Democratic Sentinel, Volume 16, Number 26, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 15 July 1892 — OUT IN THE COUNTRY. [ARTICLE+ILLUSTRATION]

OUT IN THE COUNTRY.

A STUDY OF RURAL SCENES AND INCIDENTS. r Methods of Farm Life Contrasted with Those 111 Vogue When Pioneers Held Sway—Seed Time and Harvest, Marriage Bells and Funeral Marches. Then and Now. Spring In the country Is an uncertain season, and as a rulo the more uncertain it Is tHe more profitable will be the months that follow it, writes a Plymouth, Ind.. correspondent in the Chicago Herald. One of the bost years In a farming way here in Northern Indiana was in 1884, and It was a year which ope nod full of persistent discouragements. In the first place winter remained as long as there was a ghost of a Welcome, filling the trees with sleet as late April, and then succeeding with frequent rains till the soil seemed like a saturated sponge, and highways were simply quagmires. As June wore away and the time of harvesting drew near farmers began to see they never could drive their heavy reapers into the iields, and they began that demand for the old-fashioned cradle which Jiad been abandoned twenty years before. Factories set their men at work on the obsoleto Instrument, once common In the harvest field, and Implement dealers everywhere were supplied. Farmers bought mighty few twine binders in 1884, but they carried home through the intermitting rains many cradles, and swung them through the standing grain as July opened. Yet, 1884 was more than an a verage g; od year. Corn that was guiltless of plow but owed Its cultivation to tlie primitive hc o was hea vier than over before; and as to fruit, it was plentiful and of the finest flavor. To be sure, incessant rains are discouraging. If they trouble you in the city, whose convenience alone is assailed, how much more annoying they must be to farmers, whose very living depends upon their absenco at times as much as oil their presence at other times. Remem boring Former Days. But rains are not the only qualities ol the country. As one wanders about fields familiar in boyhood, and mingles again in the scenes so long neglected, so long exchanged for alien ways, the past coincs back and all the farm region is invested with the habit and the beauty of thirty years ago. In these old times the seasons eeern always to have been fair. Plow lund was broken for corn as soon ns the frost departed and the soli settled. After the plow came the harrow, pulverizing the clods and mellowing the earth for the gracious reception of seed Meantime the warmth of spring was in the tree tops, and tiny leaves were slowly opening. Corn must, be planted whep cak leaves were the size of squirrels’

ears. That was usually the middle of May, though some farmers discounted the prophecy a little and planted earlier, while •till others waited—through choice or compulsion—and put In their crops as late as the first of June. In cither case much dej ended on the season, and It was as likely to prove the early or the late man w ise as to follow the average rule. In those times, after the harrowing was done, the hired man “laid out the land.” He had a timber twelve feet long supported on three legs at equal distance apart. In front was a pair

of thills, between which Ihe steadiest horse on the place was hitched. Iho hired man drove forward across the mellowed field, his “marker” scraping three shallow trenches In tLe earth. Coming hack, his righthand “leg” ran In the outer trench made In the preceding trip, and the two remaining marking new lines on the face of the field. This back-and-forth process was repeated till .the field was marked with parallel lines from side to side. Then the cross marking began, cutting the surface Into little squares of four feet, and into the intersections of t)ie trenches was dropped the com. Boys and girls worked as droppers, carrying half a peck or so of selected seed corn in a shallow basket and plumping down three or four grains as they walked forward. Behind them came the “coyerors. ” men with hoes, vrho heaped the. finest and softest earth over the bright grains of corn, and patted the little mound gently with the Hat of the hoe as they passed on to succeeding hills. Droppers were .paid 125 cents a day for their work, while coverers received from 75 cents to 51.25, depending ou the scarcity of adult field hands. There were always plenty of children. 'When the field was planted—'and of the merry hour 3 that passed vhlie that was doing no farmer boy needs to be reminded—the formal quitting of the field was celebrated by the “king hill.” This was the last remnant of fetish worship in the country/ A hill was prepares, perhaps a yahl In diameter, and upon its surface was thickly scattered the remnant of seed in the baskets. Mellow earth was piled op top, and. the king hill was done. It.was la. essence usi attempt to propitiate the season, and win for the field fair days and warm nights. Of course the corn in the king hill never matured. It •tood too thick for that But no one asked it to mature. If It only grow rank and set a happy pace for the earnest stalks In the field, that was all that was required of It V The Machine Is Quicker. Corn .planting nowadays Is done with a machine, on which sit two men. One-drives the hofrses in a right i ne across the field.the other, sitting sidewise, puils a lever at each four feet of progress, and drops four grains of cortilnto two hills at a time, covering them sad dismissing them with a metallic, ■aochanicai command to multiply and repletoUb I.W earth. But there is no Mutlwea; ip a shuck rower, and there are no

king hills when It Is driven from the field. Harvest of wheat comes about the Fourth of July. Our patriotic fathers, sitting up there in the -hall at Philadelphia,‘never knew how wide a land their law would cover, or they would have hurried the sessions somewhat-and set.tho nation’s holiday la June or made heavy'-theif wheels so that

