1290 
Jhr  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
The  other  night  my  daughter  and  her 
mother  enticed  me  into  the  car  and  drove 
off  to  a  church  supper  and  fair.  They 
know  only  too  well  that  I  do  not  shine 
at  such  affairs  but  it  is  quite  convenient 
to  have  some  one  along  to  pay  the  bills. 
We  have  been  making  annual  pilgrimages 
to  this  Autumn  fair  for  20  years.  There 
was  a  time  when  we  hitched  up  Nellie 
and  old  Bob  and  drove  slowly  through 
the  dust  or  mud,  sometimes  an  hour  on 
the  way.  Nellie  and  Bob  quarreled  and 
bit  at  each  other,  but  they  got  us  to  the 
fair  and  its  50-cent  supper.  Now  we 
are  exploded  over  a  hard,  firm  road  in  a 
few  minutes,  and  the  price  of  the  supper 
has  been  doubled.  Some  years  ago 
mother  used  to  put  on  a  white  apron  and 
wait  on  the  table.  She  came  to  be  an 
expert  at  carrying  a  tray  and  saying : 
"Roast  beef  or  boiled  ham — the  ham  is 
very  nice  tonight !”  That  is  what  they 
say  when  the  beef  runs  low.  Now  I 
notice  that  following  the  usual  course  of 
social  development  younger  women  serve 
the  food  while  the  older  ones  work  in  the 
kitchen  or  pass  tip  from  the  ranks  of 
those  who  serve  into  the  smaller  army 
of  those  who  are  served.  At  such  a  fair 
we  are  not  supposed  to  hunt  for  bargains 
— we  buy  for  the  cause  and  I  wandered 
about  to  see  what  we  could  find.  I  had 
my  money  out  to  pay  for  a  balloon,  a 
toy  elephant  and  various  other  emblems 
of  childhood,  when  I  suddenly  remem¬ 
bered  that  there  isn’t  a  single  little  child 
left  at  Hope  Farm!  Who  could  use 
these  toys?  The  greedy  hands  of  the 
East  Side  tenement  have  reached  out  for 
Rose  and  Rita,  and  three  of  the  children 
have  just  started  for  school  and  college. 
It  seems  but  yesterday  at  this  very 
church  fair  that  I  bought  a  toy  balloon 
for  Cherry-top.  Now  he  stands  six  feet 
and  one  inch  in  his  stockings !  There 
isn’t  a  child  left  on  the  farm  who  can 
put  real  imagination  into  a  toy  balloon 
or  a  toy  dog !  They  have  all  grown  be¬ 
yond  it.  I  feel  just  like  the  woman  in 
one  of  Dorothy  Canfield’s  beautiful 
stories.  An  agent  came  along  selling 
little  chairs  for  school  children.  This 
woman  ordered  a  dozen  for  the  local 
school.  Later,  when  she  came  to  figure 
on  it  the  hard  truth  flashed  upon  her 
that  there  wasn’t  a  single  child  left  in 
the  decaying  hill  town! 
***** 
Much  the  same  thing  came  to  me  ou 
Sunday  morning  as  I  served  out  the  fish 
balls.  '  I  looked  across  our  big  table  and 
mother  at  the  other  end  seemed  nearly 
a  mile  away.  It  took  me  a  moment  to 
realize  what  it  all  meant.  The  week  be¬ 
fore  it  had  seemed  as  if  I  could  reach 
across  the  table — now  there  was  this 
great  stretch  of  space !  There  were 
vacant  places  at  the  sides.  That  is  what 
made  the  difference.  Most  of  our  chil¬ 
dren  have  grown  up  and  gone  out  to  pre¬ 
pare  for  the  battle  of  life. 
“We  must  take  out  three  or  four  leaves 
from  this  table  and  make  it  smaller,”  I 
said,  and  then  I  was  rather  sorry  I  said 
it.  Perhaps  it  will  be  better  to  leave  the 
big  table  as  it  is  and  imagine  the  vacant 
places  are  filled.  I  wouldn’t  mind  put¬ 
ting  on  the  plates  up  to  the  full  number. 
Some  of  us  felt  we  were  a  little  crowded 
in  former  days;  now  we  shall  have  elbow 
room  at  least.  Hope  Farm  is  not  de¬ 
serted,  mind  you — we  still  have  11  peo¬ 
ple  here  ranging  from  12  years  up  to 
81,  but  the  point  is  that  they  are  all  too 
wise  to  take  interest  in  a  balloon  or  a 
toy  dog  or  a  doll !  That’s  the  trouble. 
I  know  people  who  consider  a  family  of 
children  as  a  great  burden.  The  cost  and 
the  care  of  providing  for  these  little  ones 
worry  them  and  keep  them  under  the 
harrow  of  unending  labor.  They  some¬ 
times  look  forward  to  the  happy  days 
ahead  when  the  children  will  no  longer 
be  a  care.  Then,  they  think,  we  will  have 
our  day  of  comfort.  We  can  live  as  we 
like.  There  will  be  none  of  this  slavish 
toil  to  make  ends  meet.  The  ends  will 
lap  over.  We  can  rest  and  play — and  do 
as  we  like.  That  is  a  fine  thing  to  look 
forward  to,  and  it  makes  the  work  seem 
lighter,  but  you  will  never  reach  that 
happv  condition  if  you  do  your  duty  by 
the  little  ones.  When  the  time  comes 
that  your  home  contains  no  human 
being  who  can  take  interest  in  a  toy 
balloon  or  a  doll  you  will  feel  the  first 
touch  of  a  chill  which  will  change  your 
character  unless  you  can  throw  it  off.  If 
you  young  people  are  wise  you  will 
make  the  most  of  your  children  while 
they  are  in  the  toy  balloon  stage. 
