American Agriculturist, June 21, 1924 
The Reincarnation-sy sam Mims 
I 
1 ISTEN to me, Sonny; listen to a 
man who has been a failure in life. 
But before I wrap up a bit of free advice 
and hand to you, let me tell you why it is 
better to listen to an old Failure than it is 
to take advice from a successful man. 
The Failure looks back over the dusty 
trail he has traveled and deliberates upon 
the causes and effects; the successful man, 
all aglow with triumph, sees nothing but 
the mile-posts ahead. The quagmires 
behind are forgotten. 
“I am not only a self-condemned 
Failure, but when I meet the old fellows 
perked up in the glory of their success, 
fellows who were pals of mine in school, 
fellows whom I excelled in scholarship, 
in athletics. . . . Well,. Sonny, they look 
at me with sympathetic eyes and I can 
almost hear them say, as well as feel 
them say, sort of under the skin as it 
were; ‘What a pity; what a pity! ’ 
“You finished school three years ago. 
You graduated at the A. & M. College 
with distinction. You won an inter¬ 
scholastic oratorical contest. You were 
captain of the football team. You pulled 
off just about all the honors there were 
to be plucked. You came on back home 
and went to work on your dad’s farm.” 
Old man Lewis J. Bachelor pulled a 
small pen-knife from one of his pockets, 
twisted the point-broken blade about in 
the bowl of his pipe, emptied the scrap¬ 
ings, filled the pipe with fresh tobacco, 
and ignited a match by scratching it 
across the sole of his left shoe. 
“And now you want to get married and 
your girl won’t have you because you are a 
farmer. . . . Thunderation! ” And the 
match went out. 
Old man Lewis J. Bachelor scratched 
another match across the sole of his left 
shoe. 
“And you are going to give up farming 
just to cater to the whims of this girl. 
. . . Thunderation!” And the match 
went out. 
“Brains are needed more in agriculture 
to-day than they were ever needed before, 
and agriculture needs brains more than 
any other scientific profession. Agricul¬ 
ture has more enemies to-day than ever 
before; not ticks or boll weevils or San 
Jose scale, but commercialistic enemies, 
parasites on the body politic; running, 
infectious sores on the arteries of trade. 
The worst pests the farmers of to-day 
have to contend with cannot be killed 
with Paris Green or Lead Arsenate, they 
must be destroyed with brains.” 
O LD man Lewis J. Bachelor went a bit 
further with the third match and 
lighted his pipe. There was complete 
silence for fully a minute, except for the 
growling noise made by the smoking pipe. 
“Bob, I know that you’ve had a hard 
time since your dad died; I know that 
you’ve been discouraged a lot of times and 
that most of your young friends are doing 
all they can to discourage you. I have 
heard all about them calling you ‘The 
Cattle Dipper,’ ‘The Boll Weevil,’ ‘The 
Lady Bug,’ and so on, partly in fun but 
with just enough seriousness to hurt you 
right down to the quick. But listen. 
Sonny, the old pendulum is about to 
swing back. Before the civil war the 
Southern Planter was a monarch. He 
was intelligent, refined and cultured to a 
degree far beyond those following other 
vocations. In fact his vocation in life 
cast upon him and about him a radiance 
that glowed. He was picturesque. Then 
the reaction came. 
“I am not too old to have visions, 
„ Sonny, and I can see through the years 
(' that are to come. This isn’t a hazy, 
phantom-like silhouette that I see, neither 
is it so dazzling and shimmering that it 
hurts my eyes to look upon it, but I do 
see the man who produces things holding 
the reins of government. Bob, it is so 
necessary to see this picture that a man 
who loves his country doesn’t even dare 
take his eyes off this vision. 
“Listen, Sonny, sell me yourself. Sell 
yourself to me; mind, body and soul. I 
want another chance with life. I don’t 
want to rub out and start all over again 
with myself; neither do I want to redeem 
myself with my friends and acquaint¬ 
ances, nor do I want the acclaim that 
always greets the successful man, but 
Bob, I see so clearly why I am a failure 
and why I have not succeeded that I want 
the opportunity of directing another life. 
I feel just like a man does in a baseball 
game when it’s ‘Three Strikes and Out.’ 
A fellow feels that if he had just one 
more swing at that ball he’d knock the pill 
into the middle of next week. That’s the 
way I feel, Sonny. 
