THE FARMER'S WIFE QUILT

ENJOYING THE FRUITS OF OUR LABOR; by Mrs. F. K., Indiana; 1931

2012-02-06T00:01:00.002-06:00

Dear Editor:

I was married to a farm work hand thirty-one years ago. We had a strong desire for our own farm that we might get the results of our labors. We bought a farm of 65 acres, very poor, because it had been rented to Tom, Dick, and Harry until it wouldn't rent any longer and stood deserted.

The buildings were a dilapidated log henhouse and a two room dwelling house, almost as dilapidated as the henhouse. No barn nor sign of building that could be used as a barn. Hubby made a straw shed which housed our two cows, calf, and feed till spring. Then he bought a team and farm implements and another heifer to freshen.

In debt? I'll say we were, as only a first payment was made on the farm, the rest being mortgaged for all it was worth. I put my shoulder to the wheel, we both worked hard, and economized to the last degree of decency. Our children came, five boys in succession, the sixth baby boy living only five hours. Then, after six years, God answered our prayers and gave us a daughter.

Many times Hubby was so discouraged he thought of quitting the farm and trying a day-labor job, but I loved the farm and the stock that I had helped to care for. Oh, yes, I bottled pigs and lambs and slopped calves and hogs. So I always tried to console Hubby even though I fought back tears of discouragement to do it.

We stayed by the farm through thick and thin, profited by our losses and tried to correct our mistakes. Today I am a grandmother, and Hubby and I are still on the farm we started on thirty-one years ago.

We worked hard to get a start but that is past, and now we are enjoying the fruits of our labor. Hubby knows if the crops fail, he can pay the taxes from the interest on his Government bonds.

KEEP A STIFF UPPER-LIP; A Woman From Minnesota; 1931

2012-01-31T00:01:00.004-06:00

There's so much talk nowadays about hard times that it would be really discouraging if we listened and believed all we hear. Are we as bad off as we like to make believe? Don't most of us have three meals a day, shelter, decent clothing, and a car?

Certainly we don't have as much as we would like to have, and we don't make the money we did while the war was going on, but after every war there's a period of unrest, lower prices, and less buying. It costs money, much money, as well as lives, to win a war, and the people have to pay in taxes to make this up. Most of us know little about really hard times such as the people of European countries are having, or even those of our own cities. They are much worse off than we are.

So let's not go around with long faces, talking of "hard times." Let's keep a stiff upper-lip, make over our old clothing for the children, save where we may, without sacrificing the health of the family, and help Friend Husband all we can. Let's do the best possible with what we have, and see what a happy home we can make.

THE OLD NEIGHBORHOOD; by Winnifred J. Mott; 1935

2012-01-27T17:05:00.001-06:00

They want to know my business in the old neighborhood.
They give advice about the things I shouldn't do--or should.
But all the while I sort of feel they mean it for my good.
And I can't get angry, somehow, at the old neighborhood!

They borrow--how they borrow! in the old neighborhood!
But when it comes to lending, they are, oh, so kind and good!
And they'll do a favor quicker than most anybody would--
For they feel an interest in me--in the old neighborhood!

There's a little world of sweetness in the old neighborhood.
And I wouldn't move away from it--no matter if I could.
Bless their hearts! I say sincerely. Bless their hearts with every good!
For with all my heart I'm grateful for the old neighborhood!

THE FARMER'S WIFE PONY CLUB QUILT ON SEWING WITH NANCY

2012-01-24T07:21:00.002-06:00

http://video.wpt2.org/video/2174526096

In September of 2011, I taped a five minute segment on the PBS television show, Sewing With Nancy. She and her crew are so nice and helpful and make a terrifying experience *almost* fun. Above is a link to this short segment.

FEET ON THE EARTH, Part 2 of 2; Dr. Poling; 1939

2012-01-15T00:01:00.003-06:00

Greer is 125 miles from the railroad, and the mail comes in three times a week. The only telephone connection with the outside world is by courtesy of the Forest Ranger. I haven't seen a newspaper for five days and I am a little anxious concerning foreign affairs; but yesterday and again today I caught my legal limit of trout, and as I write, the Little Colorado is singing loudly just outside my window. Across the deep canyon, the towering yellow pines have marched right into the heart of the moon. The quaking aspens, sister trees to the white birches of New England, are spectral fingers in the silvery light. I am strangely content. One of the year-round residents, whose family built Greer's first cabin forty years ago, remarked when a visitor complained about the remoteness: "People who want their mail more than three times a week shouldn't come here anyhow."

