Norwich bulletin., 1909-01-16

/ life, my aspirations, even my common
| place, everyday habits are, fortunately
] or unfortunately, of a character some
what different from those with which
( the average bootblack would be apt
| to sympathize.
| Let me admit that, if were a boot
| black and you, dear Brother Hayseed
/ should mount my street throne and
/ put upon the foot rest your NO
/ 9 cOwhide boots, stiff from repeated
| sOakings in the dew drenched fields,
1 coated with the sticky mud that gath
/ cred on them behind the plow, and
ask me to Shine 'em up,"-if / were
a bootblack and you should do that,
should laugh. So would anybody, eX-
cept wooden Indian. But it would
/ be because you wanted them blacked,
not because you wore them. They were
made to wear in the wet and dirt;
not to take a polish. Wearing them
in your work is sensible wearing a
I pair of fine calf oxford ties while plow-
/ ing or hauling manure would not be
sensible even though the bootblack
gave the latter his high approval.
Nevertheless, if I had to go to town
in my field boots. l shouldn't dodge
Franklin square and Main street just
because a bootblack might see them
and laugh.
about farming, at its best, without
trying to make a bad matter worse
by exaggeration. 1t is hard work and
generally underpaid. l know it; thou
knowest it; he knows it; we know it;
you know it; they all know it. And
we all wish the work was easier and
the pay better. But l can remember
two generations of farmers; family
tradition gives me a clear insight into
the condition of two more generations,
preceding those have personally
known. The average farmer and the
| average farmers wife work fewer
hours, nowadays. and get more for
their work than the farmers and farm
ers' wives Of previous generations. OF
course there may be exceptions, but
on the whole my statement is correct.
Every man who has seen threescore
years in the country knows it.
These plaguey pessimists talk about
fifty years ago as if then farming was
fun and money making a mere amuse-
ment. happen to remember fifty years
ago. Every summer morning I was
shouted out Of bed before It was fairly
light. to drive to pasture the COWS my
father and elder brother had already
MIXED. Before the sun rose we werC
all in the fields and at work. We kept
it up all day, taking no full hour at
noon for our dinner, either, till it grew
too dark to see well. Then the chores
sore, sorry and tired. Despite this in
cessant and back breaking labor money
was so scarce that we all had to think
twice before we bought postage
stamp. What we now consider the
necessaries Of life were then its lux
uries. Fresh meat was a thing almost
unknown, except at "hog-killing time"
Tea qNffnn NyraT f1Gad univ m CT r
occasions. A single whole stick of
candy was something for a boy to hope
for and dream about, but which he
very seldom realized. Mostly farmers
lived on salt pork and potatoes and
beans and rye nd injun." My mother
was long regarded as unduly stuck
up" because she once had wheat bread
at quilting bee.
When I hear people talk about the
decadence of agriculture in the past
half century I'm never sure whether
it's best to laugh or to get mad. One
gets over it soonest if he laughs, and
that's what Pm inclined to do this
time. Why. fifty years ago this very
month I was helping my father buck
up ten cords of wood for the fuel
supply. 1t had to be sawed split and
piled up. The wood was hard and
knotty, the old saw was always dull;
the days were short; we had to work
in snow or slush; our feet were gen
orally raw with "chilblains," and our
hands bleeding from numerous "callous
cracks" and chaps"
Last week. my wood being drawn
down from the mountain, / telephoned.
one bright morning, to the wood saw
er. Down he came with his gasoline
engine and buzz saw: in four hours of
actual work the ten cords were sawed.
Nobody had overworked; nobody was
even tired; not a sore toe nor a chap
ped hand in the whole bunch. 1t cost
me Sc to have the wood sawed because
I had IT cut three times instead Of
twice to the stick. Fifty years ago
Cow hay was selling here at "a a
ton. Today it is worth, in my barn, $40
a ton. The increased price on a single
ton Of that hay paid for the whole
wood saving job which in those
golden times of old" kept the COVER
nor and the boy lame, sore and tuea
for more than two weeks.
10 want to return to those good old
tmesW Not much. The present is
bad enough, but they were worse. And
the future is going to be better. Let's
look alive, be cheerful, and-keep dig
cling. What II I have got a sore fin
ger? There are seven others that
aren't sore. And that one is going to
get well, by and by.