"Don't be a greater goose than you can help," said Polly. "You know what I mean. Men are so short-sighted! Laura says, 'the Headman ought to have a small dog and a long stick'; but no matter, I'll keep an eye on the children, and you needn't worry about country life for them. They'll take to it kindly."

"Well, they ought to, if they have any appreciation of the fitness of things. Did you ever see weather made to order before? I feel as if I had been measured for it."

"It suits my garden down to the ground," said Polly, who hates slang.

"It was planned for the farmer, madam. If it happens to fit the rose-garden mistress, it is a detail for you to note and be thankful for, but the great things are outside the rose gardens. Look at that corn-field! A crow could hide in it anywhere."

"What have crows hiding got to do with corn, I'd like to know?"

"When I was a boy the farmers used to say, 'If it will cover a crow's back on the Fourth of July, it will make good corn,' and I am farmering with old saws when I can't find new ones."

"It's all of three weeks yet to the Fourth of July, and your corn will cover a turkey by that time."

"I hope so, but we shan't be here to see it, more's the pity, as Sir Tom would say."

"Do you know, Kate says she won't go over. She doesn't think it would pay for so short a trip. Why do you insist upon eight weeks?"

"Well, now, I like that! When did I ever insist on anything, Mrs. Williams? Not since I knew you well, did I? But be honest, Polly. Who has done the cutting down of this trip? You and the youngsters may stay as long as you please, but I will be back here September 1st unless the Normania breaks a shaft."

"I wish we could go over on a German boat. I hate the Cunarders."

"So do I, but we must land at Queenstown. We must put Sir Tom under the sod at that little castle out from Sligo. Then we can do Holland and Belgium, and have a week or ten days in London."

"That will be enough. I do hope Johnson will take good care of my flowers; it's the very most important time, you know, and if he neglects them—"

"He won't neglect them, Polly; even if he does, they can be easily replaced. But the hay harvest, now, that's different; if they spoil the timothy or cut the alfalfa too late!"

"Bother your alfalfa! What do I care for that? Kate's coming out with the babies, and I'm going to put her in full charge of the gardens. She'll look after them, I'm sure. I'll tell you another bit of news: Jim Jarvis is bound to go with us, Jack says, and he has asked if we'll let him."

"How long have you had that up your sleeve, young woman? I don't like it a little bit! That is why you talked so like an oracle a little while ago! What does Jane say?"

"She doesn't say much, but I think she wouldn't object."

"Of course she can't object. You sick a big brute of a man on to a little girl, and she don't dare object; but I'll feed him to the fishes if he worries her."

"To be sure you will, Mr. Ogre. Anybody would be sure of that to hear you talk."

"Don't chaff me, Polly. This is a serious business. If you sell my girl, I'm going to buy a new one. I'll ask Jessie Gordon to go with us and, if Jack is half the man I take him to be, he'll replenish our stock of girls before we get back."

"Who is match-making now?"

"I don't care what you call it. I shall take out letters of marque and reprisal. I won't raise girls to be carried off by the first privateer that makes sail for them, without making some one else suffer. If Jarvis goes, Jessie goes, that's flat."

"I think it will be an excellent plan, Mr. Bad Temper, and I've no doubt that we can manage it."

"Don't say 'we' when you talk of managing it. I tell you I'm entirely on the defensive until some one robs me, then I'll take what is my neighbor's if I can get it. If it were not for my promise to Sir Tom, I wouldn't leave the farm for a minute! And I would establish a quarantine against all giants for at least five years."

"You know you like Jarvis. He is one of the best."

"That's all right, Polly. He's as fine as silk, but he isn't fine enough for our Jane yet."



CHAPTER LX

"I TOLD YOU SO"

It may be the limitless horizon, it may be the comradery of confinement, it may be the old superstition of a plank between one and eternity, or it may be some occult influence of ship and ocean; but certain it is that there is no such place in all the world as a deck of a transatlantic liner for softening young hearts, until they lose all semblance of shape, and for melting them into each other so that out of twain there comes but one. I think Polly was pleased to watch this melting process, as it began to show itself in our young people, from the safe retreat of her steamer chair and behind the covers of her book. I couldn't find that she read two chapters from any book during the whole voyage, or that she was miserable or discontented. She just watched with a comfortable "I told you so" expression of countenance; and she never mentioned home lot or garden or roses, from dock to dock.

It is as natural for a woman to make matches as for a robin to build nests, and I suppose I had as much right to find fault with the one as with the other. I did not find fault with her, but neither could I understand her; so I fretted and fumed and smoked, and walked the deck and bet on everything in sight and out of sight, until the soothing influence of the sea took hold of me, and then I drifted like the rest of them.

No, I will not say "like the rest of them," for I could not forgive this waste of space given over to water. In other crossings I had not noted the conspicuous waste with any feeling of loss or regret; but other crossings had been made before I knew the value of land. I could not get away from the thought that it would add much to the wealth of the world if the mountains were removed and cast into the sea. Not only that, but it would curb to some extent the ragings of this same turbulent sea, which was rolling and tossing us about for no really good reason that I could discover. The Atlantic had lost much of its romance and mystery for me, and I wondered if I had ever felt the enthusiasm which I heard expressed on all sides.

"There she spouts!" came from a dozen voices, and the whole passenger list crowded the port rail, just to see a cow whale throwing up streams of water, not immensely larger than the streams of milk which my cow Holsteins throw down. The crowd seemed to take great pleasure in this sight, but to me it was profitless.

I have known the day when I could watch the graceful leaps and dives of a school of porpoises, as it kept with easy fin, alongside of our ocean greyhound, with pleasure unalloyed by any feeling of non-utility. But now these "hogs of the sea" reminded me of my Chester Whites, and the comparison was so much in favor of the hogs of the land, that I turned from these spectacular, useless things, to meditate upon the price of pork. Even Mother Carey's chickens gave me no pleasure, for they reminded me of a far better brood at home, and I cheerfully thanked the noble Wyandottes who were working every third day so that I could have a trip to Europe. To be sure, I had European trips before I had Wyandottes; to have them both the same year was the marvel.

Before we reached Queenstown, Jarvis had gained some ground by twice picking me out of the scuppers; but as I resented his steadiness of foot and strength of hand, it was not worth mentioning. I could see, however, that these feats were great in Jane's eyes. The double rescue of a beloved parent, from, not exactly a watery grave, but a damp scupper, would never be forgotten. The giant let her adore his manly strength and beauty, and I could only secretly hope that some wave—tidal if necessary—would take him off his feet and send him into the scuppers. But he had played football too long to be upset by a watery wave, and I was balked of my revenge.

