American Agriculturist, December 1,1923 
383 
Gtoe a thought 
foeldvertismg 
/ 
qpHE following narrative was 
printed lately in Capper’s 
Weekly, and it is repeated here for 
its wholesome moral: Back in the 
early days of the. civil war Henry 
Webb, age fifteen, enlisted with the 
1st New York Light Artillery and 
was away from friends and home 
and lonesome. So he decided to 
take a chance. He sent a two-line 
advertisement to the Literary Com¬ 
panion, asking if some girls would 
write to him “just for the fun of 
matrimony.” Susan E. Sharp, a 
typesetter on the paper, set the ad. 
She wasn’t lofiesome, but she was 
patriotic. So she wrote to the 
soldier boy. For sixteen months 
they exchanged letters. In 1863 
Henry obtained a furlough. He 
hurried to the little town where 
Susan lived. Within fifteen days 
they were married. Then the young 
bridegroom went back to his regi¬ 
ment with a new incentive to bring 
the war to a close. He fought in 
thirty-seven battles to do this. 
They have just celebrated their 
sixty-first wedding anniversary. It 
pays to advertise for a wife when 
the ad brings sixty-one years of 
happiness. 
The romance of Henry and Susan, 
woven by the silver thread of senti¬ 
ment, tells a cryptic story. Henry 
might have been just a bachelor had 
he failed to make known publicly 
his wants. Susan might have re¬ 
mained a spinster. She took a 
chance and won a home. This event 
may be considered romantic or sen¬ 
timental. It is rather an “ad” mis¬ 
sion of an “ad.” In a just-for-play 
mood Henry did that which brought 
him sixty-one years of happiness. 
What “plhy” could be more remun¬ 
erative that such “ad” play. 
Once in cold type, the commercial 
“ad” becomes a vital force for busi¬ 
ness expansion. The dividend on 
an “ad” investment exceeds expec¬ 
tations. Advertising introduces 
producer and consumer. It is the 
point of contact. What of the ex¬ 
pense ? The cost is nominal com¬ 
pared with the returns for the finan¬ 
cial outlay. The farmer’s activities 
are controlled by seasons. He plants, 
reaps, gathers into his barn—all by 
the seasons. “He that tilleth his 
land shall have plenty of bread.” 
Advertising is not so governed. It 
is an all-season commodity. It sur¬ 
vives the storm, and is aggressive in 
spring, summer, autumn and winter. 
It is the printed word which ap¬ 
proaches the quiet hour with an 
appealing, persuasive voice. It is 
your counsellor. It is not what you 
get out of advertising but what you 
manage to get into it that makes 
produce move from the farm to the 
wholesaler ; from the wholesaler to 
the merchant; from the merchant 
to the retailer ; from the retailer to 
the consumer. It has been said— 
and in truth—“Whether you are in 
business or politics you should always 
remember that persistent advertising 
will make any man great.” It sells s nti- 
ment as well as farm products. The 
spoken salesmen does a vast amount of 
good but the contact-drawing power of 
the “silent salesman” is not to be dis¬ 
counted as a trade builder. 
A circulation medium, with year-long 
stockholders, cannot fail to benefit all 
subscribers—whether they be just readers 
or active advertisers. Such a partnership 
cannot fail. Fundamentally and progres¬ 
sively it represents strength—personified. 
It is circulation which keeps the body fit. 
It is circulation which keeps the maga¬ 
zine fit. Our soliciting representative is 
within reach. Give him the “glad hand.” 
Further his ends by improving your own. 
Let’s get together in a common enterprise 
which will be for mutual profit. “What 
has happened in the past should sound a 
warning for the future-” 
Will you please say to your neighbor— 
“I saw it in the American Agr culturist.” 
This will help you commercially and pro¬ 
ductively. 
“it pays to advertise.” Think of Henry 
and Susan I Sixty-one years of happi¬ 
ness! Brought about by an “ad!” 
yldvertising SKCanager 
to have some spot on this unfriendly 
world that we can call ‘home’—even 
though it be but a hut, and haunted.” 
