American Agriculturist, July 14,1923 
21 
h 
A July Story 
U NCLE Sam Farmer and Young 
Sam were riding up the long dug 
road saying nothing, but each 
keeping up a dickens of a-think- 
ing. Relations were somewhat strained. 
The argument was ages old. Conserva¬ 
tive and stubborn ideas of the older gen¬ 
eration were again in conflict with the 
progressive but none-the-less stubborn 
beliefs of the younger. Such conflicts 
of emphatic opinion have been waged 
since Adam quarreled with his sons 
over the number and kind of goats that 
should be kept on the first farm; and 
such debates will still be warmly ar¬ 
gued as long as the old and young work 
together, for to most of those beyond 
the half century 
By E. R. EASTMAN 
the clearing where, stretched away in 
front of them, was a beautiful sight 
not often seen by farmers of this gen¬ 
eration. Forty or fifty acres of newly 
cleared land were covered with clover 
in bloom, standing, in places where it 
had not lodged, at least three feet high. 
How it would change the status of farm¬ 
ing on these old eastern hill lands if it 
were' possible to get stands of clover, 
which the pioneers obtained with little 
effort on the newly cleared fallows! An 
occasional good farmer demonstrates 
that clover can still be grown on the 
eastern hills, by applying large quanti¬ 
laughter followed by a song that went 
something like this: 
Oh, when I die don’t bury me at all, 
Just pickle my bones in alcohol; 
Put a bottle of booze at my head and feet, 
And then I know I’ll surely keep. 
mark, youngsters 
in their twenties 
are mere children 
intolerant of wis¬ 
dom, which comes 
with the experi¬ 
ence of years, 
and filled with 
fool ideas which 
are both imprac¬ 
tical and impos¬ 
ts lV»lp 
With the big 
haying ahead on 
the home farm, 
Sam had taken a 
lot of clover to 
cut on shares for 
neighbor Barrett. 
It was three miles 
up amountain 
dug road and 
back through a 
piece of timber. 
The land was 
new and covered 
with cobblestones 
and stumps, 
Sam stood listening for a minute with 
a funny expression, showing under the 
broad, brim of his old straw hat, and then 
down across the lot he went, and en¬ 
tered the shed where he found his hired 
help having a glorious time, but some¬ 
what the worse for wear from too close 
association with a keg of hard cider, 
which they had somehow managed to 
bring in through the woods. 
As the 
“For We’ve Had Some Pleasant Days, Working the Fields 
Together” 
SO 
that all the mowing and raking had to 
be done by hand. 
Now Young Sam knew that clover 
hay was good for cows, but the trouble 
was he also knew that the kind of cows 
that Old Sam kept were not good for 
the clover hay. If the hay could only 
be sold and a little actual cash realized 
from it, Young Sam would not have ob¬ 
jected to doing a double haying. But 
he was tired and sick of the everlasting 
treadmill of working for nothing per 
hour for the privilege of being “chief 
cook and bottle washer” for a lot of 
worthless cows. For years now he had 
urged Old Sam to get rid of the board¬ 
ers and put in pure breds, or at least 
good grades; but the old man thought 
it just another fool idea of the younger 
generation and nothing was done. Mean¬ 
while, they continued to work early 
and late to get stuff enough to feed 
them. 
Then, to cap the climax, Sam went 
out and took this clover to cut. That 
was the last straw. The quarrel this 
time had been long and bitter and had 
ended in a statement from Young Sam, 
that when haying was done he was go¬ 
ing to leave the farm. 
So now they were on the way after 
their first load up the mountain road 
to the clover lot where for two days 
some hired day help had supposedly 
been busy cutting the clover with 
scythes. After coming out of the old 
wood road they stopped at the edge of 
ties of lime and acid phosphate, but it 
is an expensive process, and for the 
most part the devil’s paint brush and the 
daisies hold sway. 
As father and son stood at the edge 
of the clearing looking across the great 
clover field, breathing the soft summer 
breeze heavily laden with its scent, and 
listening to the hum of a million bees at 
work on the blossoms, they began to lose 
their grouch. There is something about 
association with the power and lavish¬ 
ness of nature’s summertime that 
cleanses men’s spirits and sweetens 
their souls in spite of themselves. 
Down in one corner of the lot was 
an acre or so of the clover which the 
men had already cut. It lay so thick in 
the swaths that any raking was neither 
necessary nor possible, for it could be 
pitched handily directly from the mown 
swaths to the wagon. Where some of 
the clover had been cut, three hand 
scythes hung on a stump, but the men 
that Sam had hired to wield them were 
not in sight. 
“The boys must have gone down to the 
spring to get a drink. I don’t see them,” 
said Sam. 
“Seems to me,” said Young Sam, 
“that goin’ to get a drink has taken con¬ 
siderable of their time in the last two 
days, for there is mighty little clover 
to show for three men’s work.” 
Just then, up across the field, from an 
old shelter shed on the edge of the 
woods, came the sound of boisterous 
men 
looked up and saw 
Sam standing in 
the doorway, the 
hilarity came to a 
sudden end. Sam 
was usually soft 
spoken and slow 
to anger, but there 
had been much of 
late to try his 
patience, a n d he 
had reached his 
limit. He took one 
look at the scenes 
of festivity and 
then, grabbing the 
handle of a broken 
rake, he went into 
action. Young Sam 
heard a noise like 
a six-gun battery 
opening a battle, 
and, then he saw 
Old Sam’s erst¬ 
while hired help 
break forth from 
the door of the 
shanty and point 
a wild but somewhat crooked course for 
the shelter of the nearby woods. Close 
behind them followed the old man, every 
once in a while coming near enough to 
the unfortunate man in the rear to ac¬ 
celerate his speed by a vigorous applica¬ 
tion of the rake handle. 
Then, with head erect, shoulders back, 
and old knees stepping high, Sam came 
back across the lot to the wagon and 
without a word proceeded to put on a 
load of clover which Young Sam loaded. 
When it was finished, they carefully 
bound it with a binding pole and started 
down through the woods toward home. 
The road was narrow and on each side 
it was swampy. They had not gone far 
when Young Sam drove a little too close 
to the edge so that the wheels went off 
on one side and sank to the axle, while 
the load slowly, but none-the-less surely, 
rolled majestically over, pitching both 
men into the bordering briars and 
bushes. 
Father and son sorted themselves out 
of the brush and immediately began to 
glare at each other while each tried to 
get his breath, and think of something 
strong enough to say that would relieve 
his feelings and cover the situation. 
Finally, the little fine lines about the old 
man’s eyes began to crinkle into a smile. 
“Samuel,” he said, “don’t say a word. 
I been a-thinkin’ since yesterday when 
you told me you were going to leave me, 
after you had stayed here for years 
{Continued on page 22) 
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