the 
best  this  farm  can  offer  as  our  sacrifice 
to  their  memory.  It  will  strengthen  and 
beautify  the  lives  of  all  our  children  and 
their  children  if  we  feel  that  we  have 
left  this  beauty  spot  for  them  to  cherish 
and  maintain.  It  will  be  just  like  a 
temple,  such  as  ancient  people  had  for 
worship.” 
John  grumbled  quite  a  little. 
"Were  not  living  in  ancient,  times. 
This  is  a  bread-and-butter  age.  There  is 
mighty  little  beauty  about  farming,  I  can 
tell  you.  What  do  we  cai-e  what  coming 
strangers  think  of  us?  That’s  the  best 
spot  on  the  farm  for  our  new  barn.  1 
hate  to  have  it  turned  into  a  boneyard.” 
There  was  more  of  it.  but  the  woman, 
backed  by  her  daughter,  finally  won.  The 
baby  was  the  first  to  be  buried  there. 
Now  whenever  I  see  these  old  abandoned 
graveyards  I  think  of  that  dialogue  be¬ 
tween  the  farmer  and  his  wife.  Evidently 
the  men  win  out  on  the  argument  in 
some  cases. 
***** 
I  think  the  woman’s  argument  won 
years  ago  on  that  hillside  farm  in  New 
England  which  I  have  in  mind,  as  1 
write  this.  In  pioneer  days  the  farms 
were  far  apart.  There  were  few,  if  any, 
public  cemeteries,  and  farmers  laid  their 
dead  away  in  private  burying-grounds. 
It  seemed  most  fitting  that  the  worn  and 
weary  body  should  finally  rest  in  the 
bosom  of  the  small  piece  of  “God’s  Acre” 
which  these  sturdy  hands  had  tried  to 
snatch  away  from  Nature  to  utilize  as 
a  home.  Other  generations  who  took  up 
the  struggle  for  the  home  also  took  up 
the  habit,  until  many  of  these  little  farm 
graveyards  were  crowded  full.  Now  they 
‘are  abandoned.  The  rude  stones  are 
broken,  and  time  has  eaten  them  so  that 
names  and  dates  are  hard  to  read.  Brush 
and  briars  have  broken  in  to  monopolize 
the  place.  The  little  graveyard  J  speak 
of  must  have  been  selected  by  a  very 
tender-hearted  woman.  It  stands  at  the 
top  of  a  little  hill.  All  around  it  the 
land  slopes  gently  away  into  a  beautiful 
rolling  country,  thickly  wooded  with  pine 
and  spruce.  One  might  even  think  that 
ages  ago  the  blind,  cruel,  grinding  forces 
of  the  glaciers  crashing  down  to  the  ocean 
were  moved  by  some  impulse  to  leave  this 
beauty  spot  on  the  face  of  the  earth. 
Here  and  there  you  see  a  little  cleared 
space  with,  the  brown  of  plowed  land 
and  the  green  of  living  crops.  There  are 
farmhouses  here  and  there  in  the  dis¬ 
tance.  You  see  smoke  rising  from  them 
by  day.  At  sunset  there  are  sparkles  of 
light  where  the  sun  strikes  the  windows, 
and  at  night  the  lights  of  home  shine 
out.  A  little  brook  or  river  winds  down 
the  valley  below  the  hill.  On  still  nights 
its  waters  laugh  and  chatter  as  they 
tumble  over  the  stones.  When  the  wind 
rises  there  comes  a  low,  moaning  sound 
from  the  pine  trees.  Surely  an  ideal 
resting  place  for  the  dead.  A  person 
with  imagination  would  seem  very  close 
to  loved  ones  who  have  passed  on  with 
the  moonlight  gilding  this  lonely  place 
and  the  ripple  of  the  water  and  the  moan¬ 
ing  of  the  trees. 
*  *  *  *  * 
For  three;  generations  this  old  farm  was 
occupied  by  a  sturdy  race  of  men  and 
women.  They  kept  the  fields  clean,  main¬ 
tained  the  stone  walls  and  lived  on  their 
hillside  free  and  independent  as  kings. 
