774 
7b*  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
May  26,  1923 
Hope  Farm  Notes 
“Decoration  Day” 
Pakt  I. 
For  me,  Decoration  Day  is  a  time  for 
memory.  I  prefer  to  spend  it  at  home 
among  the  trees  and  Ho'vers.  There  are 
those  who  like  to  march  in  parades,  listen 
to  more  or  less  windy  orators,  wave  flags 
and  go  about  telling  the  curious  untruth 
that  “our  town  band  beats  anything  in 
the  city!”  Then  there  are  people  who 
think  the  day  well  designed  for  rushing 
about  the  country  in  a  car  or  witnessing 
baseball  games  or  prize  lights.  “Every 
man  to  his  taste.”  Give  me  Decoration 
Day  in  the  country  on  some  hill  where 
the  rolling  meadows  and  pastures  sweep 
away  on  every  hand,  with  here  and  there 
a  house  with  a  speck  of  color  where  the 
flag  is  showing,  with  the  sunshine  on  the 
hills,  the  deep  shadows  of  the  woods  and 
now  and  then  a  white  cloud  drifting 
across  the  sky.  I  think  I  have  known 
every  celebration  of  Decoration  Day  since 
the  ceremony  was  started.  AN  hat  a  day 
that  was,  long,  long  ago,  when  the  Grand 
Army  of  the  Republic  turned  out  for  the 
first  time  to  “say  it  with  flowers’  to  their 
dead  comrades.  Most  of  them  were  then 
men  in  the  prime  of  life — many  of  them 
seemed  to  be  mere  boys.  They  were  full 
of  the  joy  and  glory  of  what  they  had 
done — or  thought  they  had  done.  1  can 
just  remember  how  they  marched  with 
full  ranks  up  Main  Street  out  to  the 
cemetery.  It  seemed  as  if  the  entire 
country  had  turned  out  to  see  them.  The 
farms  for  miles  around  were  deserted. 
The  hills  had  poured  their  people  into  the 
valleys  and  on  down  to  the  ocean  like  the 
waters  of  a  flood.  There  were  hired  men 
in  the  ranks,  doomed  to  go  through  life 
as  peasants — those  who  must  serve.  Yet 
for  the  moment  they  were  heroes,  march¬ 
ing  like  kings.  It  was  a  great  day  for 
the  little  boy  standing  on  Burial  Hill, 
with  the  flags  and  blue  uniforms  winding 
below,  and  beyond  them  the  big  blue 
ocean,  sparkling  in  the  sunshine.  It  was 
a  wonderful  day.  Even  as  a  little  boy  I 
could  feel  something  in  the  very  air  that 
stirred  the  heart  until  the  dullest  and 
most  cowardly  life  among  us  somehow 
longed  to  do  something,  he  knew  not 
what,  for  his  country. 
*  *  *  *  * 
Those,  as  it  seems  to  me,  were  the 
great,  shining  days  of  American  patriot¬ 
ism.  No  one  seems  to  feel  that  way  now 
over  Decoration  Day  except  the  women 
whose  husbands  or  sons  are  lying  in 
Europe,  where  they  fell  in  the  Great 
War.  I  have  seen  what  seems  to  me  the 
glory  of  the  day  slowly  pass  out  with  the 
coming  of  new  generations.  The  old 
memories  of  the  Civil  War  have  faded  out 
of  mind.  They  mean  little  to  my  chil¬ 
dren,  and  I  can  easily  understand  how 
the  telephone,  the  car  and  the  radio  have 
changed  the  entire  aspect  of  American 
life.  My  young  folks  will  tell  you  that 
we  older  people  formed  our  habits  of 
thought  at  a  time  when  farm  life  was 
naturally  lonely  and  melancholy.  That, 
they  say,  is  why  we  feel  as  we  do  about 
Decoration  Day,  for  the  impressions  of 
youth  cannot  be  wiped  out  like  chalk 
marks  on  a  blackboard.  They  will  tell 
you  that  this  generation  is  just  as  loyal 
and  patriotic  as  any  that  has  gone  be¬ 
fore.  They  just  have  a  different  way  of 
expressing  their  feelings.  Their  joy  is 
just  as  profound  an  expression  of  patriot¬ 
ism  as  our  melancholy  can  be!  Let  us 
hope  that  is  true,  for  I  have  great  faith 
in  this  young  generation.  When  the  need 
of  it,  comes  they  will  be  able  to  feel  some¬ 
thing  of  the  brooding  memory  which 
comes  to  us  who  are  older  in  quiet  places 
at  Decoration  Day.  The  great  thing 
that  binds  human  lives  together  either  as 
individuals  or  in  groups,  or  that  jumps 
through  the  centuries  and  holds  the  newer 
generation  to  the  old,  is  the  touch  of 
human  nature  which  makes  the  whole 
world  kin.  Perhaps  I  can  do  no  better 
this  year  than  to  fell  of  perhaps  the  most 
remarkable  Decoration  Day  I  ever  knew. 