Jack and Jessie were rather a pleasure to me than otherwise. They settled right down to the heart-softening business in such matter-of-fact fashion that their hearts must have lost contour before the voyage was half over. Polly dismissed them from her mind with a sigh of satisfaction, and I then hoped that she would find some time to devote to me, but I was disappointed. She assured me that those two were safely locked in the fold, but that she could not "set her mind at rest" until the other two were safe. After that she promised to take me in hand; whether for reward or for punishment left me guessing.

The six and a half days finally came to an end, and we debarked for Queenstown. The journey across Ireland was made as quickly as slow trains and a circuitous route would permit, and we reached Sligo on the second day. Sir Thomas's agent met us, and we drove at once to the "little castle out from Sligo." It proved to be a very old little castle, four miles out, overlooking the bay. It was low and flat, with thick walls of heavy stone pierced by a few small windows, and a broad door made of black Irish oak heavily studded with iron. From one corner rose a square tower, thirty feet or more in height, covered with wild vines that twined in and out through the narrow, unglazed windows.

Within was a broad, low hall, from which opened four rooms of nearly equal size. There was little evidence that the castle had been inhabited during recent years, though there was an ancient woman care-taker who opened the great door for us, and then took up the Irish peasant's wail for the last of the O'Haras. She never ceased her crooning except when she spoke to us, which was seldom; but she placed us at table in the state dining room, and served us with stewed kid, potatoes, and goat's milk. The walls of the dining room were covered with ancient pictures of the O'Haras, but none so recent as a hundred years. We could well believe Sir Tom's words, "the sod has known us for a thousand years," when we looked upon the score of pictures, each of which stood for at least one generation.

The agent told us that our friend had never lived at the castle, but that he had visited the place as a child, and again just before leaving for America. A wall-enclosed lot about two hundred feet square was "the kindest sod in all the world to an O'Hara," and here we placed our dear friend at rest with the "lucky ones" of his race. No one of the race ever deserved more "luck" than did our Sir Tom. The young clergyman who read the service assured us that he had found it; and our minds gave the same evidence, and our hearts said Amen, as we turned from his peaceful resting-place by the green waters of Sligo Bay.

Two days later we were comfortably lodged at The Hague, from which we intended to "do" the little kingdom of Holland by rail, by canal, or on foot, as we should elect.



CHAPTER LXI

THE BELGIAN FARMER

Leaving Holland with regret, we crossed the Schelde into Belgium, the cockpit of Europe. It is here that one sees what intensive farming is like. No fences to occupy space, no animals roaming at large, nothing but small strips of land tilled to the utmost, chiefly by hand. Little machinery is used, and much of the work is done after primitive fashions; but the land is productive, and it is worked to the top of its bent.

The peasant-farmer soils his cows, his sheep, his swine, in a way that is economical of space and food, if not of labor, and manages to make a living and to pay rent for his twenty-acre strip of land. His methods do not appeal to the American farmer, who wastes more grain and forage each year than would keep the Netherlander, his family, and his stock; but there is a lesson to be learned from this subdivision and careful cultivation of land. Belgian methods prove that Mother Earth can care for a great many children if she be properly husbanded, and that the sooner we recognize her capacity the better for us.

Abandoned farms are not known in Belgium and France, though the soil has been cultivated for a thousand years, and was originally no better than our New England farms, and not nearly so good as hundreds of those which are practically given over to "old fields" in Virginia.

It is neglect that impoverishes land, not use. Intelligent use makes land better year by year. The only way to wear out land is to starve and to rob it at the same time. Food for man and beast may be taken from the soil for thousands of years without depleting it. All it asks in return is the refuse, carefully saved, properly applied, and thoroughly worked in to make it available. If, in addition to this, a cover crop of some leguminous plant be occasionally turned under, the soil may actually increase in fertility, though it be heavily cropped each year.

It would pay the young American farmer to study Belgian methods, crude though they are, for the insight he could gain into the possibilities of continuous production. The greatest number of people to the square mile in the inhabited globe live in this little, ill-conditioned kingdom, and most of them get their living from the soil. It has been the battle-field of Europe: a thousand armies have harrowed it; human blood has drenched it from Liege to Ostend; it has been depopulated again and again. But it springs into new life after each catastrophe, simply because the soil is prolific of farmers, and they cannot be kept down. Like the poppies on the field of Waterloo, which renew the blood-red strife each year, the Belgian peasant-farmer springs new-born from the soil, which is the only mother he knows.

After two weeks in Holland, two in Belgium, and two in London, we were ready to turn our faces toward home.

We took the train to Southampton, and a small side-wheel steamer carried us outside Southampton waters, where we tossed about for thirty minutes before the Normania came to anchor. The wind was blowing half a gale from the north, and we were glad to get under the lee of the great vessel to board her.

The transfer was quickly made, and we were off for New York. The wind gained strength as the day grew old, but while we were in the Solent the bluff coast of Devon and Cornwall broke its force sufficiently to permit us to be comfortable on the port side of the ship.

As night came on, great clouds rolled up from the northwest and the wind increased. Darkness, as of Egypt, fell upon us before we passed the Lizard, and the only things that showed above the raging waters were the beacon lights, and these looked dim and far away. Occasionally a flash of lightning threw the waters into relief, and then made the darkness more impenetrable. As we steamed beyond the Lizard and the protecting Cornish coast, the full force of the gale, from out the Irish Sea, struck us. We were going nearly with it, and the good ship pitched and reared like an angry horse, but did not roll much. Pitching is harder to bear than rolling, and the decks were quickly vacated.

I turned into my stateroom soon after ten o'clock, and then happened a thing which will hold a place in my memory so long as I have one. I did not feel sleepy, but I was nervous, restless, and half sick. I lay on my lounge for perhaps half an hour, and then felt impelled to go on deck. I wrapped myself in a great waterproof ulster, pulled my storm cap over my ears, and climbed the companionway. Two or three electric bulbs in sheltered places on deck only served to make the darkness more intense. I crawled forward of the ladies' cabin, and, supporting myself against the donkey-engine, peered at the light above the crow's-nest and tried to think that I could see the man on watch in the nest. I did see him for an instant, when the next flash of lightning came, and also two officers on the bridge; and I knew that Captain Bahrens was in the chart house. When the next flash came, I saw the other lookout man making his short turns on the narrow space of bow deck, and was tempted to join him; why, I do not know. I crept past the donkey-engine, holding fast to it as I went, until I reached the iron gate that closes the narrow passage to the bow deck. With two silver dollars in my teeth I staggered across this rail-guarded plank, and when the next flash came I was sitting at the feet of the lookout man with the two silver dollars in my outstretched hand. He took the money, and let me crawl forward between the anchors and the high bulwark of the bows.

