1092 
tot  RURAL.  NEW-YORKER 
August  25,  1923 
Hope  Farm  Notes 
“Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make 
Nor  iron  bars  a  cage.” 
That  is  the  way  the  poet  puts  a  great 
thought  and  a  great  hope  for  those  who 
feel  that  body  or  spirit  are  in  prison. 
But  the  poet  never  walked  through  the 
'thick  woods  back  from  camp — on  the  way 
to  Lantern  Hill.  I  wish  he  could  have 
seen  the  long  splinters  of  sunshine  when 
the  bright  light  broke  in  through  the  trees. 
There  was  hardly  a  cloud  in  the  sky. 
The  blue  lake  sparkled  and  rippled  and 
the  woods  on  Lantern  Hill  seemed  to 
change  in  color  as  the  gentle  wind  swept 
through  them.  With  some  more  powerful 
gust  the  waving  branches  would  opened 
a  little,  and  the  white  face  of  the  upper 
hill  shining  through  would  change  the  col¬ 
or  to  a  light  green.  As  the  breeze  died  out 
and  the  thick  branches  settled  solidly  in 
place  the  color  changed  to  a  dark  green 
or  purple.  I  do  not  wonder  that  the 
Indians  felt  inclined  to  believe  -that  this 
white-faced  hill  was  the  chosen  abode  of 
spirits.  The  woods  are  thick  on  the 
hillside.  I  find  plenty  of  second  growth 
oak  trees  9  in.  to  a  foot  in  diameter.  The 
old  stumps  from  which  they  have  grown 
are  even  larger.  But  stumbling  through 
this  thick  growth  I  came  upon  something 
which  might  perhaps  have  puzzled  the 
poet.  Running  through  the  woods  up 
and  down  and  across  the  little  hills  are 
stone  walls — most  of  them  still  in  good 
condition,  and  capable  of  turning  stock. 
They  were  evidently  put  there  by  a  master 
hand.  They  represent  a  monument  of 
skill  and  industry;  yet  who  can  think  of 
a  more  useless  outcome  of  human  labor 
than  what  they  stand  for  today? 
*  *  *  *  * 
When  we  came  up  to  this  quiet  and 
lonely  place  for  a  little  vacation  I  thought 
we  were  to  get  away  from  the  haunting 
problems  which  are  closing  in  upon  the 
Amerian  farmer.  Yet  here,  right  at  the 
back  door  of  our  little  camp,  these  stone 
walls  bring  up  the  old  story  of  farm 
struggle  and  defeat.  No  doubt  a  geologist 
could  sit  down  beside  one  of  these  old 
walls  and  tell  us  all  about  the  stones — 
where  they  came  from,  where  they  were 
made  and  when  and  how  they  were 
brought  here.  With  this  wall  as  a  text 
he  could  give  us  a  long  lecture  on  the 
geological  history  of  the  world.  I  am  no 
geologist,  but  I  can  sit  on  these  stones 
and  give  much  of  human  history  for  the 
past  century.  These  walls  once  enclosed 
cultivated  fields  where  men  and  women 
with  the  loves  and  ambitions  which  all 
human  beings  know  lived  lives  which  were 
probably  the  most  independent  and  most 
useful  of  any  known  to  America.  After 
some  thought  I  am  not  inclined  to  modify 
that  statement,  I  shall  ever  believe  that 
the  country  people  cf^»N^w  England  at 
the  time  of  the  Revolutionary  War  and 
down  to  the  Civil  War  were  truly  the 
backbone  of  the  nation.  They  domi¬ 
nated  things.  This  old  stone  wall  en¬ 
closed  a  little  kingdom  in  these  old  days. 
The  time  came  when  these  stone  walls 
enclosed  a  prison  to  the  adventurous 
souls  who  could  not  be  satisfied  with  the 
simple  life  which  this  hillside  represented. 
