690 
The  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
May  5,  1923 
HOPE  FARM  NOTES 
-  — 
"Consecrated  Ground'5 
Part  II. 
In  due  time  the  old  folks  passed  away 
and  were  buried  on  the  hill.  Paul  and 
his  foreign  wife  never  were  farmers,  and 
their  struggles  to  keep  the  rust  ofi  that 
family  pride  were  at  times  pitiful.  It 
was  the  time  when  "agriculture”  was 
beginning  to  walk  a  little  apart  frym 
farming,  and  rather  look  down  upon  her, 
somewhat  as  the  girl  who  moves  to  town 
and  learns  something  of  the  art  of  dress¬ 
ing  comes  back  and  parades  before  her 
plain  sister  who  has  remained  at  home 
with  her  hands  in  the  butter  or  the  dough. 
It  happens  too  frequently  that  the  plain 
worker  forgets  that  she  is  master  of  the 
more  useful  art,  and  makes  a  clumsy  ef¬ 
fort.  to  imitate  the  more  superficial  life 
of  her  showy  sister.  In  the  early  days 
of  ‘agriculture”  most  new  experiments  or 
suggestions  were  gambles — untested  and 
often  visionary.  Paul  tried  most  of  them 
on  his  hillside  farm,  which  never  was 
designed  for  anything  beyond  dairying 
or  sheep  farming.  He  tried  everything  in 
(he  way  of  "intensive  farming,”  and  lost 
money  on  all.  There  came  a  time  when 
the  modest  legacy  left  by  his  father  was 
eaten  up,  and  Paul  found  himself  face  to 
face  with  debt.  Then  his  wife's  brother 
got  into  trouble,  and  money  must  be  had 
to  help  him  out.  There  was  a  great  strug¬ 
gle  over  that  “family  pride.”  Should 
they  let  a  relative  go  down  in  disgrace 
or  should  they  mortgage  the  old  farm? 
They  decided  to  mortgage,  though  it 
seemed  like  putting  on  the  chains  of  slav¬ 
ery.  But  when  Paul  applied  for  a  loan 
the  bank  looked  up  the  records  and  ac¬ 
tually  found  a  flaw  in  the  title!  It  seems 
strange  that  for  generations  these  inde¬ 
pendent  people  had  lived  on  that  piece  of 
land  and  never  thought  of  cousulting  a 
lawyer  or  questioning  their  legal  right 
when  all  the  time  their  land  title  was 
obscure.  Paul  raised  the  money  in  some 
way,  and  cleared  his  brother-in-law,  but 
it  finally  ruined  him.  The  sensitive  for¬ 
eign  woman,  realizing  what  all  this  meant 
to  her  husband,  could  not  rally  from  the 
'  shock.  She  slowly  faded  away,  and  at 
last  was  buried  in  the  last  vacant  place, 
under  a  great  maple  tree,  beside  the  stone 
wall  boundary  of  the  little  family  grave¬ 
yard. 
“I’m  sorry ;  remember  me,  were  the 
last  words  she  whispered,  and  Paul  went 
out  a  broken  man,  with  nothing  to  live 
for  except  the  memory.  He  worked  on 
aimlesslv  for  a  few  years  and  then  came 
the  end.  An  accident,  long  sickness,  and 
then  slow  recovery  on  the  town  farm  or 
poorhouse.  Old  and  feeble  beyond  his 
time,  lie  had  but  one  occupation  outside 
of  the  menial  labor  assigned  him  on  the 
poor  farm.  Through  the  Summer  he 
worked  to  keep  that  little  family  grave¬ 
yard  neat  and  clean.  It  was  a  well-nigh 
hopeless  battle  with  the  weeds  and  briars, 
and  year  by  year  as  his  strength  failed 
he  was  forced  to  abandon  part  of  the 
ground.  First  the  older  graves  were 
neglected.  One  by  one  they  went  back 
to  nature,  until  at  the  time  of  this  story 
only  one  grave  was  well  kept — that  of 
the'  woman  with  the  strain  of  foreign 
blood  lying  by  the  stone  wall  with  the 
white  stone  at  her  head. 