The sensations which this position gave me were strange beyond description. Darkness was thick around me; at one moment I was carried upward until I felt that I should be lost in the black sky, and the next moment the downward motion was so terrible that the blacker water at the bottom of the sea seemed near. I cannot say that I enjoyed it, but I could not give it up.

When the great bow rose, I stood up, and, looking over the bulwark, tried to see either sky or water, but tried in vain, save when the lightning revealed them both. When the bow fell, I crouched under the bulwark and let the sea comb over me. How long I remained at this weird post, I do not know; but I was driven from it in such terror as I hope never to feel again.

An unusually large wave carried me nearer the sky than I liked to be, and just as the sharp bow of the great iron ship was balancing on its crest for the desperate plunge, a glare of lightning made sky and sea like a sheet of flame and curdled the blood in my veins. In the trough of the sea, under the very foot of the immense steamship, lay a delicate pleasure-boat, with its mast broken flush with its deck, and its helpless body the sport of the cruel waves.

The light did not last longer than it would take me to count five, but in that time I saw four figures that will always haunt me. Two sailors in yachting costume were struggling hopelessly with the tiller, and the wild terror of their faces as they saw the huge destruction that hung over them is simply unforgettable.

The other two were different. A strong, blond man, young, handsome, and brave I know, stood bareheaded in front of the cockpit. With a sudden, vehement motion he drew the head of a girl to his breast and held it there as if to shut out the horrible world. There was no fear in his face,—just pain and distress that he was unable to do more. I am thankful that I did not see the face of the girl. Her brown hair has floated in my dreams until I have cried out for help; what would her face have done?

In the twinkling of an eye it was over. I heard a sound as when one breaks an egg on the edge of a cup,—no more. I screamed with horror, ran across the guarded plank, climbed the gate, and fell headlong and screaming over the donkey-engine. Picking up my battered self, I shouted:

"Bahrens! Bahrens! for God's sake, help! Man overboard! Stop the ship!"

I reached the ladder to the bridge just as the captain came out of the chart house.

"For God's sake, stop the ship! You've run down a boat with four people! Stop her, can't you!"

"It can't be done, man. If we've run down a boat, it's all over with it and all in it. I can't risk a thousand lives without hope of saving one. This is a gale, Doctor, and we have our hands full."

I turned from him in horror and despair. I stumbled to my stateroom, dropped my wet clothing in the middle of the floor, and knew no more until the trumpet called for breakfast. The rush of green waters was pounding at my porthole; the experience of the night came back to me with horror; the reek of my wet clothes sickened my heart, and I rang for the steward.

"Take these things away, Gustav, and don't bring them back until they are dry and pressed."

"What things does the Herr Doctor speak for?"

"The wet things there on the floor."

"Excuse me, but I have seen no things wet."

"You Dutch chump!" said I, half rising, "what do you mean by saying—Well, I'll be damned!" There were my clothes, dry and folded, on the couch, and my ulster and cap on their hook, without evidence of moisture or use.

"Gustav, remind me to give you three rix-dollars at breakfast."

"Danke, Herr Doctor."

Of such stuff are dreams made. But I will know those terror-stricken sailors if I do not see them for a hundred years; and I am glad the dark-haired girl did not realize the horror, but simply knew that the man loved her; and I often think of the man who did the nice thing when no one was looking, and whose face was not terrorized by the crack of doom.



CHAPTER LXII

HOME-COMING

Even Polly was satisfied with our young people before we entered New York Bay. If anything in their "left pulmonaries" had remained unsoftened during the voyage out and the comradery of the Netherlands, it was melted into non-resistance by the homeward trip. I could not long hold out against the evidence of happiness that surrounded me, and I gave a half-grudging consent that Jarvis and Jane might play together for the next three or four years, if they would not ask to play "for keeps" until those years had passed. They readily gave the promise, but every one knows how such promises are kept. The children wore me out in time, as all children do in all kinds of ways, and got their own ways in less than half the contract period. I cannot put my finger on any punishment that has befallen them for this lack of filial consideration, and I am fifteen-sixteenths reconciled.

I was downright glad that Jack "made good" with Jessie Gordon. She was the sort of girl to get out the best that was in him, and I was glad to have her begin early. Try as I might, I could not feel unhappy that beautiful September morning as we steamed up the finest waterway to the finest city in the world. Deny it who will, I claim that our Empire City and its environments make the most impressive human show. There is more life, vigor, utility, gorgeousness about it than can be found anywhere else; and it has the snap and elasticity of youth, which are so attractive. No man who claims the privilege of American citizenship can sail up New York Bay without feeling pride in his country and satisfaction in his birthright. One doesn't disparage other cities and other countries when he claims that his own is the best.

We were not specially badly treated at the custom-house,—no worse, indeed, than smugglers, thieves, or pirates would have been; and we escaped, after some hours of confinement, without loss of life or baggage, but with considerable loss of dignity. How can a self-respecting, middle-aged man (to be polite to myself) stand for hours in a crowded shed, or lean against a dirty post, or sit on the sharp edge of his open trunk, waiting for a Superior Being with a gilt band around his hat, without losing some modicum of dignity? And how, when this Superior Being calls his number and kicks his trunk, is he to know that he is a free-born American citizen and a lineal descendant of Roger Williams? The evidence is entirely from within. How is he to support a countenance and mien of dignity while the secrets of his chest are laid bare and the contents of his trunk dumped on the dirty floor? And how must his eyes droop and his face take on a hang-dog look when his second-best coat is searched for diamonds, and his favorite (though worn) pajamas punched for pearls.

There are concessions to be made for one's great and glorious country, and the custom-house is one of them. Perhaps we will do better sometime, and perhaps, though this is unlikely, the customs inspectors of the future will disguise themselves as gentlemen. We finally passed the inquisition, and, with stuffed trunks and ruffled spirits, took cabs for the station, and were presently within the protecting walls at Four Oaks, there to forget lost dignities in the cultivation of land and new ones.



CHAPTER LXIII

AN HUNDRED FOLD

Kate declared that she had had the time of her life during her nine weeks' stay at Four Oaks. "People here every day, and the house full over Sunday. We've kept the place humming," said she, "and you may be thankful if you find anything here but a mortgage. When Tom and I get rich, we are going to be farm people."