Well, there are still some things more important than the news--which is, of course, saying a great deal. The men and women who cherish the pioneer traditions of America and who live on the soil--East, West, North or South--are at times a vivid reminder to those of us who come from the cities that a man's life "consisteth not in the things he possesseth." Sharlot M. Hall, who was born on a Kansas farm and who, when twelve years of age, rode a Texas pony behind the covered wagon of her parents down the Santa Fe trail to Arizona territory, has written this philosophy for life into a single, noble verse:

"Greatness is born of greatness,
And breadth of a breadth profound;
The old Antaean fable
Of strength renewed from the ground
Was a human truth for the ages--
Since the hour of the Eden-birth,
That man among men was strongest
Who stood with his feet on the earth."

FEET ON THE EARTH; Part 1 of 2; Dr. Poling; 1939

2012-01-10T00:01:00.001-06:00

We came to Greer, Arizona, ten minutes ahead of the thunderstorm that ushered in the 1939 rainy season. The little Mormon community, at an elevation of eight thousand feet on the shoulder of "Old Baldy" in Arizona's White Mountains, had been praying for this storm. Our arrival was accepted as a good omen. The lad who rode on the running-board of our over-loaded car and directed us to the commodious log cabin that was to be our August vacation home told us what the rain meant to vegetables, grass--and fishing. The latter was our chief concern but, knowing what the coming of seasonal rains means to the great Southwest, we were enthusiastic over the promise of bumper gardens and good grazing.

When we offered our guide the money we thought he had earned, he was embarrassed, but he definitely declined the coin. "No," he said, "that's all right. But if you need worms, I dig them--forty for 10 cents." Right there the West began!--no gratuities and a clear distinction between neighborliness and a reasonable charge for services rendered.

A little later the boy's father, who runs the general store, sold us a "fricassee chicken" for $1.25. He didn't figure the weight, and he apologized for the price. It took me back to my boyhood, when the neighbor who specialized in these same "fricassees" would say, "Twenty-five cents--and you catch her." To this day I have difficulty in figuring poultry values by weight, but that six-pound Mormon hen was worth the price.

A LESSON ON THANKFULNESS; JENKYNSVILLE, WISCONSIN; 1876

2012-01-05T20:04:00.001-06:00

The tombstone reads:

Benjamin 1852-1876

Sarah 1854-1876

Rufus 1856-1876

Ella 1857-1876

Children of J. and H. Jenkyn

I found this tombstone at a very small church cemetery not far from my home. Not surprisingly, it made quite an impression on me. It reminds me that no matter how difficult I “think” my life might be some days, it has never come remotely close to this. For that I am very thankful.

I consulted Ancestry.com to see if I could learn anything about this family. I found that the parent's first names were John (b. 1805) and Hannah (b.1817) and they were both born in England. I was happy to find that they were the parents of six children all born in America. Kate was the oldest, born in 1849, and John their second child was born in 1850. Both Kate and John married and had children, so their parents were not alone.

Why did John and Hannah's youngest four children die (and likely at the same time?) I wish I knew, but the online sites do not contain any information about the cause. I hope to visit the local museum this summer (it is closed in the winter) to see if they have any information about this extremely sad event.

Let us all count our blessings. I'm sure we have many...

WE WISH YOU HAPPY DAYS; January 1931

2012-01-01T00:01:00.003-06:00

As old 1930 slips away and 1931 comes in, we'd like to break up our New Year's greeting to you into 365 parts, and for each morning of the next year wish you a "Happy New Day!"

When a good friend calls out to us, "Happy New Year," his wish seems rather large and therefore somewhat vague. It covers such a lot of territory. But if he said, "I wish you a Happy New Day," the thing wished for would not be too large to be within our grasp. Moreover, we would feel that we could do something about it ourselves. It is not impossible to make one new day a happy one, but as for the whole of the coming year!--that seems altogether out of the question.