*  *  *  *  * 
The  farm  went  slowly  back  to  pasture 
and  brush.  It  was  worked  on  shares  for 
a  time,  but  the  neighborhood  was  slowly 
dying  at  best,  and  only  the  old  or  feeble 
of  purpose  or  the  few  who  are  so  rooted 
in  the  soil  that  they  cannot  be  pulled  out 
remained.  The  sheep  kept  the  lower 
farm  fairly  clean,  but  the  hills  seemed  to 
welcome  the  pines  and  the  brush,  and 
they  came  marching  in  like  an  army.  At 
last,  one  June  day,  a  car  came  hurrying 
along  the  dusty  road  and  stopped  under 
the  shade  of  the  big  elm.  Here  was  the 
new  type  of  farmer — the  rich  baek-to-the- 
lander — a  fat.  brutal-faced  man,  a  weary- 
looking  woman  and  an  insolent,  over¬ 
grown  boy.  ,  ,  , 
“Say,  dad,  I  want  this  place.  Its  the 
best  we  have  seen.  What  a  bully  golf 
course  that  hill  will  make.  There’s^  the 
place  for  the  clubhouse  on  that  little 
hill ,  .  TT 
There  were  just  two  things  that  Henry 
Jones  really  cared  for.  One  was  his 
money,  the 'other  this  boy.  Everything 
else,  including  his  wife,  were  mere  inci¬ 
dents.  The  money  was  filthy  and  the  boy 
was  growing  foul,  but  they  carried  all 
the  love  that  Jones  was  capable  of  show¬ 
ing.  It  wasn’t  exactly  love,  either — a 
sort  of  gross  pride  in  what  he  conceived 
off  over  the  rolling  country,  sweeping 
away  to  the  blue  hills  in  the  dim  distance. 
Something  of  the  beauty  of  that  view 
seemed  to  dodge  past  the  golden  sentinels 
which  had  for  years  guarded  the  portals 
of  his  soul. 
“Son,  that’s  great.  It’s  all  yours,  too. 
You  are  all  I’ve  got.  I’m  banking  on 
you  to  carry  on  and  do  big  things  with 
the  money.  You’ve  got  brains,  and  I’ve 
got  nerve.  We’ll  shake  things  up  and 
scoop  up  barrels  of  money  I’m  going 
to  leave  all  this  and  more  in  your  hands, 
and  you  will  double  it.  I’m  banking  on 
you.  You  and  the  money  are  all  I’ve 
got.” 
But  the  boy  had  his  eye  on  that  club¬ 
house  site. 
‘Bight-o,  dad,  of  course.  You  may 
think  you  are  some  bunk,  but  wait  till 
you  see  me  in  action.  You  won’t  be  able 
to  follow  my  smoke  when  I  step  on  the 
gas.  But.  forget  it.  Let’s  lay  out  that 
clubhouse  I” 
They  looked  over  the  broken  wall  just 
at  the  point  where  Paul  had  buried  his 
wife. 
“A  graveyard,  eh?  Think  of  these  old 
skinflints  taking  the  best  spot  on  the  farm 
for  such  a  thing !  Look  at  the  grass  in 
there ;  better  than  any  in  that  pasture. 
Say,  Joe,  take  your  ax  and  knock  that 
old  gate  down.  What’s  the  use  wasting 
that  grass?  Let  the  stock  in  to  eat  it.” 
But  Joe  hesitated.  He  was  country- 
bred.  He  knew  how  Paul  had  worked 
with  his  trembling  hands  to  keep  up  the 
fence  and  the  gate  so  that  the  little  grave¬ 
yard  might,  not  be  violated.  And  Joe  had 
the  native  superstition,* too.” 
‘T  wouldn’t  do  that.  Mr.  Jones.”  he 
said.  "That  means  bad  luck  to  the 
owner.” 
"What  do  you  mean— bad  luck?” 
“Why,  the  old  saying  is  that  graves  are 
sacred.  There's  a  curse  bn  people  who 
desecrate  a  grave.” 
“There  is,  eh?  Well,  we’ll  break  that 
curse  with  an  ax  right  here.  I’ve  been 
cussed  all  my  life,  yet  look  at  me  now — 
as  lucky  as  any  man  living.  If  you’re 
too  white-livered  to  obey  orders,  give  me 
that  ax.” 
Jones  took  the  ax,  and  with  a  few  hard 
blows  smashed  down  the  top  rail  and 
knocked  the  feeble  gate  over.  A  short 
distance  away  in  the  pasture  two  black 
hogs  and  a  group  of  cattle  were  watching 
this  strange  Sunday  proceeding.  As  the 
men  walked  back  down  the  hill  these  curi¬ 
ous  animals  moved  up  to  the  little  grave¬ 
yard.  .Tones  looked  back  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  and  saw  the  last  of  the  black 
hogs  hurrying  in  through  the  gate. 
“What  did  I  tell  you?  I  like  a  hog — 
he  knows  a  good  thing  or  a  better  job 
when  he  sees  it,  and  he  goes  right  after 
it,  too. 