"Don't wait for that, daughter. Start your country home early and let it grow up with the children. It doesn't take much money to buy the land and to get fruit trees started. If Tom will give it his care for three hours a week, he will make it at least pay interest and taxes, and it will grow in value every year until you are ready to live on it. Think how our orchards would look now if we had started them ten years ago! They would be fit to support an average family."

"There, Dad, don't mount your hobby as soon as ever you get home. But we have had a good time out here. Do you really think farming is all beer and skittles?"

"It has been smooth sailing for me thus far, and I believe it is simply a business with the usual ups and downs; but I mean to make the ups the feature in this case."

"Are you really glad to get back to it? Didn't you want to stay longer?"

"I had a fine trip, and all that, but I give you this for true; I don't think it would make me feel badly if I were condemned to stay within forty miles of this place for the rest of my life."

"I can't go so far as that with you, Dad, but perhaps I may when I'm older."

"Yes, age makes a difference. At forty a man is a fool or a farmer, or both; at fifty the pull of the land is mighty; at sixty it has full possession of him; at seventy it draws him down with other forces than that which Newton discovered, and at eighty it opens for him and kindly tucks the sod around him. Mother Earth is no stepmother, but warm and generous to all, and I think a fellow is lucky who comes to her for long years of bounty before he is compelled to seek her final hospitality."

"But, Dad, we can't all be farmers."

"Of course not, and there's the pity of it; but almost every man can have a plot of ground on which each year he can grow some new thing, if only a radish or a leaf of lettuce, to add to the real wealth of the world. I tell you, young lady, that all wealth springs out of the ground. You think that riches are made in Wall Street, but they are not; they are only handled and manipulated. Stop the work of the farmer from April to October of any year, and Wall Street would be a howling wilderness. The Street makes it easier to exchange a dozen eggs for three spools of silk, or a pound of butter for a hat pin, but that's all; it never created half the intrinsic value of twelve eggs or sixteen ounces of butter. It's only the farmer who is a wealth producer, and it's high time that he should be recognized as such. He's the husbandman of all life; without him the world would be depopulated in three years. You don't half appreciate the profession which your Dad has taken up in his old age."

"That sounds all right, but I don't think the farmer would recognize himself from that description. He doesn't live up to his possibilities, does he?"

"Mighty few people do. A farmer may be what he chooses to be. He's under no greater limitations than a business or a professional man. If he be content to use his muscle blindly, he will probably fall under his own harrow. So, too, would the merchant or the lawyer who failed to use his intelligence in his business. The farmer who cultivates his mind as well as his land, uses his pencil as often as his plough, and mixes brains with brawn, will not fall under his own harrow or any other man's. He will never be the drudge of soil or of season, for to a large extent he can control the soil and discount the season. No other following gives such opportunity for independence and self-balance."

"Almost thou persuadest me to become a farmer," said Kate, as we left the porch, where I had been admiring my land while I lectured on the advantages of husbandry.

Polly came out of the rose garden, where she had been examining her flowers and setting her watch, and said:—

"Kate, you and the grand-girls must stay this month out, anyway. It seems an age since we saw you last."

"All right, if Dad will agree not to fire farm fancies and figures at me every time he catches me in an easy-chair."

"I'll promise, but you don't know what you're missing."

Four Oaks looked great, and I was tempted to tramp over every acre of it, saying to each, "You are mine"; but first I had a little talk with Thompson.

"Everything has been greased for us this summer," said Thompson. "We got a bumper crop of hay, and the oats and corn are fine! I allow you've got fifty-five bushels of oats to the acre in those shocks, and the corn looks like it stood for more than seventy. We sold nine more calves the end of June, for $104. Mr. Tom must have a lot of money for you, for in August we sold the finest bunch of shoates you ever saw,—312 of them. They were not extra heavy, but they were fine as silk. Mr. Tom said they netted $4.15 per hundred, and they averaged a little over 260 pounds. I went down with them, and the buyers tumbled over each other to get them. I was mighty proud of the bunch, and brought back a check for $3407."

"Good for you, Thompson! That's the best sale yet."

"Some of the heifers will be coming in the last of this month or the first of next. Don't you want to get rid of those five scrub cows?"

"Better wait six weeks, and then you may sell them. Do you know where you can place them?"

"Jackson was looking at them a few days ago, and said he would give $35 apiece for them; but they are worth more."

"Not for us, Thompson, and not for him, either, if he saw things just right. They're good for scrubs; but they don't pay well enough for us, and if he wants them he can have them at that price about the middle of October."

The credit account for the second quarter of 1898 stood:—

23 calves . . . . . $270.00 Eggs . . . . . . 637.00 Butter . . . . . . 1314.00 Total. . . . . . $2221.00



CHAPTER LXIV

COMFORT ME WITH APPLES

September added a new item to our list of articles sold; small, indeed, but the beginning of the fourth and last product of our factory farm,—fruit from our newly planted orchards. The three hundred plum trees in the chicken runs gave a moderate supply for the colony, and the dwarf-pear trees yielded a small crop; but these were hardly included in our scheme. I expected to be able, by and by, to sell $200 or $300 worth of plums; but the chief income from fruit would come from the fifty acres of young apple orchards.

I hope to live to see the time when these young orchards will bring me at least $5 a year for each tree; and if I round out my expectancy (as the life-insurance people figure it), I may see them do much better. In the interim the day of small things must not be despised. In our climate the Yellow Transparent and the Duchess do not ripen until early September, and I was therefore at home in time to gather and market the little crop from my six hundred trees. The apples were carefully picked, for they do not bear handling well, and the perfect ones were placed in half-bushel boxes and sent to my city grocer. Not one defective apple was packed, for I was determined that the Four Oaks stencil should be as favorably known for fruit as for other products.

The grocer allowed me fifty cents a box. "The market is glutted with apples, but not your kind," said he. "Can you send more?" I could not send more, for my young trees had done their best in producing ninety-six boxes of perfect fruit. Boxes and transportation came to ten cents for each box, and I received $38 for my first shipment of fruit.

I cannot remember any small sum of money that ever pleased me more,—except the $28 which I earned by seven months of labor in my fourteenth year; for it was "first fruits" of the last of our interlacing industries.

Thirty-eight dollars divided among my trees would give one cent to each; but four years later these orchards gave net returns of ninety cents for each tree, and in four years from now they will bring more than twice that amount. At twelve years of age they will bring an annual income of $3 each, and this income will steadily increase for ten or fifteen years. At the time of writing, February, 1903, they are good for $1 a year, which is five per cent of $20.

