VOL. XXXVII, NO. 2 
 
 OCTOBER, 1907 
 
 TWENTY-FIVE CENTS 
 
 NEW ENGLAND 
 MAGAZIN 
 
 Rhode Island : the State 
 on the Up-Grade 
 
 By Frank Putnam 
 
 The Culture -Value of 
 Modern Languages 
 
 By G. Stanley Hall 
 
 Farming as I See It 
 
 By Kate Sanborn 
 
 How Roosevelt Will 
 Clean Out Washington 
 
 By David S. Barry 
 
 The Ha'nt of the Um- 
 colcus 
 
 By Holman F. Day 
 
 $3 
 
 Copyright 1907 by New England Magazine Company. 
 
204 NEW ENGLAND MAGAZINE 
 
 laid doughnut to revive his droopin' heart, "Yes," said the cook, grimly; "but you 
 
 and " can't chase him on snow not where he 's 
 
 "Is that man gone?" bawled Christo- gone. He's deader 'n the door-knob on a 
 
 pher, reaching for his snow-shoes. hearse-house door." 
 
 A LINE-STORM SONG 
 
 By ROBERT FROST 
 
 The line-storm clouds fly tattered and swift, 
 
 The road is forlorn all day, 
 Where a myriad snowy quartz-stones lift 
 
 And the hoof -prints vanish away; 
 The roadside-flowers, too wet for the bee, 
 
 Expend their bloom in vain. 
 Come over the hills and far with me, 
 
 And be my love in the rain. 
 
 The birds have less to say for themselves, 
 
 In the wood -world's torn despair, 
 Than now these numberless years the elves, 
 
 Although they are no less there; 
 All song of the woods is hushed like some 
 
 Wild, easily shattered rose. 
 Come, be my love in the wet woods; come, 
 
 Where the boughs rain when it blows. 
 
 There is the gale to urge behind 
 
 And bruit our singing down, 
 And the shallow waters a-flutter with wind 
 
 From which to gather your gown. 
 What matter if we go clear to the west, 
 
 And come not through dry-shod? 
 For wilding brooch shall wet your breast, 
 
 The rain-fresh goldenrod. 
 
 Oh, never this whelming east wind swells 
 
 But it seems like the sea's return 
 To the ancient lands where it left the shells 
 
 Before the age of the fern; 
 And it seems like the time when, after doubt, 
 
 Our love came back amain. 
 Oh, come forth into the storm and rout, 
 
 And be my love in the rain. 
 
FARMING AS I SEE IT 
 
 By KATE SANBORN 
 
 HERE'S nothing like a Farm: 
 a Discouragement and an In- 
 spiration. It gives you health 
 and takes your money. 
 
 If "you" are a man with a 
 strong, healthy wife and half a dozen boys, 
 and near a good market, and do all the 
 work yourselves, you can make a living 
 if farm is not mortgaged. 
 
 And conditions are greatly improved by 
 R. F. D., telephones, the social life of the 
 Granges. 
 
 But I, a lone, lorn woman with no husky 
 hubby, and my only boys those I hire, and 
 thirty miles from a city market, can truth- 
 fully say that after seventeen years of con- 
 stant toil, outlay, and experiment, I have 
 raised better crops than any man near me, 
 but could not find a really paying market 
 for anything but hay and rye. 
 
 I have sold eggs, broilers, and hens for 
 fricassees to Boston clubs and Boston mar- 
 kets, and always at a good price, but it 
 never paid for necessary outlay. One prom- 
 inent hotel proprietor who loves to come out 
 here and lunch on broilers and all my de- 
 licious vegetables, when I asked him to buy 
 my broilers exclaimed, "Do you suppose 
 we buy tender birdlings like these for our 
 daily table ? Not much ! We know how to 
 make old fowls taste like the real article." 
 
 I asked the head of the Commissary De- 
 partment of Southern-Terminal-Upstairs- 
 Restaurant if he used a large number of 
 chickens. "Oh, yes, madam." I compli- 
 mented him on the delicacy of a bit I had 
 been enjoying, and then said, "I have 
 about two hundred chickens now ready for 
 sale. Will you not take some?" How his 
 face changed! How his jaw fell! " Could n't 
 take 'em. We use mostly old hens! Morn- 
 ing, Madam." 
 
 I step into a Boston provision-store when 
 eggs are the highest, and inquire the present 
 price per dozen. "Fifty-five cents, madam; 
 how many will you take?" "Oh, I want 
 to sett a large number of the very best, and 
 perfectly fresh; how much do you pay?" 
 
 "Not more than thirty cents and have reg- 
 ular supplies coming in all the time, so can 
 do nothing with yours." 
 
 I sold large boxes of eggs to New York 
 friends, but that never paid. I've traded 
 the best eggs for groceries, but the grocer 
 always got the best of. the bargain at both 
 ends. 
 
 How can any one make anything on 
 vegetables unless raised in a hothouse? 
 Rhubarb sells in all the neighboring towns 
 at a cent a pound, and they want fifty 
 pounds at a time; they sell at three cents a 
 bunch. 
 
 The finest of sweet corn I could get only 
 eight cents a dozen ears! Better to give it 
 away right out. 
 
 I did once get up quite a vogue for my 
 beans in West Dedway, and while driving 
 through town an upper window was raised 
 hastily, and a woman shouted, "Are you 
 the woman that sells beans?" 
 
 My spirits rose. "Yes, how many would 
 you like?" 
 
 "Ten cents' worth, and come to-morrow 
 at ten sharp!" 
 
 And I did. 
 
 I kept a dozen cows for a time and a 
 superb Holstein bull, thereby enriching the 
 commission-man in Boston (whose name 
 begins with B). He gave but two cents and 
 a half for Jersey milk of the purest, which 
 sold for ten cents after taking off one skim- 
 ming of richest yellow cream for special 
 sale for ice cream. The extortion of what 
 he called "surplus," and his impudent re- 
 turn of sour milk which never came from 
 my farm, was so disheartening that I sold 
 my cows in anger and despair. If you are 
 willing to devote your life to a " milk 
 route" there is a little profit nothing 
 startling. 
 
 The farmers who sell milk to the cities, 
 unless they get some special and fat job, 
 like the City Hospital, are as much over- 
 ridden and ground down as were ever the 
 slaves of the South. 
 
 And pigs? Yes, the agricultural papers 
 
 205 
 
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