Evening Republican, Volume 18, Number 210, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 5 September 1914 — SAD EXPERIENCES OF A FARMER BOY [ARTICLE]

SAD EXPERIENCES OF A FARMER BOY

It’s the Old, Old Story, Lure of the Big City.

LOOKING FOR EASY MONEY Ran Away From His Good Farm Home, but Was Mighty Glad to Get Back to Mother and Janie. “It ain’t what I expected it would be," he said rather sorrowfully, sitting up in his invalid’s chair in a Kansas City hospital. “I thought it’d be fun and freedom and money and lots of things. But it ain’t —and I’m goin’ home as soon' as the doctor’ll let me.

“I been up here a year now and I ain’t sorry. I’m just hankerin’ to get home. That’s all. I had a dozen jobs, I guess, maybe more, but shucks, they was harder’n what I done at home. And I didn’t get mor’n a dollar fifty a day. That’d be a lot down home in S , but up here where they’ve forgot the bees are buzzin’ and the flowers bloomin’ it ain’t much.

“You see, I didn’t know it’d be this way in the city. Down on the farm us young fellows all thought we were havin’ a hard time of it We didn’t like the farm and we thought everybody in town made good money and didn’t have to work hard to make it So I decided to quit the hard work down home and come to the big city. “The folks at home didn’t want me to leave home, but I got up and run. away. Well, when I got here and found out what a mistake I’d made I was ashamed to let 'em know about it and I was afraid to write home for money, or to ask ’em about my going back, because I didn’t know how they’d take it. When He Got Sick. “But when I got sick and was owin’ the landlady, and had to be carted out here to the hospital, I asked the nurse to write to ma and tell her all about me. Say, let me read you the letter that I got today from ma, and then you know how I am feelin’.” He read the scrawled lines slowly: “Dear Jim: We’re looking for you home real soon. Pa says to tell you he’ll meet you at the station with the buggy and for you not to worry about things. Let us know just when it will be. We’re all so anxious to see you. Janie Brown was over yesterday and, honey, she’s as curious to see you as we are. She’s a pretty girl, Jim, and wanted to send you a cake. But I told her to make it when you get home, and she said she would. The wheat looks fine. Pa says the 40 behind the bam ought to make 30 bushels or more. O, Jim, get well quick and hurry home. With lots of love., “Mother." Jim smiled. “The doctor says I can leave in three or four days," he said. He paused a moment. Then, “Did you ever work on the street? Have you ever been hungry and broke and afraid to go to your room because the landlady wanted her money and you didn’t have none to give her? That’s why I’m goln’ home. I had enough of that”

The boy told his story slowly, fingering the blanket a nurse had flung around him. It was neither new nor unusual. Its like has been enacted by hundreds of country boys since the present day civilization began the building of huge cities. The psychology of his case was the psychology of dreams and longing—beyond the horizon of his farm life he felt the allurement of distant things, the enchanting spell of the far-away city. But he did not know that city life is composed of the same amount of labor and longing and restraint that is the farmer’s. That was for Jim to learn —and suffer. Nobody Smiled. “I ran away," he went on. "My, it was lonesomb! I remember wonderin’ if somebody up here wasn’t my frienjj. The sun was shinin’, "but I couldn’t see it in the street. The buildings were too high on either side and everybody kept rushin* arCUnd and crowdin’ and none of ’em was smilin’. I reckon they felt lonesome, too. - “Then I got breakfast —two eggs and a glass of milk that ma wouldn’t have fed the pigs. It cost me a quarter, and, mister, I ain’t had a good meal such as the folks down home have since I came up here. I found a room after I’d been lookin’ nigh all day. It wasn’t very clean and the house smelled like burnt cabbage. But I couldn’t afford no better. “I had $lO and I figured it ought to last me two weeks, or till I got a job. But there wasn’t much I could do. I found that out mighty quick. Everywhere t went there was a dozen city fellows ahead of me. One place they wanted me t- give ’em references but I didn’t have wone. “The money didn’t last like I expected It would and pretty soon I was broke. But I got a job workin’ for the street car company, layln* rails and handlin’ a pick. It paid $1.50 a day. Mister, it was hard work, harder’n plowin’ or milkin’ or anything I ever done at home and it only lasted three days. “I tried out an/employtaent agency then. Golly, it was a dirty place, but 1 was hungry and so I couldn’t mind that They gave me a railroad job, workin* in a construction gang, but

they took $2 out of ray pay as a fee for givin’ it to ihe. I didn’t mind that so much, but it only lasted a week and after payin’ for things at the camp I had a dollar left That’s what I got for a week’s work—a dollar. “I had a lot of jobs in the summer —mean, low-down ones like shovin’ trucks in a wholesale house or diggin* ditches,” the boy continued. “I couldn’V get nothin* better and all of ’em was the same. None of ’em paid more’n $1.50 a day, and none of ’em lasted longer’n a week or two. Some fellows sfeem to get steady jobs. But I couldn't and I didn’t see any country fellows doin’ it They was all like me. .Walked the Streets. “Finally, when winter came around I wasn’t strong like I used to be. The food didn’t set well and I’d been walkin’ the streets too long with neveri. a breath of pure air. And I didn’t have much money. “Mister, I can't tell you much about the winter,” Jim shuddered at the memory. “I can’t seem to remember it —I reckon I was half sick with hunger and cold most of the time. But I remember goin’ broke and bein’ hungry and lookin’ for jobs that I couldn’t find. I had to give up my room—the landlady says I Was a dead-beat and a bum. . -

“Then I joined the gang down town and got ten-cent beds at night- Fifty of us would roll up in the same room —ugh, I hate to think of it. Maybe we’d get a job that’d last a day or two, shoveling snow, working on the streets or loadin’ coal. Sometimes we’d get something to eat and sometimes we wouldn’t.”

Jim paused. He passed his hand wearily across his forehead. “I reckon that’s about all of it,” he said. “I’ve been in the hospital two months now and the doctor says I can go home pretty quick. It can’t be too quick for me.

“Sometimes I get to wonderin’ what it’ll seem like not to hear a street car bumpin’ along any more, and, say, won’t it be great to get away from all this dirt and smoke and noise?

“Say, I’m goin’ to make things hum when I get home. Pa’s beginnin’ to get old and I’m goin’ to run things. I’m goin’ to work hard—and I’ll be workin’ for myself. I’m goin’ to find out somethin’ about this scientific farinin’ I’ve heard about. And you just watch me—l’m going to make, twice as much money out of that old farm as pa’s done. Say—” But the Interviewer turned to go. Jim shook hands gravely. Then his last words flashed out:

"Mister, shall I send you a bite of Janie’s cake?”