Would I take $20 apiece for these trees? Not much, though that would mean $70,000. I do not know where I could place $70,000 so that it would pay five per cent this year, six per cent next year, and twenty per cent eight or ten years from now. Of course, $70,000 would be an exorbitant price to pay for an orchard like mine; but it must be remembered that I am old and cannot wait for trees to grow.

If a man will buy land at $50 or $60 an acre, plant it to apple trees (not less than sixty-five to the acre), and bring these trees to an age when they will produce fruit to the value of $1.50 each, they will not have cost more than $1.50 per tree for the land, the trees, and the labor.

I am too old to begin over again, and I wish to see a handsome income from my experiment before my eyes are dim; but why on earth young men do not take to this kind of investment is more than I can see. It is as safe as government bonds, and infinitely safer than most mercantile ventures. It is a dignified employment, free from the ordinary risks of business; and it is not likely to be overdone. All one needs is energy, a little money, and a good bit of well-directed intelligence. This combination is common enough to double our rural population, relieve the congestion in trades and underpaid employments, and add immensely to the wealth of the country. If we can only get the people headed for the land, it will do much toward solving the vexing labor problems, and will draw the teeth of the communists and the anarchists; for no one is so willing to divide as he who cannot lose by division. To the man who has a plot of ground which he calls his own, division doesn't appeal with any but negative force. Neither should it, until all available lands are occupied. Then he must move up and make room for another man by his side.

The sales for the quarter ending September 30 were as follows:—

96 half-bushel boxes of apples $38.00 9 calves 104.00 Eggs 543.00 Butter 1293.00 Hogs 3407.00 ———— Total $5385.00

This was the best total for any three months up to date, and it made me feel that I was getting pretty nearly out of the woods, so far as increasing my investment went.

Including my new hog-house and ten thousand bushels of purchased grain, the investment, thought I, must represent quite a little more than $100,000, and I hoped not to go much beyond that sum, for Polly looked serious when I talked of six figures, though she was reconciled to any amount which could be stated in five.

My buildings were all finished, and were good for many years; and if they burned, the insurance would practically replace them. My granary was full enough of oats and corn to provide for deficits of years to come; and my flocks and herds were now at their maximum, since Sam had turned more than eight hundred pullets into the laying pens. I began to feel that the factory would soon begin to run full time and to make material returns for its equipment. It would, of course, be several years before the fruit would make much showing, but I am a patient man, and could wait.



CHAPTER LXV

THE END OF THE THIRD YEAR

"Polly," said I, on the evening of December 31, "let's settle the accounts for the year, and see how much we must credit to 'experience' to make the figures balance."

"Aren't you going to credit anything to health, and good times generally? If not, you don't play fair."

"We'll keep those things in reserve, to spring on the enemy at a critical moment; perhaps they won't be needed."

"I fancy you will have to bring all your reserves into action this time, Mr. Headman, for you promised to make a good showing at the end of the third year."

"Well, so I will; at least, according to my own estimate; but others may not see it as I do."

"Don't let others see it at all, then. The experiment is yours, isn't it?"

"Yes, for us; but it's more than a personal matter. I want to prove that a factory farm is sound in theory and safe in practice, and that it will fit the needs of a whole lot of farmers."

"I hardly think that 'a whole lot of farmers,' or of any other kind of people, will put $100,000 into a farm on any terms. Don't you think you've been a little extravagant?"

"Only on the home forty, Polly. I will expound this matter to you some time until you fall asleep, but not to-day. We have other business on hand. I want to give you this warning to begin with: you are not to jump to a conclusion or on to my figures until you have fairly considered two items which enter into this year's expense account. I've built an extra hog-house and have bought ten thousand bushels of grain, at a total expense of about $6000. Neither of these items was really needed this year; but as they are our insurance against disease and famine, I secured them early and at low prices. They won't appear in the expense account again,—at least, not for many years,—and they give me a sense of security that is mighty comforting."

"But what if Anderson sets fire to your piggery, or lightning strikes your granary,—how about the expense account then?"

"What do you suppose fire insurance policies are for? To paper the wall? No, madam, they are to pay for new buildings if the old ones burn up. I charge the farm over $200 a year for this security, and it's a binding contract."

"Well, I'll try and forget the $6000 if you'll get to the figures at once."

"All right. First, let me go over the statement for the last quarter of the year. The sales were: apples, from 150 old trees at $3 per tree, $450; 10 calves, $115; 360 hens and 500 cockerels, $430; 5 cows (the common ones, to Jackson) at $35 each, $175; eggs, $827; butter, $1311; and 281 hogs, rushed to market in December when only about eight months old and sold for $3.70 per hundred to help swell this account, $2649; making a total for the fourth quarter of $5957.

"The items of expense for the year were:—

"Interest on investment $5,132.00 New hog-house 4,220.00 10,000 bu. of grain 2,450.00 Food for colony 5,322.00 Food for stock 1,640.00 Seeds and fertilizers 2,155.00 Insurance and taxes 730.00 Shoeing and repairs 349.00 Replenishments 450.00

"Total $22,760.00

"The credit account reads: first quarter, $2030; second quarter, $2221; third quarter, $5387; fourth quarter, $5957; total, $15,595.

"If we take out the $6670 for the extra piggery and the grain, the expense account and the income will almost balance, even leaving out the $4000 which we agreed to pay for food and shelter. I think that's a fair showing for the three years, don't you?"

"Possibly it is; but what a lot of money you pay for wages. It's the largest item."

"Yes, and it always will be. I don't claim that a factory farm can be run like a grazing or a grain farm. One of its objects is to furnish well-paid employment to a lot of people. We've had nine men and two lads all the year, and three extra men for seven months, three women on the farm and five in the house,—twenty-two people to whom we've paid wages this year. Doesn't that count for anything? How many did we keep in the city?"

"Four,—three women and a man."

"Then we give employment to eighteen more people at equally good wages and in quite as wholesome surroundings. Do you realize, Polly, that the maids in the house get $1300 out of the $5300,—one quarter of the whole? Possibly there is a suspicion of extravagance on the home forty."

"Not a bit of it! You know that you proved to me that it cost us $5200 a year for board and shelter in the city, and you only credit the farm with $4000. That other $1200 would more than pay the extra wages. I really don't think it costs as much to live here as it did on B——Street, and any one can see the difference."

"You are right. If we call our plant an even $100,000, which at five per cent would mean $5000 a year,—where can you get house, lawns, woods, gardens, horses, dogs, servants, liberty, birds, and sun-dials on a wide and liberal scale for $5000 a year, except on a farm like this? You can't buy furs, diamonds, and yachts with such money anyhow or anywhere, so personal expenditures must be left out of all our calculations. No, the wage account will always be the large one, and I am glad it is so, for it is one finger of the helping hand."

