Virginia citizen. (Irvington, Va.) 1891-1921, 1900-01-26
THE BEAUTIES OF FARM
ING AS THEY APPEAR
TO 4 Young MAN.

- - n ~ - ~ ~ va ChAN
have quit farming; my friends
look upon me with pitying self-sat-
isfied smile and say "Poor fellow, he
will never amount to shucks, he's so
changable;" while others say: "Every
other walk in life is so crowded that
there is positively no room for you;
stick to the farm life of peace and
Independence, surrounded by the
beauties of nature and the comforts
of rural life" Ah! few people real
ize the beauties and comforts of farm
life, especially as it appears to the
city folks, who, kindly fate has divest-
ed of all their worldly goods save a few
acres of gently rolling hill side, of the
wbiie-livered variety of soil, abound
ing IN the sweet-scented and vigorous
sassafras and the persistent and lux
urient hen-grass, and surrounded by
the enterprising pine bushes, which
are forever signing in the tick and
chigger laden breeze-sighing, no
dou6t, for ''other worlds TO conquer"
Few are they who realize the per-
feet peace and independence of such
life; peace hardly expresses the
calm and serene condition of affairs
broken only by the cut-worms, potato
bugs, minks, weasels, snakes, hail
storms and late f:osts: not to mention
those cosmopolitan cattle that take
such a kindly interest in your corn
field on Sundays and at night, or that
fiddle-faced slab sided SOW, whose
snout is fully equal to the task of
quietly laying aside your eight-rail
fence and leading her family of 16
patent, back action, ring-tail rooters
INTO your potato patch. But look at
this picture of perfect tranquility and
peace: the orb of day is sinking be-
hind the distant pines. the cooling
evening breeze is redolent with per-
fume of flowers and the scent of new
mown hay. The voice of the whip
poor-wi!l comes family across the
distant fields while nearer at hand is
heard the chipping cricket and the
lullaby of the katy-dids; old bob
white is just beyond the fence calling
loudly to his mate; all is perfect peace
and rest; natures song has become
lullaby, and great calm possesses
your soul as you take up the milk pail
and go towards the cow-pen
Saw wench! just then a mosquito sam
Piles the quality of your spinal column
IN a very pointed manner and you
vainly try to reach him 10y turning
around which causes your elbow to
come in contact with Mrs. Cows flank,
and which causes Mrs. Cows foot to
come in contact with the pail, and
the pail to come in contact with the
back of your neck and the milk to
flow down your back, which is enjoyed
very much by the mosquito who has
not been at all disturbed by the per-
formance; then you back to the
fence and try to scratch the mos
quito of and tear your shirt on
knot and lizard runs across your
hand. You grit your teeth and go
to work again and just as the milk
begins to rise like yeast in the pail;
Zool 90! and a great big beetle hits
you between the eyes and falls grace
fully into the pail: just then the
supper bell is heard and you stop
cursing the beetle and insulting the
cow, in anticipation of supper and
rest; but listen! as you drag your weary
feet along, there is a voice-not still
small one but one from the kitchen
as sharp as the kitchen knife and as
hard and unrelenting as hickory
stove wood-"Bring along an arm
full of stove wood and bucket of
water and shut the hen. house door
and hurry up! l want the milk!"
Now she wants milk and you want
peace, and the best thing to do is to
fill your arm full of stovewood, take
the bucket of water in the other
hand and hook the milk pail on your
finger and trot along, stumble over
the dog in the door, upset the cargo
on the floor, and them you'll get-a
piece of her mind. OH yes, that's
nice and you enjoy it SO much.
Then you sit down and think of
the independence of this life, inde-
pendent of all things save the weather
in time of harvest and that tyranni-
cal and heartless corporation known
as the Afro-American farm hand.
OH how he towers above you in his
mighty might. How small and
mean you feel as you beg, pay and
thank HIM for his labor, yea, you
grovel in the very dust at his gizzard
feet, while your soul cries out within
you "give me liberty or give noe
DEATH" Then comes the king Of
harvest, crowped with his silk nat
and armed with his satchel full OF
notes and bonds. He is the fertilizel
agent, and as we have failed in oul
crops, we fall upon our patched