And when it comes to making decisions about correcting errors, and about making life and its labors count for better things in the home, on the farm, in the community, and in every other relationship, a resolution for a single day at a time seems so much more likely to be fulfilled than for a year at a time.

Day by day adjustment of life is so much easier--putting aside today's errors and tribulations at eventide, saving for tomorrow only the wisdom and joy gleaned today, entering upon the morrow with a fresh courage that is sufficient for the tasks that lie immediately at hand. There must be plans for more than a day ahead, of course, but the fulfillment of any plan, and of life itself, comes only day by day.

So we wish you a "Happy New Day" for each day of the new year. And to remind you daily of our wish we give you this bit of anonymous verse to fasten to your kitchen cupboard door where you may see it, every day:

I heard a voice at evening softly say,
   Bear not thy yesterday into tomorrow,
   Nor load this week with last week's load of sorrow.
Lift all thy burdens as they come, nor try
   To weigh the present with the by and by.
One step and then another, take thy way;
   Live day by day.

A MEAL SUGGESTION FOR UNEXPECTED COMPANY; JANUARY 1918

2011-12-29T22:22:00.001-06:00

Let me tell you of a meal I served to six persons who came one Sunday evening with profuse apologies for their unheralded arrival and for their appetites. Here is the menu:
Tomato soup
Salmon with border of peas
Pineapple salad with pimento cheese
Hot biscuit Grape conserve
Coffee Small cakes

First, I set the table. I then put a large can of salmon and can of peas in a kettle of water and placed on the stove to heat. I opened two cans of tomato soup, put in a saucepan to heat and put a cup of milk in another saucepan to heat.

Next I made the biscuit, using prepared flour as they can be made more quickly by its use and if directions are followed, they are delicious.

While the biscuit were baking, I prepared the salad. This was quickly done. I opened the can of pineapple, placed a slice of the fruit on each salad plate and in the center of the pineapple slice I placed a ball of pimento cheese and a spoonful of “ready made” salad dressing.

Everything was ready so I added the hot milk to the soup with just a pinch of soda, and served it in cups with wafers.

I removed the cups to the kitchen, quickly opened the can of salmon, placed it in the center of the platter and garnished it with slices of lemon. Then I opened and seasoned the peas and poured them around the salmon.

While the man of the house served the salmon and peas, I brought in the biscuit, butter and salad. Last came the coffee and cakes.

It was not an elaborate meal but it was good and satisfying. Our friends were loud in their praises and appreciation.

Why it is called Christ-mas

2011-12-24T21:18:00.000-06:00

And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus, that all the world should be taxed. (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.) And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city. And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:) to be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child. And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered. And she brought forth her first-born son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn. And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you, Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men. And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us. And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph and the babe lying in a manger. And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child. And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds. But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart. And the shepherds returned glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them. The Holy Bible--Luke 2: 1-20

COUNTRY GIRL STORIES; part 4; 1915

2011-12-18T00:01:00.001-06:00

This girl is from a big ranch in the Northwest:

This morning I was wakened by the sun as it first shone in at my window. As it was only a quarter to five I covered my eyes for one more nap. We have cool nights, but yesterday it was 104 in the shade. Soon I heard Papa get up, so I did likewise. I built a fire in the kitchen range and cooked my own breakfast. “Cookie Sis” was not up and Papa does not eat breakfast.

I thought the rest had slept long enough, so I turned on the water near the house and began to carry wash water. That got them up. While my water was heating, I gathered the clothes, swept four rooms, irrigated a little on the garden, and picked up chips. Then I washed—they call me the “family laundry.” I must be somewhat Irish, too, for I must have everything in the house and on me washed clean.

At noon I was still washing. While waiting for dinner, one of the hired men struck a bargain with me. He is to bring down his spring and summer collection of seventeen dirty shirts; I am to show him how to wash them and then I may iron them. I promised because I believe in helping my neighbor, because this fellow sometimes takes my sister riding in his new buggy, and because he and I have red hair.

Dinner was good even though served on our decrepit ranch dishes. We are running three kitchens. We have good meals always. We eat well and work hard for what we get here in the West.

In the afternoon I finished the washing, helped clean the house, and mended. After three o'clock I sat here in a cool room by an open window watching Papa mow alfalfa and the men stack grain. The children were in swimming. By and by one of my chums drove by on her way home from town. We visit thus mostly.

