The New York herald. [volume] (New York, N.Y.) 1920-1924, 1922-10-15


move away. but down in the inside o
me | know don't mean it, becus farmin's
in the blood an We can't git it out The
hills an the hollers that we've knowed
man an boy ever senst We was old enough
to walk, they mean somethin' to We, an
il we're right minded ye never git over
feelin' pride in seem em do their best. /
know perfectly we'll that if was compelled
to go way an end my days in some place
besides Bascoms Bridge, the sooner 1 did
end EN- the gladder I'd be. That oil farm
wouldn't look like much to most folks, but
It's raised lot of honest men an women,
an it's home to me-
Every tree an every dumb stone wall
Is a friend an brother. We've growed
old together. An the brook that waters
our east medder an crosses the road be-
low tn oil haybarn talks the same Ian
guage to me that it did when I was a kid
an used to lay on the bridge in the bTlin'
sun an watch the MINERS fannin' their
tails down on the gravel in the shadders
tryin' to keep cool.
stick to farmin' as longs they kin hold
a plow. whether they make a fifty cent
piece or not, I'll say it's love for the
land. Lots of EN- couldn't express it il
they tried. It's just the joy of SEEM
thinSs grow up green an fresh outa the
good ground, jest by the magic of tiIlage.
and rain an sun. Some folks can't under
stand il, but the scent of the plowed ground
in the spring is incense to me. drink it
in like a drunkard laps up ticker or a
Chinaman breathes into his body and his
soul the dream stuff of his opium pill
If ye got them things in yer blood We
can't git EN- out. any moren a Holstein
calf kin be born green. They's hundreds
o thousands O. folks. even in the cities.
chained to the treadmill of city life, that
grows old trompin' the pavements an look
in at the heartless big buildin's, that hears
the country always calm TO EN- till the
hst-an unceasin' voice amidst all the
roar an tumult of the streets. It's heri-
tage. this love of the land. an they never
come into it. 1 honestly don't believe
they's but mighty few folks that's farmin'
Just as a business. They'd be fools if they
did. an without any love fer the land
they'd be apt TO be mighty poor farmers.
Some folks say the farmers is lazy. What
I think is that they got tired out, a good
many of 'em, about two generations ago.
II we so through the hill country. where
the women used to have families of ten
10 fifteen children or better. an worked
right along stiddy till the Lord in mercy
called EN- home: an if we look at the stone
walls an study how they was built. the
architecture OF em. an the scientific fig
germ of the strain that made EN- stand
up a hundred years without a speCk o
mortar-then think that they was put to-
gether by hand piclIin' an grubbin' the
little an the big. an handlin' the powders
as big as a pianna with n crowbar, single
handed il We stop 20 think that all the
grain land an hay land in New York
State. which after all has produced more
wheat than any Of 'em-was cleared by
main strength an perseverance out of the
virgin timber with an AK an a crosscut
saw. an the roots dug out with a pick,
mebbe we kin understand why the late
generations amt got any pep.
An it want on'y the endless work. II
was work without much else. II was
lonely work in a solitude where one
threadbare joke had to keep huh COM
munity good natured fer fifty years. The
farmer got tuned TO loneliness SOS he
didn't trust strangers, an the few folks he
seen all the time he got mortal tired of.
He got to thinkin' his own thoughts an
mindin' his own business. 1t narrered his
mind an IFS STAYED narrer He had 10 de-