*>04 
Iht  RURAL  NEW-YORKEP 
.Tune  2,  li)2:» 
Hope  Farm  Notes 
I  saw  the  toad  and  scaly  snake 
From  tangled  covert  start 
To  hide  themselves  within  the  weeds 
Above  that  dead  man's  heart. 
Beneath  the  cedar  and  the  pine 
In  solitude  austere,  * 
Unwept,  unknown,  unhonored,  lies 
A  Georgia  volunteer  ! 
Decoration  Day 
Bart  II. 
“Say,  they  tell  me  you’re  a  Yankee  1  I 
ain’t  see?)  one  for  a  coon’s  age.  I  wanter 
look  at  you-all !” 
I  turned  and  found  myself  face  to  face 
with  a  genuine  “cracker.”  This  is  a 
type  peculiar  to  certain  sections  of  the 
South.  I  have  seen  something  of  the 
same  people  in  lonely  mountain  sections 
of  the  North.  They  are  usually  tall,  thin, 
dyspeptic  people.  As  a  rule,  their  hat, 
hair,  face,  teeth  and  clothing  are  all  of 
the  same  color — a  dull,  yellow,  clay  mud. 
They  have  high  cheek  bones,  small  eyes, 
a  mere  slit  for  a  mouth,  and  the  head 
above  the  eyes  slants  back  and  tapers  to 
the  top.  I  have  never  quite  understood 
where  they  came  from,  yet  many  of  them 
have  a  longer  American  pedigree  than 
any  blueblood  straight  from  the  Ply¬ 
mouth  English  or  the  New  York  Dutch. 
It  is  thought  by  many  that,  these  “crack¬ 
ers”  are  the  descendants  of  the  convicts 
and  outcasts  which  James  Oglethorpe 
brought  to  Georgia  in  1733.  Many  of  his 
settlers  were  of  the  poorest  type.  The 
theory  is  that  this  originally  defective 
stock  has  interbred  and  been  weakened 
through  several  generations  by  malaria 
and  poor  food  and  the  disease  of  laziness. 
They  have  remained  “crackers,”  while 
the  descendants  of  the  higher  type  of  im¬ 
migrants  developed  into  gentlemen  and 
aristocrats.  Very  few  of  these  “crack 
*  rs,”  it  appears,  were  slaveholders.  Their 
free  labor  competed  with  that  of  slave 
labor.  They  were,  industrially  and  so¬ 
cially,  enemies  of  the  aristocratic  slave¬ 
holders,  yet  they  filled  the  ranks  of  the 
Confederate  armies  and  were  excellent 
soldiers.  As  a  class  they  are  ignorant, 
prejudiced  and  revengeful.  The  man  who 
turned  me  around  was  of  this  type.  Me 
had  on  a  ragged  and  soiled  coat  of  gray — 
evidently  his  old  uniform. 
"1  wanter  see  what  a  ^  ankee  looks 
like !  I  ain’t  seed  many  sense  we 
marched  up  into  Pennsylvany  to  Gettys¬ 
burg.  We  marched  along  a  dusty  road 
and  a  couple  of  girls  set  out  in  front  of  a 
farmhouse.  1  heard  one  of:  ’em  say  to 
t’other: 
“  ‘They  march  better’ll  ottrn,  but  am  t 
they  dirty?’” 
He  kept  hold  of  my  coat  as  he  talked. 
•Several  members  of  our  baseball  club  ran 
up  to  support  me.  The  big  man  who 
played  first  base  pushed  in  between  us, 
and  the  crowd  gathered  about  us. 
"Let  him  alone-*-he’s  our  ball  player! 
The  “cracker”  regarded  me  curiously 
for  a  moment. 
“That’s  right.  I  seed  you  throw  them 
.  rooked  ‘  balls  in  that  game.  One  ball 
dodged  this-a-way,  another  went  that-a- 
way,  and  t’other  had  teeth  on  it.  Them 
fellers  from  Scooby  missed  it.  by  a  rod. 