Supper at six. I ironed before and after as long as the irons were hot. Now at sunset my work is done. But Papa is irrigating—that takes twenty-four hours a day.

This was a typical working day; but it would have been as natural for me to have described one of the six days last week when I spent ten hours a day hoeing corn. To-morrow we girls will put on overalls and shock hay! Don't let it shock you—we live in the West!

The trouble with farming is that the days are not long enough for work or the nights long enough for sleep.

IN QUEST OF THE SUNSET; by F. Roney Weir; part 4 of 4; June 1915

2011-12-13T00:01:00.002-06:00

He looked at her and laughed and slapped his knee. “You're the same old tease you always were, aren't you, Alvira? Want me to tell you? I haven't got the price of a good fiddle and never shall have in this world. When I git up above, I s'pose I shall have to content myself with a harp but I'd darn sight rather have a fiddle.”

They laughed together like children, shutting their eyes tight and gasping in their glee. He sobered to explain.

“I've got my pension but that goes to pay a big debt that I've always had on my hands—a debt my boy incurred--”

“Don't think about it,” she soothed, recognizing the agony in his face. “Don't try to tell me anything about it. It is past and gone now---”

“And the debt is about paid,” he announced. “I'll be scott free in another year, and---”

“How would you like to go back and live on the old place?” she asked suddenly.

“How would I like it? How would I like to go to heaven?”

“How would you like to go back and run the farm? It's my farm yet. I've never been able to bring myself to sell it. I'm homesick to go back, but—I can't go alone---”

“Alvira Dole!” He was staring at her excitedly. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, let us take hold of hands and run—away—home!”

“Why—Alvira! I haven't a cent in the world!”

“I'm almost a rich woman, Rob—as riches go back there in the country. If I stay out here with Vesta and the girls many years longer, though, I won't have a cent to bless myself with. I don't know why it wouldn't be about as commendable to spend my money buying a fiddle for you as paying for bridge whist parties and dinners. I like you better than I do Vesta's family.”

It was getting dusk; the afterglow even, was at an end. He drew her to him and kissed her.

“Fifty years behind time,” he said, “but a blessed kiss after all!”

“If I buy the fiddle you must practice,” she warned.

“Oh, I'll saw away,” he promised. “Why, you know, Alvira Dole, it seems like one of these here fooling dreams that leave you lonesomer than ever when you wake up!”

“We'll give a series of sunset parties,” said Alvira, “where there will be very little good form but lots of good things to eat and much good neighborly feeling of the old-fashioned kind.

“Vesta won't favor this arrangement any to speak of,” she added. “Vesta is my own child but her family and her interests are alien to me. They want to live always in the morning of life. When you really begin to get old is restful to settle into middle-aged ways, to accept the quiet and comfort of afternoon. I shall be very glad, Rob, very glad indeed, to go back home with you and rest.

IN QUEST OF THE SUNSET; by F. Roney Weir; part 3 of 4; June 1915

2011-12-08T00:01:00.000-06:00

“I've always been kind of glad my troubles all happened so far away from the old neighborhood. I've always been in the habit of beating back there in memory and sort of restin' up. I wonder if that old well is there yet?”

“It was the last I heard,” said Mrs. Herron. “I went up there the week before I came West to live with Vesta.”

“Any of the folks left there that we used to know?”

“Yes, Dan Costigan lives on the old place yet and his Uncle Trib—oh there's quite a number of the folks we used to know left. Old, of course--”

“Of course. So are we! But how I would love to see them and talk over old times! Do you remember that piece of road between your place and town—right after you passed the schoolhouse? That was the blamedest piece of road in America, I believe.”

“Yes, I remember. But I presume that's all changed now? They say the country is full of automobiles. Dan Costigan has one, I hear.”

“Is that so? Well, good for Dan. He always got the best of everything, Dan did. The nicest team and the shiniest top buggy—got the girl he wanted, too. Some folks seem to get exactly what they want, no matter how big their wants are and others never get even the littlest, weeniest wants; wants so small that it almost seems as if the good God could have spared 'em that much and never missed 'em. For instance, 'way back, when I worked for your father, there were three things I wanted might bad. One was so big it was entirely out of my class. I realize that now—realized it a good many years ago, of course. But the other—you know every boy in those days wanted a girl, a gun and a fiddle. I got the gun.”