firecrackers and patriotism might eoaie In August. Harvest time in the old days was by the crudle. The good cradlor was a much more valued man than the ablo lawyer. The former was a bread-maker, a necessity—since llfo must bo sustained; the latter would have ho occupation If each man rendered to all others their due. There was rivalry among the cradlirs. Four of them In the field made a charming sight. The rhythmic swing, the step eight inches forward as the empty cradle swept back, the stoop and power of the roaping stroke, the gentle riso and graceful tut as 10,000 severed stalks v ere laid In porfoct order—all this wus the poetry of industry. Usually two men were required to “take up" aftor a cradler. They worked wi h a rake, rolling the even grain into a bundle and binding it with a belt of twisted straws. Now and then one man could be found active enough to take up alone after even an expert cradler, and he was paid accordingly. Guthcring in the Sheaves. Boys came after the reapers—though they didn’t want to—and carried tlio sheaves Into clus.ers of a doz.en each, the butts togethor, tlie heads radiating in all directions. At a little beforo sundown all the men fell to and “shocked” the wheat. That is, they set up each dozen sheaves In a compact bunch, covering thAJr heads with a thatch of iho same, artistically spreaded and broken, the better to turn untimely rain. The harvest field was, despite the labor, one of the pleasantest scenes In farm life. The neighborhood wit flourished, the local athlete was tried in the pauses of the work or at the noon hour, or lu the still of etenlng, when men loss

rugged would have tumbled breathless to bed. Harvest now is a different thing. A farmer drives Into the field with his twine binder and guides four horses over more ground in a day than forty men could have covered in the ancient way. I'lie machine attacks the standing grain, cut It, .binds It In sheaves, and tosses them aside with a finished. Impatient motion. A still lator development has come with improved machinery. Wheat, which used to require cutting before it was fairly ripe in order that the last of the field might be finished before It became too ripe, may no * be permitted to grow yellow and rich with the filled grain before a sound of the sickle Is heard. Thus matured It may be thrashed at once. From Sickle to Thrashing Floor. The thrashing machine Is set in readiness at the barn and the harvester is driven Into the field while the fire is building under tbo boiler In the engine Which is to drive the separator. If ihe field-be large tho reaper Is adjusted with an elevator or endless belt that oarrios the fallen grain up over a roller and drops it Into the broad bod of a wagon drive.i alongside. When the wagon Is full It goes to the thrashing machine and another, wagon takes its place undor the elevator. The grain In the straw is pitched to the table of the separator and fed into the cylinder by a careful man. Wheat that was standing and waving In the morning sunshine is heaped in l int at evening—a visible, golden answer to the prayor: “Give us th.s day our daily bread. ” Harvest time used to be a season of terror for the women who must cook for a crowd of hungry men none too tender of speech, none tjo slow to complain. What ravenous eaters they were! And what a wreck they made of a loaded table! Courtesy Among Housewives. Women in tho country borrow a good deal one from the other, 'they are a long way from market, and if need he they can school themselves to get along with very little. But when social skies are clear each housewife can find plenty of excuse for “running over to the neighbor’s house.” “I haven’t any right to come without I bring home something of yours—l know that," pro ests the visitor; “but 1 wanted to use a colander, and wondered if yotl was using yours. ” Of course the woman visited has no

thought of ever needing the colander, and in the, granting of requests the time of visit is extended till iipproaching dinner hour compels return. It Isn’t much, but it la social life for the country woman. There la less : formality In the -domestic life of the countrymen. Brown takes hia family to spend Sunday with Jones and “his folks.” Mrs. Brown assists in washing up the dinner dishes, exchanging gos-

sip the while, and trading recipes for graham bread and sweet pickles. If the doctor be called upon In case of sickness, and he needs a tumbler or a spoon, or a bit of sugar, he goes to the cupboard and finds it “Helps himself,” say the neighbors, and they like him for it Of course, the younger doctors take no such privi-

leges, but It is doubtful if they win more patrons or heal the sick moro readily than do the old men who jog along behind Inferior horses, and hum a lullaby while patiently treading muddy roads In the gloom of a starless night H iwl to Borrow Fire. But the muddy road Is becoming a thing of the past Tile draining Is reAaimlng