"You haven't finished with the figures yet. You don't know what to add to our permanent investment."

"That's quickly done. Nineteen thousand five hundred and ninety-five dollars from twenty-two thousand seven hundred and sixty dollars leaves three thousand one hundred and sixty-five dollars to charge to our investment. I resent the word 'permanent,' which you underscored just now, for each year we're going to have a surplus to subtract from this interest-bearing debt."

"Precious little surplus you'll have for the next few years, with Jack and Jane getting married, and—"

"But, Polly, you can't charge weddings to the farm, any more than we can yachts and diamonds."

"I don't see why. A wedding is a very important part of one's life, and I think the farm ought to be made to pay for it."

"I quite agree with you; but we must add $3165 to the old farm debt, and take up our increased burden with such courage as we may. In round figures it is $106,000. Does that frighten you, Polly?"

"A little, perhaps; but I guess we can manage it. You would have been frightened three years ago if some one had told you that you would put $106,000 into a farm of less than five hundred acres."

"You're right. Spending money on a farm is like other forms of vice,—hated, then tolerated, then embraced. But seriously, a man would get a bargain if he secured this property to-day for what it has cost us. I wouldn't take a bonus of $50,000 and give it up."

"You'll hardly find a purchaser at that price, and I'm glad you can't, for I want to live here and nowhere else."



CHAPTER LXVI

LOOKING BACKWARD

With the close of the third year ends the detailed history of the factory farm. All I wish to do further is to give a brief synopsis of the debit and credit accounts for each of the succeeding four years.

First I will say a word about the people who helped me to start the factory. Thompson and his wife are still with me, and they are well on toward the wage limit. Johnson has the gardens and Lars the stables, and Otto is chief swineherd. French and his wife act as though they were fixtures on the place, as indeed I hope they are. They have saved a lot of money, and they are the sort who are inclined to let well enough alone. Judson is still at Four Oaks, doing as good service as ever; but I fancy that he is minded to strike out for himself before long. He has been fortunate in money matters since he gave up the horse and buggy; he informed me six months ago that he was worth more than $5000.

"I shouldn't have had five thousand cents if I'd stuck to that darned old buggy," said he, "and I guess I'll have to thank you for throwing me down that day."

Zeb has married Lena, and a little cottage is to be built for them this winter, just east of the farm-house; and Lena's place is to be filled by her cousin, who has come from the old country.

Anderson and Sam both left in 1898,—poor, faithful Anderson because his heart gave out, and Sam because his beacon called him.

Lars's boys, now sixteen and eighteen, have full charge of the poultry plant, and are quite up to Sam in his best days. Of course I have had all kinds of troubles with all sorts of men; but we have such a strong force of "reliables" that the atmosphere is not suited to the idler or the hobo, and we are, therefore, never seriously annoyed. Of one thing I am certain: no man stays long at our farm-house without apprehending the uses of napkin and bath-tub, and these are strong missionary forces.

Through careful tilth and the systematic return of all waste to the land, the acres at Four Oaks have grown more fertile each year. The soil was good seven years ago, and we have added fifty per cent to its crop capacity. The amount of waste to return to the land on a farm like this is enormous, and if it be handled with care, there will be no occasion to spend much money for commercial fertilizers. I now buy fertilizers only for the mid-summer dressing on my timothy and alfalfa fields. The apple trees are very heavily mulched, even beyond the spread of their branches, with waste fresh from the vats, and once a year a light dressing of muriate of potash is applied. The trees have grown as fast as could be desired, and all of them are now in bearing. The apples from these young trees sold for enough last year to net ninety cents for each tree, which is more than the trees have ever cost me.

In 1898 these orchards yielded $38; in 1899, $165; in 1900, $530; in 1901, $1117. Seven years from the date of planting these trees, which were then three years old, I had received in money $4720, or $1200 more than I paid for the fifty acres of land on which they grew. If one would ask for better returns, all he has to do is to wait; for there is a sort of geometrical progression inherent in the income from all well-cared-for orchards, which continues in force for about fifteen years. There is, however, no rule of progress unless the orchards are well cared for, and I would not lead any one to the mistake of planting an orchard and then doing nothing but wait. Cultivate, feed, prune, spray, dig bores, fight mice, rabbits, aphides, and the thousand other enemies to trees and fruit, and do these things all the time and then keep on doing them, and you will win out. Omit all or any of them, and the chances are that you will fail of big returns.

But orcharding is not unique in this. Every form of business demands prompt, timely, and intelligent attention to make it yield its best. The orchards have been my chief care for seven years; the spraying, mulching, and cultivation have been done by the men, but I think I have spent one whole year, during the past seven, among my trees. Do I charge my orchards for this time? No; for I have gotten as much good from the trees as they have from me, and honors are easy. A meditative man in his sixth lustrum can be very happy with pruning-hook and shears among his young trees. If he cannot, I am sincerely sorry for him.

I have not increased my plant during the past four years. My stock consume a little more than I can raise; but there are certain things which a farm will not produce, and there are other things which one had best buy, thus letting others work their own specialties.

If I had more land, would I increase my stock? No, unless I had enough land to warrant another plant. My feeding-grounds are filled to their capacity from a sanitary point of view, and it would be foolish to take risks for moderate returns. If I had as much more land, I would establish another factory; but this would double my business cares without adding one item to my happiness. As it is, the farm gives me enough to keep me keenly interested, and not enough to tire or annoy me. So far as profits go, it is entirely satisfactory. It feeds and shelters my family and twenty others in the colony, and also the stranger within the gates, and it does this year after year without friction, like a well-oiled machine.

Not only this. Each year for the past four, it has given a substantial surplus to be subtracted from the original investment. If I live to be sixty-eight years of age, the farm will be my creditor for a considerable sum. I have bought no corn or oats since January, 1898. The seventeen thousand bushels which I then had in my granary have slowly grown less, though there has never been a day when we could not have measured up seven thousand or eight thousand bushels. I shall probably buy again when the market price pleases me, for I have a horror of running short; but I shall not sell a bushel, though prices jump to the sky.

I have seen the time when my corn and oats would have brought four times as much as I paid for them, but they were not for sale. They are the raw material, to be made up in my factory, and they are worth as much to me at twenty cents a bushel as at eighty cents. What would one think of the manager of a silk-thread factory who sold his raw silk, just because it had advanced in price? Silk thread would advance in proportion, and how does the manager know that he can replace his silk when needed, even at the advanced price?