3  *  *  $  * 
It  was  not  spent  on  any  quiet  hillside, 
or  in  any  crowded  New  England  village, 
but  in  a  Southern  town  where  the  mem¬ 
ory  of  the  Civil  War  tilled  the  heart  with 
bitterness  rather  than  glory.  It  was 
some  years  after  the  war,  but  the  hate 
of  the  “carpet  bag”  government  was  still 
fresh.  I  had  gone  to  that  town  just  as 
I  went  to  a  Colorado  town  some  years 
before,  hoping  to  find  life,  work  and  home 
there.  The  •Southern  people  have  a  Dec¬ 
oration  Day  of  their  own.  It  is  earlier 
than  ours,  for  the  favorite  flowers  of  the 
South  bloom  earlier,  and  the  people  feel 
that  they  would  rather  not  share  their 
grief  with  the  North.  It  was  a  sad  day 
for  these  people — how  sad  I  could  not 
realize  as  I  stood  on  the  street  corner 
watching  the  company  of  old  Confederate 
soldiers  grouped  before  the  court  house. 
I  could  not  complain.  Financially  I  was 
barely  making  a  living,  but  I  was  the 
idolized  pitcher  on  the  baseball  club,  edi¬ 
tor  of  the  local  paper,  substitute  singer 
in  the  Methodist  church  choir,  and  I  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  “the  only  girl.” 
What  more  could  a  young  man  ask  for 
in  that  easy-going  land  where  living  is 
cheap?  In  those  days  the  impecunious 
young  man  who  thought  he  had  brains 
looked  to  politics  as  a  means  of  getting 
on  in  the  world.  I  know  that  when  I 
finished  college  I  went  to  a  wise  old  poli¬ 
tician,  and  asked  his  advice  about  a  life 
job. 
“Go  up  into  one  of  the  northern  coun¬ 
ties  of  Michigan,”  he  said,  “and  hang  on. 
W  ork  at  any  job  you  can  get,  and  make 
yourself  popular.  Pick  up  four  or  five 
young  fellows  that  you  can  trust,  have 
them  living  in  different  parts  of  the 
county,  also  pick  up  delegates  to  the 
county  convention,  and  first  you  know 
you  will  control  it.  Then  you  will  have 
the  officers  and  the  county  business  right 
in  your  hands.  That  country  will  grow, 
and  you’ll  grow  right  up  with  it!” 
I  have  always  thought  this  might  have 
been  quite  a  scheme.  Some  of  you  folks 
who  live  in  Northern  Michigan  do  not 
perhaps  realize  how  this  small  edition  of 
Tammany  Hall  might  have  been  fastened 
upon  you.  But  those  were  the  days  be¬ 
fore  the  bacteria  of  “politics”  had  been 
fully  cleaned  out  of  my  system  by  a 
glorious  beating  which  I  received  when 
I  ran  for  an  office. 
I  had  been  thinking  in  that  little  South¬ 
ern  town  that  as  a  leader  of  the  young 
people  I  had  a  political  asset  which  in 
the  North  might  surely  have  landed  me 
in  the  Legislature  at,  least.  One  night  a 
colored  man  of  more  than  usual  intelli¬ 
gence  came  to  see  me  and  asked  me  if  1 
would  be  willing  to  run  for  the  Legisla¬ 
ture  on  the  Republican  ticket,  which 
meant,  of  course,  a  backing  of  negroes 
with  a  scattering  of  white  officeholders. 
Now  1  will  be  human  and  admit  that  in 
the  curious  egotism  of  youth  I  had  pic¬ 
tured  scenes  where  the  great  political  boss 
came  to  entreat  me  to  rush  to  the  rescue 
and  save  the  grand  old  party  of  freedom. 