“You wanted a fiddle?”

“Always. Always intended to buy a fiddle and learn to play it, but never did. Never saw the time when I had the spare money to buy the instrument nor the chance to practice on it. You have to be more or less alone when you practice the fiddle. Lily never could have stood it and of course I wouldn't have blamed her.”

“Why don't you learn now?”

IN QUEST OF THE SUNSET; by F. Roney Weir; part 2 of 4; June 1915

2011-12-03T00:01:00.000-06:00

She stood up. From the dim past, racing the years, came the memory, fleeting and imperfect at first but gaining strength steadily—the memory of the boy-man who had worked beside her father in the green marches of long ago. She seemed to see his gleaming eyes above the tin dipper of water which she had brought from the home well.

“It—can't be—Rob Fay?” she faltered.

He threw back his head and laughed and it was Rob Fay's laugh.

“Why of course it is!”

They clasped hands and stood a moment laughing delightedly.

“To think,” she said, “that you should have known me after all these years.”

“It is funny, isn't it? But there was something about the way your arm lay along the top of the seat of your hat and the tilt of your head, that took me back and aback, slam bang to the old bench out there by your father's pump house on the farm. You remember that old bench, don't you?”

She made a little deprecatory gesture. “Yes-s-s, of course! For years and years she had not remembered but she remembered now that Rob Fay had asked her to marry him there on that same old bench and had trembled forth his boyish despair at her refusal. “Well, well!” he repeated, gazing at her delightedly with his round, boyish blue eyes. “To think that here we sit talking after more than forty years! Ain't it forty years, Alvira, since I've seen you?”

“I guess it is. Let me se-e-e- I was married in--

“Never mind when you are married, Alvira. I was off to the war before that so that I needn't hear about it then and I don't want to hear now. I did hear all about it, though, down there that last year when things were getting ready to be settled up. I was mad to think the old war was over. There was nothing for me to come back to, you see.”

She laughed shamefacedly. “Oh dear, what fools boys do make of themselves! And didn't I hear you married down south?”

“Yes, I married down south, but not for ten years after that.”

He grew suddenly sober. He had pushed his hat back and a wisp of thick white hair showed matted against his brow.

“My wife was a widow with three girls of her own. We had one child—a boy--”

He paused and looking into the woman's face saw the interest, the sympathy there, and the masculine element of eternal childhood reached out for it.

I've had lots of trouble, Alvira—trouble and bad luck!”

“Oh!” she said sympathetically and waited for him to go on.

“Lily and I thought sickness, poverty and death were the greatest trials that could happen to a family but—that's where we got fooled. A dead trouble or a poor trouble ain't anything to a livin' wicked trouble. Our boy went wrong. I don't know but it was our fault. We pampered him a good deal---”

His voice trailed into silence and Alvira had the tact to be silent too.

“Yes,” he resumed after a moment as if in answer to an audible question, “they're all gone now—Lily and the girls. Lily didn't live a week after he was—after he died.

IN QUEST OF THE SUNSET; by F. Roney Weir; part 1 of 4; June 1915

2011-11-28T00:01:00.004-06:00

A woman of sixty-six does not like to be “grandma-ed” indiscriminately. Back in the country where Mrs. Herron came from, it would have been different. There were grandpas as well as grandmas there and great aunts and uncles. Here, on Tolby Street, there were men—just men—girls and imitation young women.

Ah, how different from the days on the farm where life went leisurely and was not one long breathless effort to keep up; when people met together for friendship's sake and there were grandfathers as well as grandmothers!

As Mrs. Herron thought it all over she was strengthened in her determination to run away that evening from Vesta's dinner party. Vesta would be provoked and the girls would be angry but it would all blow over when at the end of the month grandma, as usual, helped out with the bills.

Tolby Street was supposed to be very neat and beautiful, but the bank of towering buildings at its foot shut it in at the west. Mrs. Herron longed to see the red flame of the sun low on the horizon. She would run away and go hunting the sunset!