They  sho’ly  was  Democratic  balls !” 
As  the  balls  certainly  were  “crooked,’ 
1  was  not  prepared  to  dispute  over  the 
name.  .  , 
“But  you’re  a  Yankee.  What  you  doin 
down  here?  We  don’t  need  you — ’special¬ 
ly  today.  Now  we  got  ye  here  we’ll  make 
use  of  ye.  Come  over  to  the  courthouse 
.where  the  meetin’  is  and  make  us.  a 
speech.  1  ain’t  lieerd  a  radical  talk  for 
five  years!” 
This  suggestion  seemed  to  please  the 
crowd.  Other  soldiers  got  behind  the 
“cracker,”  and  the  baseball  club  gath¬ 
ered  around  me.  At  a  word  there  would 
have  been  a  bloody  fight,  for,  as  I  learned 
later,  every  one  of  those  “crackers  had  a 
knife  concealed  under  his  coat. 
But  a  sudden  inspiration  came  to  me 
as  I  stood  in  the  midst  of  that  barrel  of 
human  gunpowder — the  thought  of ^  the 
power  of  that  “one  touch  of  nature.  ’ 
"All  right,”  1  said,  "I'll  go  over  and 
speak !” 
It  was  a  strange  procession  for  Dec¬ 
oration  Day — our  journey  across  to  the 
courthouse.  My  faithful  ball  players 
gathered  about  me  in  a  bodyguard.  I 
fully  realized  the  fine  courage  these  boys 
displayed  as  we  marched  through  the 
ranks  of  those  sullen  soldiers  in  gray  At 
the  report  of  a  possible  fight,  townspeople 
came  running  from  every  street,  and  in 
10  minutes  the  courthouse  was  crowded 
full.  It  was  just  like  a  memorial  meeting 
anywhere.  It  was  opened  with  prayer, 
anil  then  a  combined  choir  from  all  the 
churches  sang  that  beautiful  poem  by 
Father  Ryan,  “Take  That  Banner,  11  is 
Holy.”  As  I  listened  I  seemed  to  under¬ 
stand  why  there  was  no  “Star  Spangled 
Banner”  on  display,  and  why  that  bat¬ 
tered  Confederate  flag  was  held  in.  front. 
The  leading  lawyer  of  the  town  stood  up 
in  a  gray  uniform  and  delivered,  the  "ora¬ 
tion!”  When  he  sat  down  the  entire  au¬ 
dience  turned  and  looked  at'  me.  My 
“cracker”  friend,  up  in  a  front  scat, 
stood  up  and  spoke  in  liis  high,. whining 
vqiee : 
“Now,  we  wanter  hear  from  this  Yan¬ 
kee.  I've  seed  a  hull  army  of  ’em  turn 
tail  and  run  afore  now.  lavs  see  if  he’ll 
stand  fire!” 
The  chairman  of  the  meeting,  a  courte¬ 
ous.  dignified  man,  turned  to  me: 
"It  is  the  evident  desire  of  this  audi¬ 
ence  that  you  address  them.  I  invite  you 
to  do  so,  but  you  will  understand  that 
you  are  under  no  obligation  to  do  so,  and 
r  will  be  no  reflection  upon  your  man¬ 
hood  if  you  decide  to  remain  silent.” 