When corn went to eighty cents a bushel, hogs sold for $8.25 a hundred, and my twenty-cent corn made pork just as fast as eighty-cent corn would have done, and a great deal cheaper.

Once I sold some timothy hay, but it was to "discount the season," just as I bought grain.

On July 18, 1901, a tremendous rain and wind storm beat down about forty acres of oats beyond recovery. The next day my mowing machines, working against the grain, commenced cutting it for hay. Before it was half cut, I sold to a livery-stable keeper in Exeter fifty tons of bright timothy for $600. The storm brought me no loss, for the horses did quite as well on the oat hay as they ever had done on timothy, and $600 more than paid for the loss of the grain.

During the first three years of my experiment hogs were very low,—lower, indeed, than at any other period for forty years. It was not until 1899 that prices began to improve. During that year my sales averaged $4.50 a hundred. In 1900 the average was $5.25, in 1901 it was $6.10, and in 1902 it was just $7. It will be readily appreciated that there is more profit in pork at seven cents a pound than at three and a half cents; but how much more is beyond me, for it cost no more to get my swine to market last year than it did in 1896. I charge each hog $1 for bran and shorts; this is all the ready money I pay out for him. If he weighs three hundred pounds (a few do), he is worth $10.50 at $3.50 a hundred, or $21 at $7 a hundred; and it is a great deal pleasanter to say $1 from $21, leaves $20, than to say $1 from $10.50 leaves $9.50.

Of course, $1 a head is but a small part of what the hog has cost when ready for market, but it is all I charge him with directly, for his other expenses are carried on the farm accounts. The marked increase in income during the past four years is wholly due to the advance in the price of pork and the increased product of the orchards. The expense account has not varied much.

The fruit crop is charged with extra labor, packages, and transportation, before it is entered, and the account shows only net returns. I have had to buy new machinery, but this has been rather evenly distributed, and doesn't show prominently in any year.

In 1900 I lost my forage barn. It was struck by lightning on June 13, and burned to the ground. Fortunately, there was no wind, and the rain came in such torrents as to keep the other buildings safe. I had to scour the country over for hay to last a month, and the expense of this, together with some addition to the insurance money, cost the farm $1000 before the new structure was completed. I give below the income and the outgo for the last four years:—

INCOME EXPENSES TO THE GOOD 1899 $17,780.00 $15,420.00 $2,360.00 1900 19,460.00 16,480.00 2,980.00 1901 21,424.00 15,520.00 5,904.00 1902 23,365.00 15,673.00 7,692.00 —————- Making a total to the good of $18,936.00

These figures cover only the money received and expended. They take no account of the $4000 per annum which we agreed to pay the farm for keeping us, so long as we made it pay interest to us. Four times $4000 are $16,000 which, added to $18,936, makes almost $35,000 to charge off from the $106,000 of original investment.

Polly was wrong when she spoke of it as a permanent investment. Four years more of seven-dollar pork and thrifty apple growth will make this balance of $71,000 look very small. The interest is growing rapidly less, and it will be but a short time before the whole amount will be taken off the expense account. When this is done, the yearly balance will be increased by the addition of $5000, and we may be able to make the farm pay for weddings, as Polly suggested.



CHAPTER LXVII

LOOKING FORWARD

I am not so opinionated as to think that mine is the only method of farming. On the contrary, I know that it is only one of several good methods; but that it is a good one, I insist. For a well-to-do, middle-aged man who was obliged to give up his profession, it offered change, recreation, employment, and profit. My ability to earn money by my profession ceased in 1895, and I must needs live at ease on my income, or adopt some congenial and remunerative employment, if such could be found. The vision of a factory farm had flitted through my brain so often that I was glad of the opportunity to test my theories by putting them into practice. Fortunately I had money, and to spare; for I had but a vague idea of what money would be needed to carry my experiment to the point of self-support. I set aside $60,000 as ample, but I spent nearly twice that amount without blinking. It is quite likely that I could have secured as good and as prompt returns with two-thirds of this expenditure. I plead guilty to thirty-three per cent lack of economy; the extenuating circumstances were, a wish to let the members of my family do much as they pleased and have good things and good people around them, and a somewhat luxurious temperament of my own.

Polly and I were too wise (not to say too old) to adopt farming as a means of grace through privations. We wanted the good there was in it, and nothing else; but as a secondary consideration I wished to prove that it can be made to pay well, even though one-third of the money expended goes for comforts and kickshaws.

It is not necessary to spend so much on a five-hundred-acre farm, and a factory farm need not contain so many acres. Any number of acres from forty to five hundred, and any number of dollars from $5000 to $100,000, will do, so long as one holds fast to the rules: good clean fences for security against trespass by beasts, or weeds; high tilth, and heavy cropping; no waste or fallow land; conscientious return to the land of refuse, and a cover crop turned under every second year; the best stock that money can buy; feed for product, not simply to keep the animals alive; force product in every way not detrimental to the product itself; maintain a strict quarantine around your animals, and then depend upon pure food, water, air, sunlight, and good shelter to keep them healthy; sell as soon as the product is finished, even though the market doesn't please you; sell only perfect product under your own brand; buy when the market pleases you and thus "discount the seasons"; remember that interdependent industries are the essence of factory farming; employ the best men you can find, and keep them interested in your affairs; have a definite object and make everything bend toward that object; plant apple trees galore and make them your chief care, as in time they will prove your chief dependence. These are some of the principles of factory farming, and one doesn't have to be old, or rich, to put them into practice.

I would exchange my age, money, and acres for youth and forty acres, and think that I had the best of the bargain; and I would start the factory by planting ten acres of orchard, buying two sows, two cows, and two setting hens. Youth, strength, and hustle are a great sight better than money, and the wise youth can have a finer farm than mine before he passes the half-century mark, even though he have but a bare forty to begin with.

I do not take it for granted that every man has even a bare forty; but millions of men who have it not, can have it by a little persistent self-denial; and when an able-bodied man has forty acres of ground under his feet, it is up to him whether he will be a comfortable, independent, self-respecting man or not.

A great deal of farm land is distant from markets and otherwise limited in its range of production, but nearly every forty which lies east of the hundredth meridian is competent to furnish a living for a family of workers, if the workers be intelligent as well as industrious. Farm lands are each year being brought closer to markets by steam and electric roads; telephone and telegraphic wires give immediate service; and the daily distribution of mails brings the producer into close touch with the consumer. The day of isolation and seclusion has passed, and the farmer is a personal factor in the market. He is learning the advantages of cooeperation, both in producing and in disposing of his wares; he has paid off his mortgage and has money in the bank; he is a power in politics, and by far the most dependable element in the state. Like the wrestler of old, who gained new strength whenever his foot touched the ground, our country gains fresh vigor from every man who takes to the soil.