They  broke  away  from  the  prison,  and 
that  is  why  the  trees  have  come  back!  to 
claim  thir  own.  There  was  no  one  left  to 
order  them  out  at  the  edge  of  an  ax.  I 
can  sit  here  on  this  old  wall  today  and 
see  the  years  pass  in  review  through  the 
changes  which  have  turned  these  old 
stones  from  the  boundary  of  a  kingdom 
into  the  walls  of  a  prison  house !  And, 
in  its  way,  the  change  that  has  come  to 
tiiis  lonely  hillside  is  typical  of  the  larger 
change  now  crushing  through  the  crust 
of  agriculture. 
*  *  *  *  * 
The  other  day  a  wagon  came  rattling 
over  the  stony  road  which  winds  through 
the  woods  back  from  camp.  The  children 
and  I  went  out  to  view  the  invader  of  our 
solitude.  A  small  mule  was  hitched  to  a 
rattling  wagon,  and  a  tall  ragged-looking 
man  sat  on  the  seat.  It  was  a  peddler. 
Man  and  mule  wander  about  these  soli¬ 
tudes  on  the  chance  of  selling  fruit  and 
vegetables  to  campers.  He  had  left,  of 
his  lead,  a  small  basket  of  peaches,  two 
or  three  watermelons,  half  a  -  barrel  of 
windfall  apples  and  a  crate  of  cabbage. 
No  foreigner  he,  but  a  man  with  a  good 
New  England  name  and  evidently  a  pedi¬ 
gree  way  back  to  the  days  when  the  stone 
wall  enclosed  its  kingdom.  We  get  a 
little  tired  of  fresh  fish  and  bacon  after  a 
time.  A  little  apple  sauce  changes  the 
taste  and  I  bought  a  half  peck  of  these 
apples.  They  were  bruised  windfalls.  At 
home  no  one  would  look  at  them,  yet  we 
paid  at  the  rate  of  $8  a  barrel.  Then 
cabbage  is  rich  in  vitamines,  and  so  we 
invested.  This  ragged  man  did  not  look 
like  a  poet  or  a  historian,  but  he  made 
part  of  the  history  of  these  stone  walls 
clear.  As  I  paid  him  he  pulled  from  his 
pocket  a  great  bag  of  money.  There 
seemed  nearly  half  a  peck  of  it — paper 
and  coin.  On  his  appearance  it  was  the 
most  surprising  financial  showing  I  have 
seen.  One  might,  perhaps  expect  a 
Morgan  or  a  Rockefeller  to  “pull  such  a 
wad”  as  that,  but  where  did  this  ragged 
Yankee  get  it?  He  got  it  by  jumping 
over  those  old  stone  walls.  At  least  his 
ancestors  did  the  jumping  and  he  has 
done  the  collecting !  And  he  began  to 
talk  with  me  about  buying  100  barrels  of 
Baldwin  apples  this  Fall ! 
“Where  ditl  you  get  that  bag  of 
money?”  I  asked  him. 
“Selling  this  stuff” — and  he  pointed 
to  the  well-worn  food  on  his  wagon ! 
“Raised  it  yourself,  I  suppose!” 
“Oh  no  !  I  buy  it  cheaper  than  I  can 
raise  it.  No  use  spending  time  to  do  a 
thing  that  somebody  else  will  do  cheaper 
than  you  can !” 
In  that  sentence  the  peddler  said  more 
than  some  historians  could  say  in  an 
entire  volume. 
***** 
This  man’s  ancestors  jumped  over  the 
stone  walls  because  their  spirit  was  in 
prison.  They  wanted  larger  things,  more 
elbow  room,  a  chance  to  sell  their  labor 
at  a  higher  price  per  hour.  They  could 
not  be  satisfied  on  this  rocky  hillside. 
They  left  it  and  very  likely  some  of  their 
desc-endents  are  now  living  on  stronger 
land  raising  the  very  food  which  this 
peddler  is  carrying  about  to  campers  and 
outlanders.  It  is  quite  likely  that  in  the 
world’s  economy  this  hillside  is  properly 
left  to  give  its  crop  of  second-growth  oak. 