Perhaps  such  dreams  come  to  every  young 
man  before  life  rubs  him  in  the 'mud  of 
failure,  and  convinces  him  that  only  by  a 
miracle  does  the  office  really  hunt,  the 
man  !  As  pictured  in  dreams  the  scene  is 
very  impressive,  but  as  it  came  to  me  in 
reality  it  had  the  flavor  of  onion  rather 
than  of  fine  Avine.  The  “leader”  who  was 
qualified  to  make  the  offer  \\ras  a  light 
brown  man,  apparently  a  farmer,  lie 
looked  to  me  like  a  man  with  the  instincts 
of  the  jungle,  tamed  and  softened  by  what 
one  might  call  the  “best  blood  of  the 
South.”  lie  had  no  collar,  his  shirt  was 
open  in  front,  there  were  dark  tobacco 
stains  at  the  corners  of  liis  mouth.  Up  lo 
his  nose  his  face  was  that  of  a  common 
negro — above  that  it  was  the  forehead 
and  head  of  a  gentleman,  with  a  magnifi¬ 
cent  mane  of  hair,  without  a  kink  or  crisp 
in  it.  I  shall  not  forget  how  he  sat  in  the 
dim  lamplight,  and  glanced  cautiously 
about  him  as  he  told  me  the  situation. 
The  negroes  were  in  great  majority  in 
that  county.  The  only  AAray  to  get  their 
vote  out  Avas  to  hold  “night  meetings,”  at 
which  ballots  would  be  distributed.  As  I 
was  popular  Avith  the  young  people,  they 
thought  I  might  get  a  better  count 
than  any  of  the  old  war  horses  who 
held  most  of  the  Federal  offices.  1 
might  be  counted  out.  but  if  I  made  a 
good  showing  I  would  stand  the  best 
chance  of  being  appointed  to  hand  out  the 
Federal  patronage  in  that  district — that 
was  really  what  the  few  scheming  “lead¬ 
ers”  were  after ! 
It  was  a  great  scheme,  quite  typical 
of  the  sort  of  “politics”  then  being  played 
at  the  South.  At  that  time  the  ignorant 
colored  people  Avere  the  most  loyal  par¬ 
tisans  this  country  ever  knew — not  ex¬ 
cepting  the  Democrats  of  New  York  City 
and  the  Republicans  of  NeAV  York  farms. 
\\  hen  Satan  came  in  the  shape  of  this 
brown  man.  tempting  me  to  trade  on  the 
fine  friendship  and  joy  of  youth,  I  confess 
that  1  was  nearly  ready  to  listen  to  him. 
'What  I  did  was  to  go  to  a  man  who 
seemed  to  me  the  best  type  of  citizen  in 
that  toAvn.  I  asked  his  advice,  and  he 
gave  it  frankly. 
“If  you  want  to  commit  social  suicide 
and  perhaps  lose  your  life,  do  it.  The  mo¬ 
ment  it  is  known  that  you  are  to  lead  the 
‘radicals’  you  will  be  ostracized 'com¬ 
pletely.  The  girls  will  not,  speak  to  you. 
The  men  will  regard  you  as  a  Judas  Avho 
lias  sold  their  confidence  and  friendship. 
You  never  can  be  elected,  and  even  if  you 
were  you  Avould  not  be  even  a  figurehead 
in  the  Legislature.  You  will  be  regarded 
merely  as  a  catspaw,  pulling  chestnuts 
for  the  meanest  type  of  men  that  ever 
were  permitted  to  walk  on  earth.  Up 
North,  where  you  came  from,  you  have  a 
strong  opposition  party,  and  things  are 
different.  Down  here  there  can  be  only 
one  party — that’s  a  white  man’s  party. 
Everyone  who  trains  with  any  other  par¬ 
ty  will  be  regarded  as  a  ‘nigger,’  no  mat¬ 
ter  what  the  color  of  his  skin  may  be. 
lrou  can’t  trade  on  social  popularity  here 
as  you  can  in  the  North.” 
I  took  his  advice!  He  was  right,  ex¬ 
cept  that  he  did  not  fully  understand  the 
North.  Years  after  I  ran  for  Congress 
on  the  Prohibition  ticket  in  a  Northern 
district.  I  do  not  like  to  recall  the  fig¬ 
ures,  but  after  quite  an  active  campaign 
I  received  less  than  500  votes  out  of  a 
total  of  some  19,000! 
