American Agriculturist, July 12, 1924 
21 
Leaves of Memory 
And Other Interesting Letters and Comments 
We scatter memories everywhere 
Like leaves upon the grass, 
Sweet, fragrant, childish memories 
That rustle as we pass. 
W HAT would be our impression, I wonder, 
if to-day some of you 1 could set down with 
me in the little old log house in which I 
was born. 
“What would I think of the single living room- 
heated by a queer little cook stove—which served as 
sitting room, dining room, library and kitchen? During 
the day this room was lighted by two or 
possibly three windows, and at night by 
one or possibly two smelly kerosene lamps. 
“When we ran out ‘of oil’—and that 
frequently happened—my mother would 
bring out a homemade candle or two; and 
in the absence of candles, she would fashion 
a tallow dip, as it was called. In this case, 
as I recall it, melted tallow or lard was 
poured into a saucer, and into this a flannel 
rag was thrust and lighted. Then the 
room would be so flooded with light that 
one person could distinguish another at a 
distance of several feet! It was a great 
little illumination, that tallow dip. 
“Our library contained several volumes, 
including the Bible, Weem’s ‘Life of 
George Washington,’ Will Carleton’s 
poems, ‘Swiss Family Robinson’ (I read 
that seven times hand running), a book on 
Mormonism and three or four works of 
fiction, among which were ‘The Lady in 
Black ’ and ‘ Jane Eyre ’! By way of current 
literature we ‘took’ a splendid magazine 
called ‘Godey’s Lady’s Book’ and the 
‘(Alexandria Post’. What more could one 
want? 
Plenty of Hazelnuts 
“And then there flashed upon the silver 
screen of my memory a picture of winter 
evenings in that little old log house down 
there in the Arkansas woods. We always 
had a supply of maple syrup for ‘taffy 
pulls’ and hazelnuts and popcorn. Along 
about 9 o'clock of a cold winter night, when 
the wind whistled through the gaunt tops of 
the old oak trees which flanked the house, 
and the snow crystals glittered in the moon¬ 
light, the festivities would begin. 
“Father would go down the cellar after 
apples and cider, while mother poked up 
the fire, ‘greased’ the big iron kettle and 
set it on the stove to heat. That meant 
popcorn! And how that corn did pop! 
First there would be a few desultory pops, 
then an increasing rattle and finally 
a regular roar of musketry. My greatest 
difficulty, as one of the youngest of the 
family, was to,secure a receptacle anywhere 
near large enough to hold the portion of 
corn I thought I wanted. 
“As a ‘wash’ for popcorn, sweet home¬ 
made cider isn’t half bad. I'll tell the world! 
And with an apple or two to top off on, a 
boy of 6 or 8 or 10 could manage very well 
until breakfast time. Family prayers, 
which my father conducted with the splen¬ 
did rigor and fine simplicity of those days, 
closed an evening of pleasure as one would 
find it hard to equal in these days of jazz 
and radio, automobiles and flying machines, hard times 
and bunk. 
That Homemade Sausage 
“But what I miss most of all in these winters of my 
discontent is the heavenly home made sausage and 
hominy my mother used to fabricate. Why has sausage 
making become a lost art? Of course, one can buy 
hominy in cans, and something called sausage is still 
to be had at the butcher shop; but what travesties 
they are on the real thing! Why can’t a modern 
sausage maker take a piece of fresh pork, a pinch of 
salt, a bit of paper and a sprinkling of sage and turn 
out some real sausage? But it simply isn’t done. 
“The old days! The trunk in my room in my 
house—which sadly needs refurnishing—cost more 
than the entire furnishing of that little old log house; 
my children spend more money—or have more money 
spent on them—in a week than I did in a year; in place 
of a creaky little melodeon we have a piano, and the 
old buckboard has given place to a six-cylinder auto¬ 
mobile. But what boots it all? —C. L. Emerson, 
-.Missouri. 
By OUR READERS 
Editor’s Note: —We confess that we cannot agree at 
all with those who are always saying, “ That there is 
nothing so good in the present that will compare with 
the good old times.” Fifty years from now our present 
young folks, then grown old, will he telling in exactly the 
same way how everything has gone to the how-WQWS and 
that as for them, give them “the good old times.” 
Memory has a habit of forgetting the unpleasant 
circumstances and remembering only those that are 
pleasant. Also, things seen through childhood's eyes are 
the pleasantest and most wonderful of all a lifetime. 
The bitter experience of age too often brings disillusion 
and loss of faith, resulting in longing for other and 
pleasanter days. In reality the pleasant things of the 
world have not changed so much, except for the better. 