In preaching a hejira to the country, I do not forget the interests of the children. Let no one dread country life for the young until they come to the full pith and stature of maturity; for their chances of doing things worth doing in the world are four to one against those of children who are city-bred. Four-fifths of the men and women who do great things are country-bred. This is out of all proportion to the birth-rate as between country and city, and one is at a loss to account for the disproportion, unless it is to be credited to environment. Is it due to pure air and sunshine, making redder blood and more vigorous development, to broader horizons and freedom from abnormal conventions? Or does a close relation to primary things give a newness to mind and body which is granted only to those who apply in person?

Whatever the reason, it certainly pays to be country-bred. The cities draw to themselves the cream of these youngsters, which is only natural; but the cities do not breed them, except as exotics.

If the unborn would heed my advice, I would say, By all means be born in the country,—in Ohio if possible. But, if fortune does not prove as kind to you as I could wish, accept this other advice: Choose the, country for your foster-mother; go to her for consolation and rejuvenation, take her bounty gratefully, rest on her fair bosom, and be content with the fat of the land.



THE RURAL SCIENCE SERIES

Includes books which state the underlying principles of agriculture in plain language. They are suitable for consultation alike by the amateur or professional tiller of the soil, the scientist or the student, and are freely illustrated and finely made.

The following volumes are now ready:

THE SOIL. By F.H. KING, of the University of Wisconsin. 303 pp. 45 illustrations. 75 cents.

THE FERTILITY OF THE LAND. By I.P. ROBERTS, of Cornell University. Second edition. 421 pp. 45 illustrations. $1.25.

THE SPRAYING OF PLANTS. By E.G. LODEMAN, late of Cornell University. 399 pp. 92 illustrations. $1.00.

MILK AND ITS PRODUCTS. By H.H. WING, of Cornell University. Third edition. 311 pp. 43 illustrations. $1.00.

THE PRINCIPLES OF FRUIT-GROWING. By L.H. BAILEY. Third edition. 516 pp. 120 illustrations. $1.25.

BUSH-FRUITS. By F.W. CARD, of Rhode Island College of Agriculture and Mechanic Arts. Second edition. 537 pp. 113 illustrations. $1.50.

FERTILIZERS. By E.B. VOORHEES, of New Jersey Experiment Station. Second edition. 332 pp. $1.00.

THE PRINCIPLES OF AGRICULTURE. By L.H. BAILEY. Third edition. 300 pp. 92 illustrations. $1.25.

IRRIGATION AND DRAINAGE. By F.H. KING, University of Wisconsin. 502 pp. 163 illustrations. $1.50.

THE FARMSTEAD. By I.P. ROBERTS. 350 pp. 138 illustrations. $1.25.

RURAL WEALTH AND WELFARE. By GEORGE T. FAIRCHILD, ex-President of the Agricultural College of Kansas. 381 pp. 14 charts. $1.25.

THE PRINCIPLES OF VEGETABLE-GARDENING. By L.H. BAILEY. 468 pp. 144 illustrations. $1.25.

THE FEEDING OF ANIMALS. By W.H. JORDAN, of New York State Experiment Station. $1.25 net.

FARM POULTRY. By GEORGE C. WATSON, of Pennsylvania State College. $1.25 net.

CARE OF ANIMALS. By N.S. MAYO, of Connecticut Agricultural College. $1.25 net.

New volumes will be added from time to time to the RURAL SCIENCE SERIES. The following are in preparation:

PHYSIOLOGY OF PLANTS. By J.C. ARTHUR, Purdue University.

BREEDING OF ANIMALS. By W.H. BREWER, of Yale University.

PLANT PATHOLOGY. By B.T. GALLOWAY and associates of U.S. Department of Agriculture.

Comprises practical hand-books for the horticulturist, explaining and illustrating in detail the various important methods which experience has demonstrated to be the most satisfactory. They may be called manuals of practice, and though all are prepared by Professor Bailey, of Cornell University, they include the opinions and methods of successful specialists in many lines, thus combining the results of the observations and experiences of numerous students in this and other lands. They are written in the clear, strong, concise English and in the entertaining style which characterize the author. The volumes are compact, uniform in style, clearly printed, and illustrated as the subject demands. They are of convenient shape for the pocket, and are substantially bound in flexible green cloth.

THE HORTICULTURIST'S RULE-BOOK. By L.H. Bailey. Fourth edition. 312 pp. 75 cts.

THE NURSERY-BOOK. By L.H. Bailey. Fourth edition. 365 pp. 152 illustrations. $1.00.

PLANT-BREEDING. By L.H. Bailey. 293 pp. 20 illustrations. $1.00.

THE FORCING-BOOK. By L.H. Bailey. 266 pp. 88 illustrations. $1.00.

GARDEN MAKING. By L.H. Bailey. Third edition. 417 pp. 256 illustrations. $1.00.

THE PRUNING-BOOK. By L.H. Bailey. Second edition. 545 pp. 331 illustrations. $1.50.

THE PRACTICAL GARDEN-BOOK. By C.E. Hunn and L.H. Bailey. 250 pp. Many marginal cuts. $1.00.

The Garden of a Commuter's Wife

Recorded by the Gardener

WITH EIGHT PHOTOGRAVURE ILLUSTRATIONS

Cloth 12mo $1.50

"In brief, the book is delightfully sketchy and chatty, thoroughly feminine and entrancing. The writer represents herself as a doctor's daughter in a country town, who has married an Englishman, and after two years abroad has come home to live. Both husband and wife prefer the country to the city, and they make of their modest estate a mundane paradise of which it is a privilege to have a glimpse. Surely it is no exaggeration to characterize this as one of the very best books of the holiday season, thus far."—Providence Journal.

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By HELENA RUTHERFORD ELY

With many Illustrations from Photographs taken in the Author's Garden by Professor C.F. CHANDLER

Cloth 12MO $1.75 net

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"Mrs. Ely gives copious details of the cost of plants, the exact dates of planting, the number of plants required in a given space for beauty of effect and advantage to free growth, the protection needed from sun and frost, the precautions to take against injury from insects, the satisfaction to be expected from the different varieties of plants in the matter of luxuriant bloom and length of time for blossoming, and much information to be appreciated only by those who have raised a healthy garden by the slow teachings of personal experience."—New York Times Saturday Review.

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THE END