In a little while the path we followed 
led up a somewhat steep ascent; see¬ 
ing which, I put out a hand to aid my 
aged companion. But he repulsed me 
almost sharply: 
“Let be,” he panted, “let be, nobody 
’s never ’elped me up this ’ere path, 
an’ nobody never shall!” So up we 
went, the Ancient and I, side by side, 
and very slowly, until, the summit be¬ 
ing reached, he seated himself, spent 
and breathless, upon a fallen tree, 
which had doubtless served this pur¬ 
pose many times before, and mopped at 
his wrinkled brow with a trembling 
hand. 
“Ye see,” he cried, as soon as he had 
recovered his breath sufficiently, “ye 
see, I be wunnerful spry an’ active— 
could dance ye a hornpipe any day, if 
I was so minded.” 
“On my word,” said I, “I believe you 
could! But where are you going now?” 
“To Siss’n’urst!” 
“How far is that?” 
“ ’Bout a mile acrost t’ fields.” 
“Is there a good inn at Sissinghurst?” 
“Ay, ay,” nodded the old man, “if it 
be good ale an’ a comfortable inn you 
want you need seek no further nor 
Siss’n’urst; ninety an’ one years I ’ve 
lived there, an’ I know.” 
“Ninety-one years!” I repeated. 
“As ever was!” returned the Ancient, 
with another nod. “I be the oldest 
man in these parts ’cept David Relf, 
an’ 'e died last year.” 
“Why then, if he ’s dead, you must 
be the oldest,” said I. 
“No,” said the Ancient, shaking his 
head, “ye see it be this way: David 
were my brother, an’ uncommon proud 
’e were o’ bein’ the oldest man in these 
parts, an’ now that ’e be dead an’ gone 
it du seem a poor thing^-ah! a very 
poor thing!—to tak’ ’vantage of a dead 
man, an’ him my own brother!” Say¬ 
ing which, the Ancient rose, and we 
went on together, side by side, towards 
Sissinghurst village. 
CHAPTER XXIII 
OF BLACK GEORGE, THE SMITH, AND HOW 
WE THREW THE HAMMER 
“rpHE BULL” is a plain, square, 
X whitewashed building, with a slop¬ 
ing roof, and before the door an open 
portico, wherein are set two seats from 
which one may watch the winding road, 
the thatched cottages bowered in roses, 
or the quiver of distant trees. Or one 
may close one’s eyes and hark to the 
chirp of the swallows under the eaves, 
the distant lowing of cows, or the clink 
of hammers from the smithy across the 
way. 
And presently, as we sat there 
drowsing in the sun, to us came one 
from the “tap,” a bullet-headed fellow, 
somewhat fat and fleshy—who, having 
nodded to me, sat him down beside the 
Ancient, and addressed him as follows: 
“Black Jarge be ‘took’ again, Gaffer!” 
“Ah! I knowed’t would come soon or 
late, Simon,” said the Ancient, shak¬ 
ing his head. 
“Seemed goin’ on all quiet and reg’- 
lar, though,” said the bullet-headed 
man, whom I discovered to be the land¬ 
lord of “The Bull”—“seemed nice and 
quiet, when, ’bout an hour ago it were, 
’e ups and heaves Sam out into the 
road.” 
“Ah!” said the old man, nodding his 
head again, “to be sure, I ’ve noticed, 
Simon, as ,’t is generally about the 
twentieth o’ the month as Jarge gets 
‘took.’ ” 
“ ’E ’ve got a wonderful ’ead, ’ave 
the Gaffer!” said Simon to me. 
“Yes,” said .1, “but who is Black 
George; how is he ‘taken,’ and by 
what?” 
“Gaffer,” said the Innkeeper, “you 
tell un.” 
“Why, then,” began the Ancient, 
nothing loth, “Black Jarge be a gert, 
big, strong man—the biggest, gertest, 
and strongest in the South Country, d’ 
ye see (a’most as fine a man as I were 
in my time), and, off and on, gets took 
wi’ tearin’s and rages, at which times 
’e don’t mind who ’e ’its—” 
“No—nor wheer!” added the Inn¬ 
keeper. 
“Oh, ’e be a bad man, be Black Jarge 
when ’e ’s took, for ’e ’ave a knack of 
takin’ the one nighest, and a-heavin’ of 
un over ’is ’ead.” 
“Extremely unpleasant!” said I. 
“Just what he done this marnin’ wi’ 
Sam,” nodded the Innkeeper—“hove un 
out into the road, ’e did.” 
“And what did Sam do?” I inquired. 