It is ourselves that change, so that we cannot recognize 
them. 
* * * 
A Good Whack at the Gossips 
T HERE seems to be a general idea that if a car is 
standing still beside the road it must have a 
sinister meaning. 
There is I believe a bill out which is supposed to 
stop such a terrible crime (hope they don’t get it 
through, mine might balk on me and I couldn’t pay for 
the fine). 
It seems as though our older people are taking the 
fact for granted that our young people are of course 
terrible sinners; if a girl’s hair is bobbed she is pretty 
bad. 
If a young couple’s car is seen standing by the road 
side, they are black balled. I wonder if the car standing 
by the road means any worse thing than the old horse, 
creeping over the road? You know the horse can take 
care of himself fairly well, although he used to some¬ 
times have a bad habit of losing the road and often 
took a long time to find his destination. I'll wager that 
some of these same folks who are having such a fit 
about the idle cars have had horses that didn’t know 
any more than to lose the road. 
On our farm is an evergreen woods of two or three 
acres with a small brook running through the corner 
of it; to me, and I believe to many others, it is a 
beautiful place. 
People come sometimes especially single 
couples and picnic in these woods. My 
neighbors have suggested to me that I 
ought to stop it, and some have intimated 
that some pretty bad things were going on 
there. Nevertheless all last summer I had 
to water my stock at a spring at the edge 
of these woods. In addition to this I have 
watched more or less to see if what they 
were saying was true and never once have 
I seen any sign of any questionable conduct. 
I am afraid, no, I hope that aMarge share of 
the terrible things we hear about, are simply 
someone’s imagination which has been 
running riot in an evil corner of his 
brain. 
There are altogether too many people 
who are seemingly anxiously awaiting the 
opportunity to smear the path of the 
respectable young man or woman and 
jump on them like a pack of wolves when 
they see them slipping and howling their 
misfortune to the skies. 
Who is the worse, the one who falls or 
the one who pushes him down? and why 
isn’t it just as easy and a great deal more 
satisfactory to hold out a helping hand to 
another when we see him falter as he 
reaches that fatal chasm leading to the 
depths of ruin and destruction. The 
world is already far too full of knockers, it 
would be a wise plan to exchange some of 
them for boosters. Gossip and scandal 
are poor assets to real civilization.—By 
H. C. McCormick, New York. 
* * * 
“The Fate of the ’54” 
N my desk is a miniature of a statue 
with the above title. The artist, 
Mr. Humphrey, moulded a man sitting 
upon a box, bowed down, with his hat 
between his feet, his shoulders stooped 
and discouragement in every feature. 
The thought back of the statue is the 
series of figures gathered by an insurance 
company, showing how few men succeed 
financially. One hundred men start into 
business between the ages sixteen and 
twenty-five. These same men go on for 
forty years, and, at sixty-five, the facts 
about them are: sixty-four, only, are 
living, one is wealthy, three are well-to- 
' do, six are still working for their support, 
and the remaining “54” are DEPEN¬ 
DENT, entirely, or in part, for their 
support. 
The moral is plain. Save, and your sav¬ 
ings will save you. Lay aside for the rainy 
day that is sure to come. Take the waste out of our 
wages, or someone may have to feed us when we’re old. 
Yet, I confess that I do not believe the artist has 
touched upon the whole truth about living. We cannot 
put the WHOLE OF LIFE into material figures. 
Bank books do not hold half the facts of the glory 
of life. There are many great successes that have had 
empty pockets. 
The gospel of Thrift ought to be preached more than 
it is. Keeping money is more difficult than earning it. 
But the gospel of Truth is vastly more thrilling than a 
bank balance. 
You cannot pillory all the moneyless people on the 
artist’s box because their pockets happen to be empty 
at sixty-five. 
Suppose we younger people do have to help take 
care of some one, is that a bad thing? How about all 
the dear old fathers and mothers, and grand-parents, 
who, all during their younger lives were giving their 
all to help rear a family? Would you count them 
failures because they happen to be among the “fatal 
54?” I tell you. Nay! 
(Continued on page 2If) 
IN GOOD OLD U. S. A. 
An orphan at eight is now one of the world’s greatest mining engineers and 
economists whose ambition is to eliminate depression and unemployment. 
The son of a plasterer is now the world’s greatest neurologist and his hobby is 
good health for poor children 
But they didn’t get there by hanging around the corner drug store 
Copyrighted 1924 by the New York Tribune. Inc. — Darling In the New York Tribune. 
(This cartoon by Jay N. Darling, printed in the New York Tribune May 6, 1923, won the 
Pulitzer prize of $500 for the best cartoon of the year) 