Had  there  been  telephones  and  railroads 
when  the  Pilgrims  landed  at  Plymouth  it 
is  not  likely  that  this  hill  would  ever  have 
been  settled.  It  is  now  a  reservation  for 
the  last  remnant  of  the  tribe  of  Pequot 
Indians.  I  understand  this  handful  of 
people  of  mixed  blood  have  $30,000  in 
bank  to  their  credit.  Thus  the  hillside 
passed  from  a  kingdom  to  a  prison  as  a 
result  of  natural  law.  Other  land  was 
proved  to  be  better  and  more  profitable, 
and  the  human  mind  sought  opportunity 
and  could  not  be  satisfied  at  a  losing 
game.  Yet  all  about  us,  for  miles  along 
these  country  roads,  are  still  to  be  found 
good  farms,  with  good  buildings  with 
every  evidence  of  reasonable  prosperity. 
It  will  be  hard  to  make  a  Western  farmer, 
growing  grain  on  his  level  land,  under¬ 
stand  how  these  Yankee  farms  are  con¬ 
ducted.  A  man  may  own  200  acres  of 
land,  yet  only  20  or  25  will  be  cultivated. 
A  few  acres  of  level  land  will  be  cleared — 
the  rocks  taken  out  and  the  surface 
smoothed,  the  rest  will  be  left  in  pasture 
or  wood.  This  strong  land  is  remarkably 
productive.  The  best  potatoes  and  corn 
I  have  seen  this  year  were  growing  on 
these  fields  from  which  the  rocky  teeth 
have  been  pulled.  It  is  natural  grass 
land.  Here  and  there  I  saw  a  feeble  at¬ 
tempt  to  grow  Alfalfa,  but  the  crop  is  not 
suited  here.  Alsike  clover  and  Soy  beans 
will  be  far  more  profitable. 
***** 
Some  of  the  larger  farms  are  doing  well 
at  dairying  or  potato  growing  but  most 
of  them  I  should  say  are  family  farms — 
that  is,  with  but  little  help  outside  of 
the  family.  On  such  a  farm  there  will 
be  perhaps  two  acres  of  potatoes,  a  good 
garden,  some  small  fruit  and  seven  or 
eight  acres  of  corn.  There  wTill  be  seven 
or  eight  cows,  a  small  flock  of  sheep  and 
a  good  flock  of  some  of  the  larger  breeds 
of  poultry.  Except  in  haying  the  regular 
family  labor  will  care  for  this  outfit,  and 
it  provides  a  good  income.  In  Winter 
there  is  work  at  cutting  wood  for  fuel 
or  for  larger  timber.  Of  course  you  will 
ask  why  and  how  this  hillside  back  of 
our  camp  has  been  abandoned  to  the 
woods,  while  these  other  farms  have  been 
kept  cleared  and  prosperous.  It  has 
simply  been  a  case  of  the  survival  of  the 
fittest.  Time  plays  no  favorites.  It  be¬ 
came  evident  that  some  of  these  soils  were 
better  than  others.  Some  were  better 
located,  with  deeper  soil,  fewer  rocks, 
easier  to  work.  If  you  look  at  this  hill¬ 
side  closely  you  will  find  streaks  of  open 
sand  and,pebbles  where  water  cannot  hold. 
One  or  two  dry  seasons  proved  to  am¬ 
bitious  youth  that  this  sandy  streak  could 
not  compare  with  the  strong,  retentive 
soil  of  other  farms.  The  older  generation 
might  have  stayed  on  because  the  place 
was  “home,”  but  there  is  less  sentiment 
about  youth.  There  are  too  many  people 
who  would  rather  peddle  and  make  50 
cents  an  hour  rather  than  farm  and  make 
only  board  and  clothes.  In  the  great  in¬ 
dustrial  race  the  thinner  lands  had  to  go. 
They  went  back  to  the  forest,  and  only 
the  stronger  lands  were  able  to  hold  their 
own.  And  then  there  is  another  reason, 
we  speak  of  the  “melting  pot”  into  which 
foreigners  are  put  as  they  come  to  this 
country.  They  are  supposed  to  be  melted 
and  fused  together  with  the  flavor  of 
Americanism,  so  that  when  poured  out 
into  forms  and  cooled  they  become  Ameri¬ 
cans.  It  does  not  always  work  that  way, 
the  extract  of  Americanism  is  often 
rather  feeble.  There  is  another  sifting  or 
winnowing  process  going  on  silently  and 
surely  in  routing  out  the  reat  farmers. 