I  remember  that  I  stood  up  and  looked 
over  that  audience  for  a  moment.  There 
were  the  girls,  frightened  at  the  thought 
that  I  would  proclaim  myself  a  “Radi¬ 
cal.”  Those  young  men  who  trusted  me 
so  fully — those  soldiers  with  the  sting  of 
defeat  rankling  in  their  hearts.  And  at 
the  back  of  the  room  stood  a  fringe  of 
negroes — the  big  brown  "boss”  who  had 
approached  me,  with  his  great,  curiously 
shaped  head  rising  above  them  all.  As  1 
stood  there  it  suddenly  came  to  me  that 
this  was  no  day  to  soak  black  paint  along 
Mason  and  Dixon’s  line,  but  rather  to  try 
to  use  some  chemical,  some  touch  of  na¬ 
ture,  that  would  help  blot  it  out.  So, 
without  any  word  of  introduction.  1  be¬ 
gan  to  recite  what  I  consider  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  all  the  war  poems — “A 
Georgia  Volunteer”: 
Far  up  the  rugged  mountain  side, 
My  wandering  footsteps  led. 
The  grass  was  green  beneath  my  feet. 
The  pine  sighed  overhead. 
The  trace  of  a  dismantled  fort 
Lay  in  the  forest’s  nave. 
And  in  the  shadow  near  my  path 
1  found  a  soldier's  grave. 
The  bramble  struggled  with  the  weed 
Above  that  lonely  mound; 
The  rugged  headstone  rudely  writ 
Had  fallen  to  the  ground. 
I  raised  it  with  a  reverent  hand. 
From  dust  its  words  to  clear. 
But  time  had  blotted  all  but  these — 
“A  Georgia  volunteer !” 
There  came  a  high-pitched  yell  from  a 
front  seat.  My  "cracker”  friend  was 
standing,  waving  his  arms,  with  some- 
tiling  akin  to  beauty  on  his  yellow  face. 
“That’s  me!”  lie  shouted.  “That  me! 
I’m  from  Georgy!  I’m  a  Georgy  volun¬ 
teer  !” 
Someone  pulled  him  down  to  his  seat. 
Yet  undisturbed,  in  rest  profound, 
Unheeding  there  he  lay, 
His  coffin  but  the  mountain  soil, 
His  shroud  Confederate  gray. 
A  great  silence  had  fallen  upon  the  au¬ 
dience.  Those  gray-clad  soldiers  sat  gaz¬ 
ing  at  me  with  eyes  that  saw  not.  (lilt- 
side  a  bird  was  singing,  and  through  the 
window  came  the  whisper  of  the  Spring 
wind  and  the  bum  of  insects. 
1  saw  the  Shenandoah  roll 
Its  rocky  course  below, 
1  saw  the  Alleghenys 
Lift  aloft  their  peaks  of  snow. 
The  valley  campaign  rose  in  mind, 
Its  leader’s  name,  and  then 
T  knew  the  sleeper  had  been  one 
Of  Stonewall  Jackson's  men! 
My  “cracker”  friend  was  on  his  feet 
again.  1  did  not  suppose  that  his  breed 
could  be  touched  by  such  sentiment,  but 
there  were  dormant  cells  in  bis  mind,  put 
there  by  nobler  ancestors,  living  on  past 
malaria,  hookworm  and  dyspepsia — not 
paralyzed,  as  many  suppose,  but  merely 
dormant,  waiting  for  the  touch  of  nature 
which  was  to  set  them  free. 
“1  was  there  with  old  Stonewall.  I’m 
a  Georgy  volunteer !” — but  they  pulh*d 
him  down  with  "Shut  up!”  “Keep  quiet!” 
and  1  went  through  with  the  poem  until 
the  end: 
He  sleeps !  What  need  to  question  now 
If  lie  were  wrong  or  right?  , 
lie  knows  at  last  whose  cause  was  just 
In  God  the  Father’s  sight. 
lie  wields  no  warlike  weapon  now, 
Returns  no  foeman’s  thrust, 
Who  but  a  coward  would  revile 
An  honest  foetnan’s  dust  ? 
Boll.  Shenandoah,  proudly  roll 
Adown  thy  rocky  glen, 
Above  thee  lies  the  grave  of  one 
Of  Stonewall  Jackson’s  men. 