*  *  *  *  * 
I  Avas  thinking  of  all  this  on  that 
Southern  Decoration  Day  as  I  stood 
Avatching  those  old  Confedex-ate  soldiers 
by  the  courthouse.  I  was  thinking  of  the 
difference  in  their  attitude  fi-om  that  of 
the  blue-coated  Grand  Army  men  in  the 
home  toAvn  in  New  England.  In  the 
North  the  old  soldiers  walked  like  vie* 
(Continued  on  Page  787) 
A'  KITCHEN 
E  1  T  •  ® 
A  TALE  OF  OLD  ENGLAND 
Avould 
of 
king 
The  housewife  of  today 
spurn  the  kitchen  of  a 
other  days ! 
Kings  Avere  decidedly  in  the 
minority  centuries  ago,  and  only 
they  and  a  feAv  of  the  lords  and 
dukes  of  old  England  were  able 
to  maintain  kitchens. 
If  the  houseAvife  could  turn 
back  the  pages  of  history,  she 
would  see  some  astounding  things 
— things  that  would  make  her 
thankful  that  she  is  living  in  a 
century  where  modern  science 
and  craft  have  evolved  the  neAv 
kitchen  and  the  kitchen  range. 
In  the  14tli  century  the  kitchen 
of  a  king  AA-as  in  a  building  set 
apart  from  the  castle,  and  all  the 
food  had  to  be  carried  through  a 
long  passageAvay  to  the  great 
dining  hall.  The  kitchen  Avas 
usually  one  story  in  height,  and 
in  the  center  Avas  an  opening 
from  which  the  steam  and  smell 
of  cooking  could  escape. 
There  were  two  or  more  open 
fireplaces — one  Avas  used  for  mak¬ 
ing  stews,  broths  and  for  boiling 
meat.  Joints  and  poultry  Avere 
roasted  before  the  open  fire  on 
a  spit  resting  in  tAvo  grooved 
stumps.  In  the  other  fireplace 
were  the  ovens  Avliere  the  baking 
was  done.  The  ovens  were  large 
OAals  in  shape  and  were  built  in 
the  thickness  of  the  wall  Avith  an 
arched  roof  over  them.  Bundles 
of  faggots  were  placed  inside, 
lighted  and  the  iron  doors  closed 
in  front.  The  burning  faggots 
heated  the  air  in  the  ovens  and 
the  brick  work  around  them.  The 
cooks  raked  the  ashes  of  the  fag¬ 
gots  out  of  the  oven  and  put  in 
little  delicacy.  Food  Avas  de¬ 
voured.  and  the  royal  hands  Avere 
used  to  pick  a  joint,  and  even 
dipped  in  the  gravy.  The  bones 
Avere  flung  on  the  floor  Avhere  the 
(logs  quarreled  over  them. 
And  this  was  the  kitchen  of  a 
king!  Our  modern  kitchen,  with 
all  its  time  saving  equipment  and 
spotlessness,  is  fit  for  a  queen — 
the  queen  of  every  household. 
The  dirty,  smoky  open  fire¬ 
places  and  the  ash-heaped  ovens 
have  given  Avay  to  the  Sterling 
Ranges.  No  longer  are  foods 
cooked  in  a  haphazard  way.  The 
Sterling — using  either  coal  or 
Avood  for  fuel — furnishes  an  even 
temperature  that  thoroughly 
cooks,  bakes  or  broils. 
It  is  sanitary,  economical,  de¬ 
pendable,  durable  and  beautiful. 
To  the  modern  houseAvife,  it  is 
indispensable,  worth  the  ransom 
of  a  king  of  the  middle  ages. 
Yres,  worth  a  king's  ransom, 
yet  so  easily  purchased  that 
every  woman  can  now  have  one 
in  her  kitchen  and  let  it  practi¬ 
cally  pay  for  itself  by  the  saving 
it  effects  in  fuel,  food  and  time. 
All  you  have  to  do  is  step  into 
the  Sterling  Dealer’s  store  today, 
he  Avill  shoAV  you  just  the  style 
Sterling  that  best  meets  your 
needs  and  also  arrange  conven¬ 
ient  terms  of  payment  if  you  de¬ 
sire.  Buy  your  Sterling  and  you 
will  be  more  glad  than  ever  that 
you  are  a  queen  of  today. 
Copyrighted,  1923,  by  Sill  Stove 
Works,  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  makers 
of  Sterling  Ranges  and  Sterling 
Warm  Air  Furnaces. 
Write  the  Sill  Stove  Works,  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  for 
Free  Booklet  “ Hozv  to  Keep  Young  with  your  Sterling.” 
Sterling 
The  Range  that  bakes  a  barrel  of  flour  with  one  hod  of  coal 
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