*  *  *  *  * 
An  hour  or  two  later  a  bent  and  feeble 
old  man  came  slowly  across  the  hill  from 
the  south.  He  walked  out  of  the  pine 
woods  through  the  brush  and  weeds, 
slowly  to  the  corner  where  the  woman 
with  the  strain  of  foreign  blood  lay.  As 
he  looked  over  the  wall  he  saw  the  two 
black  hogs  rooting  in  the  soil  above  the 
grave,  while  a  white  cow  was  rubbing 
her  neck  against  the  stone.  The  old  man 
cried  out  in  a  perfect  frenzy  of  anger, 
and  with  the  sudden  strength  which  rage 
often  brings  to  the  aged,  lie  sprang  over 
the  wall  and  laid  about  him  with  bis 
stick.  The  frightened  animals  ran  out  of 
the  enclosure.  One  of  the  hogs  ran  drag¬ 
ging  a  useless  leg  behind  him,  squealing 
with  pain.  The  old  man  stood  at  the 
broken  gate  white  with  exhaustion, 
speechless  with  anger,  waving  his  arms, 
an  impotent  sentinel  defending  his  dead. 
*  *  . it  *  * 
And  that  is  what  .Tones  saw  through 
his  field  glass  from  the  road.  He  had 
heard  the  squealing  hog,  and  now  he  saw 
this  strange  figure  on  the  hill. 
“Come  on,  boys,”  he  ordered.  “Some 
old  fellow  has  come  trespassing  on  my 
farm.  We’ll  put  him  off.” 
With  Joe  and  his  son,  Jones  climbed 
the  hill.  The  old  man’s  anger  had  passed. 
Painfully  he  got  down  on  his  knees,  and 
with  his  trembling  hands  smoothed  the 
soil  above  the  grave  as  best  he  could. 
Then  he  sat  on  the  stone  wall,  his  chin 
resting  on  his  stick  as  he  looked  off  over 
the  blue  rolling  waves  of  pine.  The  brook 
sang  below  him,  the  wind  murmured  in 
the  trees,  the  birds  chirped,  the  grass  and 
leaves  whispered — all,  all  combined  to 
form  the  language  with  which  the  old 
man’s  soul  communicated  with  the  dead 
woman  beside  him.  He  did  not  hear 
.Tones  puffing  up  the  hillside  till  the  new¬ 
comers  were  close  upon  him. 
“Say,  you  old  rogue,  what  are  you  do¬ 
ing  on  my  fai-m?  You’ve  lamed  one  of 
my  hogs.  Get  off  the  premises  before  I 
fire  you !” 
Then  Joe  put  in  a  word. 
“Mr.  Jones,  the  old  man  used  to  own 
this  farm;  his  wife  is  buried  here!” 
"What  if  he  did?  He  don’t  own  it 
now.  I  don’t  care  if  his  grandmother  is 
buried  here.  My  boy  owns  this  place 
now,  and  I  act  for  him.” 
Tlie  old  man  suddenly  stood  up. 
"My  wife  planted  this  tree.”  He 
pointed  to  a  willow  by  the  wall.  “One 
of  the  first  things  she  did  after  she  came 
here  was  to  plant  that  tree.” 
“She  did,  did  she?  'Well,  she  planted 
it  and  I’ll  cut  it.  down.  No  monkey  work 
on  my  farm.  .Toe,  take  your  ax  and  cut 
that  tree  down.” 
Joe  didn’t  relish  the  job,  but  he  stated  : 
“It'll  fall  right  in  on  the  graves.” 
“I  don’t  care  where  it  falls.  Cut  it. 
I’ll  see  who’s  boss  here !” 
Joe  began  reluctantly  to  cut  on  the 
to  be  his  best  possessions. 
"Are  you  sure?”  was  all  he  asked. 
“Sure,  dad.  It’s  a  dandy  place  for  us!” 
Neither  of  them  had  anv  thought  of 
consulting  the  mother.  This  was,  as 
everything  else  of  importance,  a  man’s 
tob  Jones  was  quick  to  act,  and  within 
a  week  the  old  farm  was  his.  He  hired 
one  of  the  natives  to  act  as  foreman, 
bought  cattle  and  hogs  and  turned  them 
into  the  pasture,  An.  army  of  men  started 
to  tear  down  the  old  farmhouse  and  build 
a  new  mansion.  His  wife  ventured  to 
suggest  that  the  old  house  be  made  over, 
hut  she  was  quickly  silenced  by  her  hus¬ 
band  and  son. 
“No.  no !  Let’s  get  as  far  as  we  can 
from  these  old  mossback  ruins.  Forget 
it !  We  must  be  up  to  date !” 
One  Sunday  afternoon  Jones  and  his 
son  with  the  foreman  walked  up  the  hill 
to  plan  their  golf  course.  Half  way  up 
the  fat  man  stopped  for  breath  and  looked 
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