As  their  lives  passed  on  into  the  groat 
mystery  which  lies  beyond  the  grave 
their  bodies  were  buried  on  the  hill  where 
the  river  and  the  birds  sang  and  the  wind 
hummed  through  the  trees.  Then  some¬ 
thing  happened.  The  clock  of  the  family 
seemed  to  run  down.  It  may  have  been 
consumption,  the  hand  of  fate  or  what 
not,  but  there  came  a  day  when  all  but 
one  of  the  great  family  of  children  lay  in 
the  graveyard  under  the  murmuring  trees, 
beside  the  laughing  brook.  And  the  one 
who  was  left  seemed  to  be  some  sort  of 
a  changeling,  for  he  surelv  was  not  of  the 
old  stock.  Where  he  came  from  was  a 
mystery.  For  years  and  years  the  boys 
of  this  sturdy  family  had  been  natural 
farmers.  They  knew  just  when  corn  or 
oats  should  be  planted,  and  it  was  a  joy 
with  them  to  go  forth  with  cultivator  and 
hoe  and  fight  off  the  weeds  and  grass 
which  lurked  on  the  hillside  soil,  ever 
ready  to  strangle  out  the  corn.  This  boy 
did  not  seem  able  to  learn.  lie  was  a 
dreamer,  thoroughly  unfitted  for  the  life 
which  had  been  prepared  tor  him.  For 
the  family  pride  was  built  on  the  founda¬ 
tion  of  this  old  farm.  Family  pride  is  a 
sacred  thing,  and  the  "ancestral  acres” 
must  be  worked  as  they  always  have 
been,  or  ruin,  black  and  blasting,  will 
fall  upon  the  family.  The  boy  might  be 
a  born  poet  or  lawyer  or  a  king  of  finance 
in  the  making,  but  in  the  stern  philosophy 
of  his  parents  there  was  only  one  life 
work  for  him.  That  was  to  stay  on  the 
rugged,  hillside  farm  and  work  it  in  the 
old-fashioned  way.  Those  who  had  gone 
down  the  valley  to  the  great  cities  knew 
the  hopeless  life  which  opened  before  this 
ill-prepared,  dreaming  boy,  but  family 
pride  decreed  that  the  old  acres  must  be 
worked  as  they  always  had  been.  The 
parents  grew  old,  but  they  were  hopeful. 
"Paul  must  marry  some  strong  and 
sensible  country  girl.  She  will  hold  him 
up  to  the  mark.  Sarah  Graham  is  the 
girl  for  him.” 
But  young  people  are  not  mated  that 
way.  If  Paul  had  married  Sarah,  very 
likely  this  story  would  never  have  been 
written,  lie  who  seeks  to  organize  and 
dictate  tin*  wooing  of  young  people  is 
finally  married  to  trouble  without  possi¬ 
bility  of  divorce.  Paul  chose  just  exactly 
the  wrong  girl  to  help  him  in  the  task  of 
feeding  and  fattening  the  family  pride. 
He  went  to  town  and  fell  in  love  with 
a  slender,  blaek-liaired  girl  with  a  dash  of 
'foreign  blood — a  city  girl  who  had  never 
milked  a  cow  or  made  a  pound  of  butter 
or  scrubbed  out  a  week’s  washing.  The 
old  folks  stormed  and  grieved,  but  they 
did  not  realize  that  here  was  the  stub¬ 
bornness  of  their  own  "family  pride" 
broken  out  in  the  life  of  their  son.  They 
gained  one  victory,  however.  Before  they 
died  they  made  Paul  promise  that  lie 
would  stay  on  the  farm  and  maintain  the 
family  pride.  They  knew  he  would  keep 
his  word.  h.  w.  c. 
(To  Be  Continued) 
April  28,  1023 
Do  the  golden  morning  hours  find  you  wide¬ 
awake  and  fit,  or  do  they  find  you  sleepy  and  tired? 
Coffee  is  a  common  cause  of  sleepless  nights, 
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of  neglected  opportunities. 
Why  not  get  a  new,  firm  grip  on  yourself,  by 
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You  can  enjoy  Postum  any  time,  day  or  night, 
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Your  grocer  sells  Postum  in  two  forms: 
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Postum  Cereal  (in  packages)  for  those  who  pre¬ 
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prepared;  made  by  boiling  fully  twenty  minutes. 
Postum 
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Nu-Ways  are  for  sale  by  more  than  40,000 
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