We  see  what  this  is  doing  in  New  Eng¬ 
land.  These  men  and  women  who  remain 
on  the  soil  stay  there  because  they  love 
the  life,  and  would  rather  farm  than  do 
anything  else.  The  misfits,  the  discon¬ 
tented,  the  half  or  faint  hearts,  leave  the 
land  and  it  is  probably  better  for  them 
to  go.  Those  who  remain  are  the  true 
Gideon’s  band  of  agriculture — natural 
farmers  of  whom  the  old  prophet  said : 
“He  shall  be  like  a  tree  growing  by  the 
river  of  water.” 
As  it  has  been  in  the  past,  I  think  it 
will  be  in  the  future,  the  working  of 
natural  law  will  force  people  away  from 
the  poorer  and  unproductive  farms  unless 
they  can  find  new  crops  or  methods  better 
suited  to  their  conditions.  And  mental 
or  spiritual  law  will  drive  the  dissatisfied 
and  complaining  people  away  from  the 
land  and  people  it  with  natural  farmers — 
men  and  women  who  prefer  to  live  on 
the  land. 
But  here  come  the  children  to  call  me 
to  dinner.  They  know  little  of  either 
natural  or  mental  laws.  They  do  know 
that  the  world  just  now  is  a  happy  place 
and  that  the  future  seems  bright. 
H.  W.  C. 
On  the  Way  to  Market 
It  was  a  busy  day  on  the  State  road. 
The  young  potato  grower  was  keeping 
to  the  side  with  his  load  of  earlies,  for 
cars  were  forever  rushing  past  at  a  murd¬ 
erous  pace  and  the  rumble  of  the  truck 
was  a  poor  conductor  of  warning  signals. 
The  concrete  road  was  strewn  with  birds 
crushed  under  wheels  almost  before  they 
had  learned  to  fly.  Most  farmhouses  had 
offered  up  a  hen  or  two,  and  where  the 
road  led  through  the  swamp  the  flying 
wheels  had  caught  down  a  rabbit  and  a 
weasel  that  morning.  Just  why  so  many 
people  drove  as  if  going  for  a  doctor, 
preferred  to  risk  their  lives  speeding  when 
going  along  in  an  orderly  manner  would 
accomplish  the  same  purpose,  it  was  use¬ 
less  to  ponder.  And  he  did  not  ponder  it, 
because  on  the  right  side  of  the  road 
ahead  he  saw  the  huge  produce  truck,  a 
type  that  is  always  on  the  road  except 
when  changing  tires. 
It  is  bad  luck  to  be  caught  on  the  road 
without  a  change  of  tire,  when  the  tire 
is  35  x  5  or  over.  That  means  prying 
off  a  heavy  duty  casing  that  will  resist 
every  stage  of  the  performance.  But  if 
one  is  well  skilled  in  the  handling  of  it, 
having  the  knack  makes  a  quick  job.  It 
was  apparent  that  the  driver  had  no 
knack.  A  dozen  futile  tools  lay  in  sug¬ 
gestive  positions  about  the  rim  ;  the  young 
potato  grower  grinned  at  the  sight  of 
them.  Should  he  stop?  This  man  was 
forcing  Southern  potatoes  into  an  al¬ 
ready  crowded  Northern  market,  habitual¬ 
ly  undersold  the  market  to  make  a  sale. 
Now  here  he  was  with  a  punctured  tire, 
in  the  middle  of  a  long  stretch  of  marshes 
where  it  was  a  mile  to  the  nearest  tele¬ 
phone.  No  experienced  driver  will  leave 
his  machine  even  in  broad  daylight,  and  it 
might  be  hours  before  he  could  get  rigged 
for  travel  at  the  rate  he  was  going.  It  is 
wiser  sometimes  not  to  answer  appeals 
for  help  in  the  long  swamp ;  he  might 
have  gone  on  without  stopping,  but  a 
screw  driver  slipped  and  he  caught  sight 
of  the  man’s  face,  red  and  grim — dis¬ 
couraged.  Stopping  he  took  a  tool  from 
his  own  box. 