“Oh! Sam were mighty glad to get 
off so easy.” 
“Sam must be a very remarkable 
fellow—undoubtedly a philosopher,” 
said I. 
“’E be nowt to look at!” said the 
Ancient. 
Now at this moment there came a 
sudden deep bellow, a hoarse, bull¬ 
like roar from somewhere near by, 
and through the wide doorway of the 
smithy opposite, I saw a man come 
tumbling, all arms and legs, who, 
having described a somersault, fell, 
rolled over once or twice, and sitting 
up in the middle of the road, stared 
about him in a dazed sort of fashion. 
“That’s Job!” nodded the Ancient. 
“Poor fellow!” said I, and rose to go 
to his assistance. 
“Oh, that were n’t nothin’,” said the 
Ancient, laying a restraining hand upon 
my arm, “nothin’ at all. Job bean’t 
’ui’t; why, I ’ve seen ’em fall further 
nor that afore now.” 
A ND, in a little while, Job arose from 
. where he sat in the dust, and limp¬ 
ing up, sat himself down on the opposite 
bench, very black of brow and fierce 
of eye. And, after he had sat there 
silent for maybe five minutes, I said 
that I hoped he was n’t hurt. 
“ ’Urt?” he repeated, with a blank 
stare. “ ’Ow should I be ’urt?” 
“Why, you seemed to fall rather 
heavily,” said I. 
At this Job immediately turned his 
back upon me; from which, and sundry 
winks and nods from the others, it 
seemed that my remark had been ill- 
judged. And after we had sat silent 
for maybe another five minutes, the An- 
ciStit appeared to notice Job’s presence 
for the first time. 
“Why, you bean’t workin’ ’s arternoon 
then, Job?” he inquired solemnly. 
“Ah! I’m done wi’ smithin’—least- 
ways, for Black Jarge.” 
“And him wi’ all that raft o’ work 
in Job? Pretty fix ’e ’ll in wi’ no one 
to strike for ’im!” said Simon. 
“Sarves un right tu!” retorted Job, 
furtively rubbing his left knee. 
“But what ’ll ’e do wi’out a ’elper?” 
persisted Simon. 
“Lord knows!” returned the Ancient; 
“unless Job thinks better of it.”* 
“Not me,” said that individual, feeling 
his right elbow with tender solicitude. 
“I ’m done wi’ Black Jarge, I am. I 
never swing a sledge for Black Jarge 
again—danged if I du!” 
“And ’im to mend th’ owd church 
screen up to Cranbrook Church,” 
sighed the Ancient; “a wunnerful 
screen, a wunnerful screen! older nor 
me—ah! a sight older—hunneds and 
hunneds o’ years older—they would n’t 
let nobody touch it but Black Jarge.” 
“ ’E be the best smith in the South 
Country!” nodded Simon. 
“Ay, an’ a bad man to work for as 
ever was!” growled Job. 
“ ’T would ha’ been a fine thing for 
a Siss’n’urst man to ha’ mended t’ owd 
screen!” said the Ancient. 
“’T would that!” nodded Simon, “a 
shame it is as it should go to others.” 
H EREUPON, having finished my ale, 
I rose. 
“Be you ’m a-goin’, young maister?” 
inquired the Ancient. 
“Why, that depends,” said I. “I un¬ 
derstand that this man, Black George, 
needs a helper, so I have decided to offer 
my services.” 
“You!” exclaimed Job, staring in 
amazement, as did also the other two. 
“Why not?” I rejoined. “Black 
George needs a helper, and I need 
money.” 
“My chap,” said Job warningly, 
“don’t ye do it. You be a tidy, sizable 
chap, but Black Jarge ud mak’ no 
more o’ you than I should of a babby.” 
“Better not,” said Simon. 
“On the contrary,” I returned, “bet¬ 
ter run a little bodily risk and satisfy 
one’s hunger, rather than lie safe but 
famishing beneath some hedge or rick—- 
what do you think, Ancient?” 
The old man leaned forward and 
peered up at me sharply beneath his 
hanging brows. 
“Well?” said I. 
“You ’m right!” he nodded, “and a 
man wi’ eyes the like o’ yourn bean’t 
one as ’t is easy to turn aside, even 
though it do be Black Jarge as tries.” 
“Then,” said Job, as I took up my 
(Continued on page 385) • 
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