“Bob, I must have at least ten more 
years coming to me. If you won’t sell 
yourself to me, lease me yourself for a 
period of ten years.” 
T HUS it came about that a secret bar¬ 
gain was entered into by and between 
old man Lewis J. Bachelor and Robert 
P. Huntington. No other person ever 
knew the terms of the agreement, or even 
knew that Bob had made any combina¬ 
tions or agreements whatsoever with the 
Failure. Such a proposition would have 
sounded preposterous, but Bob was dis¬ 
consolate and cared not, and the Failure 
was eager and persuasive. 
Eight years later Robert P. Huntington 
was elected governor of the State. He 
was the only farmer that had been elected 
to fill that office since the year 1858. 
Chapter No. 98,762 of The Producers’ 
Union was a local unit in the county in 
which Robert P. Huntington was born 
and where he had resided all his life. Ten 
days after the election this local Chapter 
of The Producers’ Union gave a banquet 
in honor of the Governor-elect. A real 
banquet it was. 
The presiding officer made a splendid 
talk in which he continually referred to 
Robert P. Huntington as a “self-made 
man.” 
It was a proud day for old man Lewis 
J. Bachelor. All during the preliminary 
speeches the Failure was ruminating, 
surmising, and introspecting. He was 
having visions of the future in which his 
protege was being inaugurated President 
of the United States of America. A wild 
roar awakened him from his dreaming. 
The young man who was to take the reins 
of the State government was addressing 
the multitude. 
Ah! that speech; it will ever remain 
sacred to the farmers of that State. There 
was so much honest truth in every word 
he uttered. 
After discussing the current issues that 
he hoped to solve and handle correctly, 
his voice became softly modulated and 
modestly, if not timidly, he began refer¬ 
ring to himself. 
H E said that no man could be a “ self- 
made-man.” That oftentimes better 
men sacrificed their lives, or even gave up 
the struggle for that thing the world 
knows as “success” in order to help some 
one else mount higher and higher. Then 
the speaker turned his face toward a man 
who was scraping charred tobacco from 
an old pipe, using a small pen-knife with 
a broken blade: “A man who is considered 
a failure by all of you is responsible for 
my success; to him all honor is due. He 
is your governor; not I. For eight years 
he has imbued me with his intelligence, 
his integrity; his mind and heart and soul 
have one and all been grafted into 
me. . . 
Old man Lewis J. Bachelor dropped a 
lighted match that was burning his fin¬ 
gers. He scratched another match 
across the sole of His left shoe but sud¬ 
denly realized that it was not proper 
to smoke in an assemblage while the 
Governor was speaking. Perhaps the 
soft hand that gently touched his arm was 
what restrained him. He dropped the 
burning match and turned to the tearful 
face of a beautiful woman, who was trying 
her best to say something between jerky 
sobs: 
“Mr. Bach ... el ... er, I , . . 
I’m . . . so-so glad you made me . . . 
marry a farmer.” 
Old man Lewis J. Bachelor scratched 
another match across the sole of his left 
shoe. 
“And the wife of the Governor crying 
before all these folks. . . . Thundera¬ 
tion!” And the match went out. 
The Broad Highway 
(i Conclusion) 
“ I have to congratulate you, Sir Peter,” 
he began, “not only on your distinguished 
marriage, and accession to fortune, but 
upon the fact that the—ah—unpleasant¬ 
ness connecting a certain Peter Smith 
with your unfortunate cousin’s late de¬ 
cease has been entirely removed by 
means of the murderer’s written confes¬ 
sion, placed in my hands some days ago 
by the Lady Sophia.” 
“A written confession — and she 
brought it to you?” 
“Galloped all the way from Ton- 
bridge,” nodded Sir Richard. 
“It seems,” pursued Mr. Grainger, 
“that the man, John Strickland, by 
name, lodged with a certain preacher, to 
whom, in Lady Vibart’s presence, he con¬ 
fessed his crime, and willingly wrote out a 
deposition to that effect.” 
Chancing to look from the window, 
I beheld a groom who led a horse up and 
down before the door; and the groom was 
Adam, and the horse— 
I opened the window, and, leaning out, 
called a name. At the sound of my voice 
the man smiled and touched his hat, and 
the mare ceased her pawing and chafing, 
and turned upon me a pair of great, soft 
eyes, and snuffed the air, and whinnied. 