“I  don’t  think  you  ever  got  caught 
this  way  before!” 
“No,”  said  the  man,  watching  closely, 
“are  you  going  to  make  a  hold-up  with 
that,  or  were  you  going  to  help  with  this 
tire?  For  if  you  want  to  help,  you  might 
better  go  on  and  telephone  to  the  garage 
to  send  me  back  another  tire.  The  only 
way  to  get  this  on  is  to  takd  it  where 
they’ve  got  the  proper  kind  of  machinery 
to  spread  that  rim.  I’ve  been  here  an 
hour  and  I  can’t  do  anything  with  it. 
I’ve  had  two  punctures  and  a  blowout 
this  morning.” 
That  was  a  poor  beginning,  but  out  of 
such  do  many  real  friendships  begin.  With 
a  wrecking  tool  as  a  pry,  and  a  hammer 
to  tap  it  into  place,  the  rim  grated  back 
into  the  original  notch  as  mannerly  as 
if  it  had  never  resisted.  “You’ve  done 
it,”  admitted  the  surpi-ised  truckman.  “I 
don’t  see  how  you  do  it,  because  even 
with  the  garage  machinery  it  takes  longer 
than  you  took  to  get  it  into  place.  What 
do  you  want  for  the  job?” 
“If  you  mean  money,”  said  the  young 
potato  grower,  “I  don’t  want  anything. 
But  if  you’ll  let  me  have  your  good-will 
I’ll  take  that.” 
“I  don’t  know  what  you  mean,”  said 
the  truckman,  getting  out  his  tire  pump 
and  being  nai*rowly  missed  by  a  roaring 
speedster. 
“We  don’t  seem  to  work  together,  and 
it  hurts  business,”  said  the  young  potato 
grower  frankly.  “If  you  had  gone  on  this 
morning  I’d  have  been  just  too  late  to 
sell  my  load.  It  doesn’t  pay  for  you  to 
cut  under  my  price,  or  for  me  to  sell  out 
my  load  for  what  I  can  get.  It  isn’t 
good  salesmanship.  The  merchants  who 
are  served  by  us  know  what  to  expect 
and  start  a  decline  in  prices.” 
The  truckman  laughed  uneasily.  “What 
little  I  can  do,  I’ll  do,”  he  promised. 
“There  are  too  many  of  you  farmers  that 
don’t  want  to  co-operate  so  much.  In 
the  Spring  and  early  Summer  we  truck¬ 
men  have  the  selling  all  to  ourselves.  We 
manage  to  keep  prices  on  a  paying  basis, 
which  is  a  dollar  a  barrel  plus  the  cost. 
People  have  to  eat  potatoes;  they  are  a 
staple  food  and  we  don’t  see  much  use  of 
trying  to  force  the  market.  But  let  the 
local  farmer  get  into  the  game  and  he 
begins  this  cut-under  system  of  selling 
Half  of  the  farmers  who  bring  the  first 
early  potatoes  into  market  do  not  inform 
themselves  on  the  current  price  of  the 
Northern-shipped  Southern  crop,  and  the 
result  is  a  lot  of  random  prices  to  break 
the  market  for  us,  though  I  feel  certain 
that  we  do  a  great  deal  of  good  in  keep¬ 
ing  the  market  stabilized.” 
He  reached  for  the  tire  gauge,  before 
he  went  on.  “I’m  not  so  sure  that  the 
merchants  themselves  want  to  start  the 
decline  in  potato  prices.  They  sell  less 
bushels  when  the  price  begins  to  drop, 
for  it  seems  to  have  the  effect  of  holding 
back  trade.” 
“You  seem  to  think  that  fhe  farmers 
(Continued  on  Page  1103) 
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