***** 
I  have  a  practical  friend  who  does  not 
believe  in  such  sentiment.  He  says  he 
never  bought  a  piece  of  candy  or  a  toy 
for  any  of  his  children,  because  he  thinks 
all  such  stuff  is  nonsense.  His  children 
have  all  left  him,  and  are  "doing  well’  — 
but  he  has  not  heard  from  any  of  them  in 
six  months.  The  truth  is  they  had  no 
childhood  such  as  little  children  need. 
You  might  call  a  toy  balloon  or  a  stuffed 
elephant  or  a  Teddy  bear  about  the  most 
unsubstantial  foundation  one  could  use 
for  building  a  house,  yet  they  are  a  nec¬ 
essary  part  of  childhood,  and  upon  them 
may  be  built  unshakable  castles  of  love 
and  memory.  And  my  old  friend  makes 
great  fun  of  my  cotton  patch  and  the 
great  arbor  of  roses  which  stretches 
across  the  lawn.  Why,  he  says: 
"You  ought  to  know  you  cannot  ma¬ 
ture  cotton  in  Northern  New  Jersey. 
What  sense  can  there  be  in  trying  the 
impossible?  What  a  foolish  example  for 
your  children.  You  will  just  make  them 
extravagant  and  visionary.  That  space 
planted  in  corn  would  help  feed  the  hens. 
And  that  string  of  roses  right  on  the 
best  soil  of  the  farm !  What  cabbage 
could  be  grown  on  that  strip !  What 
good  do  these  flowers  do?  They  do  not 
help  feed  the  world,  and  they  pull  peo¬ 
ple  away  from  practical  work!  ’ 
I  think  it  likely  you  know  such  folks. 
What  do  you  say  to  them  when  they  talk 
like  that?  To  me  that  cotton  patch  is 
probably  the  least  remunerative  crop  on 
the  farm.  I  may  get  enough  lint  this 
year  to  /make  a  handkerchief,  but  I 
could  buy  one  for  5  per  cent  of  the  cost 
of  caretaking.  Yet  in  other  ways  that 
cotton  is  the  finest  thing  I  have.  As  I 
watch  it  grow  my  mind  travels  far — 
away  from  these  hard  old  hills,  away 
from  drought  and  blight,  and  all  the 
meaner  things  of  life.  I  found  it  a  great 
thing  to  keep  imagination  packed  in  cot¬ 
ton.  The  trouble  with  my  practical  friend 
is  that  his  imagination  has  been  so 
bruised  and  shaken  that  it  has  decayed, 
like  a  windfall  apple.  And  as  for  the 
roses— well,  in  June,  when  those  vines 
burst  into  a  great  glory  of  white  and  red, 
the  cabbage  which  might  grow  on  that 
patch  fail  to  interest  me.  And  all  through 
the  rest  of  the  year  I  can  watch  those 
vines  and  look  forward  to  the  next  sea¬ 
son  of  bloom.  It  is  much  like  rose 
leaves  packed  away  in  some  clean  fat 
which  absorbs  their  fragrance  and  holds 
it.  To  me  they  are  finer  than  boiled  cab¬ 
bage  or  sauerkraut. 
***** 
And  my  practical  friend  finds  fault 
with  some  of  the  books  I  read.  I  have 
an  old  worn  and  tattered  copy  of  Sbakes- 
pear  that  I  have  carried  about  for  40 
years.  It  is  full  of  marks  and  comments. 
My  friend  says  the  time  I  have  spent 
over  this  old  volume  has  been  wasted. 
The  same  time  spent  on  practical  farm 
matters  would  be  far  more  productive. 
I  cannot  argue  with  him  because  he  has 
no  imagination  or  power  of  applying 
poetry  to  the  common  needs  of  men.  One 
day  he  challenged  me  to  name  a  single 
case  where  Shakespeare  or  any  of  the 
great  poets  have  influenced  real  material 
work.  Then  there  came  to  mind  an  inei- 
Oetober  13,  1923 
dent  of  years  ago  which  I  think  answered 
him. 
It  is  many,  many  years  since  I  lived 
in  Boston.  As  a  big  boy,  in  order  to 
help  out  my  small  income.  I  acted  for  a 
while  as  "supe”  in  a  great  theater.  A 
"supe”  or  supernumerary  is  one  who 
helps  make  up  the  crowd.  He  is  part 
of  the  background.  He  may  be  soldier, 
peasant,  farmer,  gentleman— anything  to 
suit  the  play.  Ilis  clothes  change  his 
character.  I  remember  that  one  Winter 
George  Rignold,  a  noted  Shakespearean 
actor,  came  to  our  theater  and  played 
Henry  Y.  That  was  a  great  occasion 
for  the  “supers.”  We  were  soldiers  be¬ 
fore  the  walls  of  the  French  fortress.  I 
had  a  wooden  sword  and  a  paper  shield 
painted  white  and  a  helmet  of  paste¬ 
board.  We  were  falling  back  before  the 
French  army  when  suddenly  the  king 
appeared  in  front  of  us,  whving  his  sword 
and  shouting.  The  French  soldiers  very 
politely  stood  still  to  listen  to  the  speech  : 
“Once  more  into  the  breach,  dear  friends, 
Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English 
dead. 
.  .  .  “And  you  good  yeomen  whose 
limbs  were  made  in  England,  show 
us  here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture.  .  .  . 
I  see  you  stand  like  grayliounds  in  the 
slip.” 
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