tbo low places In fields, and successive contributions of gravel aro raising the highways above tbo quagmires and quicksands of an early day. Good roads bring tho farmer nearer town. He supplies his household with all things noodful. and markets his produce with tho minimum of trouble. Time was when the pioneer dreaded the ten-mile trip to the store, and avoided It In all seasons. lie found little enough there to buy at best It is wondorful how little he had to keop tho bond of civilization. Even matches were a rarity. If tho tiro vent out on the hearthstone ho muit walk for miles through the woods to a neighbor’s place and borrow a lighted coal. Mrs. Stevens, straight in spite of her 70 years, who lives at tho border of the lake, tells how “lie,” —moaning her husband—went clear to “the forge” one time, a distance of sovon miles, that being the nearest neighbor, and burrowed a bit of fire. It came near going out as he walked home through tho woods,and ho stopped, gathered some logs together, fanned hjs feeble coal into a flame, built a lire, and when that provided coals, went forward with the recruited lire. But generally the pioneers kept the coals covered on tho hearth and provided against disaster with punk and tinder box. Nowadays thoy buy a thousand sure matches lor a dlmo and cook iheir dinner on gasoline stoves. But that suggests tho old Dutch oven. It was a round-topped lisle house of brick and stone with ad(or in front and solid walls all ar mnd. The housewife made up her bread in loaves, and while it was “raising” built a tiro In tho oven, which always s ood out of doors. The thick walls gathered heat, and when the loaves were ready iho fire Was withdrawn, tho bread was slid into the glowing vault and tlio d or wa,s closed. In an hour thoy came out browned as no modern'oven can brown them and baked through with the gentle, steady heat One seldom sees tho outdoor oven now and one never sees betl or bread than the pioneer housewives used to make in them. Fruit Seems to He Falling. The orchurds arc going these late years. Before the war northern Indiana was una; - prom liable in the production of fine fruit. Apples, in particular, were plentiful and fine. Vouches was grown readily, while cherries and pears were equal to anything in the West. But either the seasons changed or departing forests carried the spirits of fruitage with them; for the day of excellence departed. Snvall fruits grow readily, but the farmer Is conservative, and he has

tried year after year to rai « an orchard where his father mixed ono before him. 110 has lost lots of time. May be the nurseryman has fooled him. May be the winter has killed his trees. The result is tho same. Orchards will not grow and bear as they once did. The public sale is a country Institution that the city man knows nothing about. The good man dies and his widow presently sells off that personal property with which he battled for a living. She cannot drive the plow or run tho thrashing mt» chine, and she sells off ut auction a wrack of enumerated go ds “and other articles too numerous to mention,” as the hand-

bills announce. All the neighbors come to the sale and an auctioneer gets the best prices he can. It is a place for the politician, and he always improves his'opportunities. For the day the widow’s home is a place of bustle and confusion, and when night comes she comforts the children while strange hands lead away the favorite cow or .tlie yearling colt, or tumble Into Wagons the farm tools with which *hl»”

life was Interwoven. “The day of the sale" is always remembered by the children. And the widow remembers It, too. for she I has in band a package of promissory notes, j some good, some bal. some simply Indifferent On half of them she must enter suit to enforce collection, and on half ol the balance sjie never hopes for a penny. On the remaining quarter she realizes face value after waiting ten months or a yean Courtship In the Country. When the course of true love does run smooth In the country it runs very smooth, indeed. Darby loves his Joan, and has loved her ever alnce thoy went barefoot to school In the distant seasons when he was 8 and could play “blackman,” while she was 6, and danced in the center of that circle of girls, who contented themselves with “Bing Around tlie Rosoy. ” Darby gathers his porsoual belongings together and secures paternal approval not often expressed but none tho less certain. He gees homo with Joan from preaching Sunday night, though she came without escort and could go twice the distance unattended. He leaves hor at, the gate, just saying “good-night,” lest watching comrades should suspect a serious intention. They have few hours together, but those few are enough. Joan la making hod quilts, knitting crrnforters and sowing rag carpet with suggestive industry. When they marry the young men and women “wish them much joy” to their faces, but prepare a charivari at night, 'ibis charivari has como to be pronouncod “shlvareo” In Indiana, but no chango has come over the spirit of the sport

The h"Use in which the bride and groom find shelter that first night is almost sure to tie surrounded by a crowd of stealthy young men, who at a signal inaugurate a din of jangling bells and beaten tin that would drive to bedlam any but the healthiest of nerves. After perhaps a half hour of oxen ise in which all the hood is informed of the celebration. t>i«| groom appears and “treats.” He may have provided against this visit and stored up cakes and cider If he lias chosen autumn for his nuptiala But as a rulo in these later years ho surrenders money, $1 being genorous ransom. And aftor that the charivari ceases. But if marriage is looked upon with noisy mlrthfulnoss, the somber side of life is fittingly adorned in tho country. It makes small difference who the man or woman may have been In life. In death he Is regarded. He may have been rich, ho may have been genorous, lie may have been kindly, or he may have simply lived long In the neighborhood. When his home is in mourning tho bost people leave their tasks and gather to mark their homely tribute to his worth. They aro hushed in tho house of death; they sit or stand about in reverent silence while the service is In progress; they follow the coffin to the graveyard and walk in sadness ail the way. There is no hurrying to the tonili. no trotting of horses, no halting at waysido saloons, no sinister scheming tiy official or aspirant There is the genuine sorrow for a man who lias gone; for a man who was with them in the fullness of life tut yesterday, and is now senseless, something they cannot understand and can only bid farewell to with sobered faces, covering with great, strong, gentle hands the clay that u?ed to know them. There is a genuineness after all In the

country life which one mizhtily after the wearisome Insincerity of the years in tj.vu.

THE OUTSKIRTS or THE VILLAGE.

IN NATURE'S GYMNASIUM.

IN THE BARNYARD.

AT THE FLOW.

THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE.

MARKING OUT POTATO LAND.

ROOSTER AND RAINY DAY.