So I leapt out of the window, and down 
the steps, and thus it was that I met 
“Wings.” 
“She be in the pink o’ condition, sir,” 
said Adam proudly; “Sir Richard bought 
9 99 
er— 
“For a song!” added the baronet, who 
had followed to bid me good-by. “I 
really got her remarkably cheap,” he ex¬ 
plained, thrust : ng his fists deep into his 
pockets, and frowning down my thanks. 
But, when I had swung myself into the 
ifyo - <z\)zr *sa 
a barid 
A '.15. ,|4- 
©raw through the dots in sequence for the answer to the question 
saddle, he came and laid his hand upon 
my knee. 
“You are going to—find her, Peter?” 
“Yes, sir.” 
“And you know where to look? ” 
“I shall go to a certain cottage,” said 
I tentatively. 
“Then you’d better go, boy—the 
mare’s all excitement—good-by, Peter— 
and cutting up my gravel—good-by!” 
So saying, he reached up and gripped my 
hand very hard, though the tears stood in 
his eyes. “I always felt very fatherly 
towards'you, Peter—and—you won’t forget 
the lonely old man—come and see me now 
and then—both of you. Good-by ! dear 
lad.” So he turned, and walked up the 
steps into his great, lonely house. 
Swift we flew, with the wind before, and 
the dust behind, past wayside inns; past 
smiling field and darkling copse; past 
lonely cottage and village green; through 
Sevenoaks and Tonbridge, with never a 
stop; up Pembry hill, and down, galloping 
so lightly, so easily, over that hard, fa¬ 
miliar road, which I had lately trammed 
with so much toil and pain; and so, as 
evening fell, to Sissinghurst. 
A DREAMY, sleepy place is Sissinghurst 
at all times, for its few cottages, like 
its inn, are very old. But, when the sun is 
low, and the shadows creep out, when the 
old inn blinks drowsy eyes at the cot¬ 
tages, and they blink back drowsily at the 
inn, like the old friends they are; then 
who can resist the somnolent charm of the 
place. 
But as I rode, watching the evening 
deepen about me, soft and clear rose the 
merry chime of hammer and anvil, and, 
turning aside to the smithy, I paused 
there, and, stooping my head, looked in at 
the door. 
“George!” said I. He started erect, 
and, dropping hammer and tongs, came 
out, running, then stopped suddenly, as 
one abashed. 
“Wh—Peter—” he stammered, and 
broke off. 
“Have you no greeting for me, 
George?” 
“Ay, ay—I heerd you was free, Peter, 
and I was glad, an’ I waited—ay, I’ve 
been Waitin’ for ’ee to come back. But 
now—you be so fine an’ grand—an’ I be 
all black wi’ soot from the fire—oh, man! 
he bean’t my Peter no more— 
“Oh, Black George!” said I, “dear 
George!” And leaping from the saddle 
I would have caught his hand in mine, but 
he drew back. 
“I’d—like to—wash my ’ands first, 
Peter.” 
“George,” said I, “don’t be a fool!” 
Now, as we stood thus, fronting each 
other in the doorway, I heard a light 
step upon the road behind me, and, turn¬ 
ing, beheld Prudence. 
“Oh, Prue, George is afraid of my 
clothes, and won’t shake hands with me!” 
For a moment she hesitated, looking from 
one to the other of us—then, all at once, 
laughing and blushing, she leaned forward 
mf* 
“Why, George!” said she, “how fulish 
you be. Mr. Peter were as much a gen¬ 
tleman in his leather apron as ever he is in 
his fine coat.” So proud George gave me 
his hand, rejoicing over me because of my 
good fortune and mourning because my 
smithing days- were over. 
“Ye see, Peter, when men ’as worked 
together—and sorrowed together—an' 
fou’t together—like you an’ me—it bean’t 
so easy to say ‘good-by’—so, if you must 
leave us—why—don’t let’s say it.” 
“No, George, there shall be no ‘good- 
bys” for either one of us, and I shall come 
back—soon. Until then, take my mare— 
have her made comfortable for me, and 
now—good-night. 
And so, clasping their loving hands, I 
turned away, somewhat hurriedly, and 
left them. 
Reaching the Hollow, I paused to 
glance about me, as I ever did, before 
(Continued on page 588) 
