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 vose PIANOS have been established over 55 YEARS. By our system of payment every family of moderate circumstances can own a VOSE piano. 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