The electric car seemed fairly to bore its way into the brightness of the afterglow. The evening wind, dead ahead, smote Alvira's cheeks pleasantly. It seemed to blow away the years and leave her young again. She was Alvira Herron now, not “Grandma Herron.”

Ahead loomed a great building set in a pleasant ring of shrubbery.

“Hospital?” Alvira Herron inquired of the woman who shared the car-seat with her.

“No, Soldiers' Home.”

“End of the line!” sang out the conductor and Alvira left the car with the other passengers.

Inviting benches line the broad walks under the trees. Alvira saw a woman with two little girls wander off among the greenery. If outsiders were allowed in the grounds, she would squander an hour here watching the yellow sky.

Her mind was filled with the mellow peace of the place. Up near the buildings a veteran in a wheel chair was being pushed by an attendant. Another mowed the lawn. His machine made a cheerful clatter suggesting hominess and content. The car which had brought Mrs. Herron went back to the city and presently another arrived. Two or three people descended, among them a veteran with a springy, youthful gait unusual in an old soldier. His cheeks were age-withered but rusty-red with health. A stubby, snowy beard concealed the contour of his chin but his sharp blue eyes were clear, alert and kindly.

He was about to pass on with a respectful glance of interest at the lonely figure on the bench when Mrs. Herron glanced up and their eyes met. He stopped in front of her suddenly when advanced with outstretched hand.

“Alvira Dole, or I'm dreaming again!”

Do You Want Your Daughter to Marry a Farmer? Extra Letter; by Mrs. N. M. M.; Westchester Co., N. Y.; 1922

2011-11-20T20:19:00.000-06:00

I can think of no other sphere into which, with less hesitation, I would wish my daughter to enter. I would take exception however, to her marrying a farmer still employing old methods. A man, well versed in agriculture, willing to keep abreast of the times and to take advantage of the resources at his command, is bound to make a success of farming. Selecting a particular branch of farming to be chosen with due consideration of the section of the country and of his own abilities, and concentrating his efforts in a systematic way, he will evolve maximum results with minimum hardship.

We farmers' wives of today have few of the problems of a century ago to contend with. Modern conveniences such as sanitary plumbing, the telephone, lighting and heating systems have made her home as comfortable as any of those in or near cities.

The problem of a child's education was, in the past, always a trying one. Where farms were situated far from towns and well-organized schools, a child's training was apt to be desultory. If a rural school were near, it was probably more or less inefficient. It was a difficult question to decide whether the advantages a child gained from a healthy out-door farm life with its opportunities of learning the innermost workings of nature, outweighed the handicaps of being deprived of a regulation education. Today the question has been practically obliterated by a better supervision of schools and the greater possibilities of keeping in communication with towns due to the ever-increasing use of automobiles.

To the lot of an enterprising farmer's wife no longer falls the task of assisting with milking cows, harvesting and other outside work, added to her already sufficient task of housekeeping if she has her definite duties, such as attending to the creamery or to the poultry, the labor thereof is minimized by the proper utensils and proper places in which to work.

I would not under any circumstances consider the marriage of my daughter with any but a progressive farmer, a man aware of the fact that he has a three-fold duty to preform to make life pleasant and profitable for his family, to keep in touch with the affairs of his community and to avail himself of all advantages being introduced into his special branch of farming.

From my own experience I know of no happier life than that of a well-organized, well-equipped farm, where a girl is certain of getting out of life all that she puts into it. The freshness about her keeps her young. She can give to her children their righteous heritage. She soon becomes her husband's unfailing helper and companion. She finds a combination unequaled in any city, the joys of nature coupled with the available pleasures of the world. She is not far enough away to be isolated, nor near enough to be contaminated.

LUCKY PONY WINNER--KEITH WALKER AND PONY "TRAMP", 1912

2011-11-13T20:45:00.004-06:00

I love the Pony Club children and the stories they wrote. Today I would like to introduce you to Keith S. Walker. He was eight years old when he won his precious pony "Tramp" in 1912. Below in red print is part of the letter that Keith wrote to the editors of The Farmer's Wife magazine. His entire letter can be found in The Farmer's Wife Pony Club Sampler Quilt on pages 10 and 11.