I  wish  that  you,  who  may  be  standing 
today  on  some  quiet  hillside,  looking  oil' 
across  the  country,  could  have  seen  and 
heard  what  followed.  These  people  bad 
been  sitting  there  quietly,  With  fixed,  un¬ 
seeing  eyes.  Suddenly  they  arose  to  their 
feet  with  waving  arms.  I  have  known 
people  similarly  excited  to  jump  up  and 
sing  “Praise  God  from  Whom  All  Bless¬ 
ings  Flow.”  Others  give  a  deep-throated 
shout,  while  still  others,  equally  excited, 
cannot  utter  a  word  to  express  their  feel¬ 
ings.  In  that  Southern  courtroom  there 
suddenly  arose  a  shrill,  blood-curdling 
scream — the  sound  of  many  voices,  high 
in  the  throat,  rising  and  falling  in  those 
waves  of  sound — the  famous  "Rebel  yell.” 
1 1  is  unlike  the  sound  which  comes  deep 
from  the  throat  of  a  Northern  crowd.  It 
is  not  a  cheer,  but  a  true  “yell” — a  terri¬ 
fying  sound  of  savage  exultation.  The 
courthouse  echoed  with  it.  It  rose  and 
fell  and  died  away  and  rose  again — the 
most  wonderful  expression  of  approval  I 
ever  heard  of. 
I  did  not  need  any  bodyguard  as  I 
walked  out  of  the  courthouse.  My 
“cracker”  friend  was  waiting  for  me. 
“Say,  you  Yankee,  I'm  a  Georgy  vol¬ 
unteer!  I’ve  said  I'd  never  again  drink 
with  a  Yankee,  but  after  that  you  got  to 
come  with  me  an’  have  a  drink.” 
I  thanked  him,  but  told  him  I  did  not 
drink,  and  to  the  astonishment  of  my 
friends  he  accepted  the  excuse  good- 
naturedly.  The  boys  told  me  that  I 
could  not  offer  such  a  man  a  greater  in¬ 
sult  than  to  refuse  to  drink  with  him. 
That  was  worse  than  being  a  Yankee. 
I  have  met  people  who  say  I  missed  a 
great  opportunity  on  that  Decoration  Day 
when  I  failed  to  “rub  it  in”  on  that  audi¬ 
ence  and  make  a  hot  Northern  speech — 
whatever  that  may  be.  I  think,  however, 
it  is  better  to  decorate  with  love  and 
good  will  rather  than  with  hate. 
IT.  W.  C. 
The  Price  $995 
The  Value 
Built  by  Oakland — a  division  of  General 
Motors — to  be  the  finest  light-six . 
Each  and  every  one  carries  a  written 
15,000  mile  performance  guarantee! 
Sturdy  and  dependable !  Quality  proved 
by  Oakland’s  “Mileage-Basis  Plan!” 
Seven  beautiful,  substantial,  and  ex- 
Bodies  -  tremely  comfortable  bodies  built  to 
serve  every  motoring  need ! 
Besides  the  above — the  thousands  of  en¬ 
thusiastic  Oakland  owners  everywhere. 
Car - 
Engine  - 
Chassis  - 
Proof  -  - 
OAKLAND  MOTOR  CAR  CO.,  Pontiac,  Mich.. 
Division  of  General  Motors  Corporation 
Oakl 
The  Coupe 
for  Five 
$1445 
Other  Models 
Touring  Car  -  $  995 
Roadster  -  -  975 
Sport  Roadster  1145 
Sport  Touring  1165 
Coupe  for  Two  1185 
Sedan  -  -  -  1545 
All  prices  f.  o.  b.  Pontiac 
Roomy  as  many  sedans— easy  to  handle  as  a  roadster, 
this  Oakland  Coupe  for  Five  combines  a  chassis  ol 
proved  mechanical  excellence  with  one  of  the  finest  or 
Fisher-buUt  bodies !  Ask  any  Oakland  dealer  to  show 
you  the  many  superiorities  of  this  model. 
•'  A’.'  i.-  ' 