I want to write and tell you how glad I was when I received word that I was one of the "Lucky Pony Winners" in the Contest that closed September 30th, 1912, and what good times I have had with my pony, "Tramp." He is brown and white and weighs 300 pounds. Everyone tells me that he is the cutest and smallest pony they ever saw. I have had several chances to sell him, but would not like to part with him at any price. He is larger and fatter than he was when he came and as slick as a mole.

I was at school when the letter came telling me I was a winner, and when I got home, mamma told me that papa wanted me at the barn. I ran out to the barn and papa told me he was fixing up a place to keep "Tramp" in. My, but I was the happiest boy you ever saw. I went to the train twice to meet him but he did not come, but the next day papa went and he was there. Everybody around town was at the depot to see him. He came the 15th of October and I have had lots of fun with him ever since.

During the winter I could not drive him much, but since the roads got good we drive him to school everyday. At night all the boys and girls want to ride with me. My cousin is visiting me now and we have lots of fun. When I have "Tramp" turned out in the orchard and he sees me coming after him, he commences to shake his head and paw in the ground with his left foot. This morning I thought I would have a little horseback ride, but "Tramp" did not think so, so he tried to throw me off. He would rear up on his hind feet and then kick up. Once I nearly went over his head. When he throws us off, he always stops as soon as we are off and seems to laugh at us and waits for us to get on again.

I want to thank you ever so much for the beautiful outfit. It is surely a nice present and I don't see how you can give away such fine outfits for so little pay.

At the Depot

Keith and Tramp's Quilt block

Since the editors of The Farmer's Wife wanted to prove that these children really did win a pony, they published the children's names and where they were from. With this information, I have been able to track these children on genealogical websites. This is what I found about Keith and his family:

Keith Singletary Walker was born in Wisconsin in 1904. The children in the picture below are believed to be his younger brother Raymond and sister, Bernice.

Keith's parents were Levi Walker and Clara Janetta Singletary Walker and they were married in 1902. The family was all listed in the 1910 census, but by the 1920 census, Keith's father was a widower. Although we do not know the exact year of Clara Walker's death, we do know that she was between 35 and 43 years of age when she died, and left three young children to the care of her husband.

When Keith grew to be an adult, he married Myrtle Stewart who was also born in 1904. They both passed away while living in Florida; Keith in 1972, and Myrtle in 1984. It is believed that they did not have any children of their own.

Keith and his wife are pictured in the photo above. It was taken in 1962 at Prairie Farm in Barron County, Wisconsin. Keith is holding his great niece, Shelia Mickelson, and his wife is holding their great nephew, Mark James Mickelson; twins perhaps?

I think Keith looked like a very nice man with a sweet smile. I wish I could have met him!

For more information about The Farmer's Wife Pony Club Sampler Quilt and CD, please click on the following link. http://www.thefarmerswifequilt.com/page04.html

BACK ON THE FARM; part 13; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-11-08T00:01:00.000-06:00

When I was married I said that at forty I would be ready to die. "By forty," thought twenty, "the thrills of life will be gone. One settles down to a humdrum existence. One's husband decides by that time, no doubt, not to love that old frump any more." Now, looking through the doorway of forty I have no fear of entering. Never has life looked so alluring. Never, I believe, have I meant so much, as partner and comrade, to my husband.

Scoffers there are no doubt, who may say that I have written in effervescence of spirit, that my joy is ephemeral. I know there will be hot, discouraging days this summer at whose end, after hours in the garden, or over a hot cook stove, canning vegetables I picked, I will fall into bed exhausted. Yet deep within me is the conviction--of which, perhaps, I can convince no one--that though my body die, my joy in this farm will go on forever.

By those to whom soil, sunlight and fresh air are but names, by those who love city joys, no enjoyment will be found in these lines, for the source of my thrills can be to them but incomprehensible incidents.

I ask only the disgruntled farmer--who is a farmer at heart--to count his blessings before giving all power to the dollar sign and bowing down to the town man's salary. For that salary, before town demands, is but paper fed to an ever hungry fire, while the average town man, like the average farmer, gets no more than a living, and not so much of a living at that.

In much that I have said, or all, I may be wrong. Too often I have been so to lay any claim to infallibility. This I know: That every moment I lived in town I was hungry for country sights and smells and sounds; and once more I am content, now that I have my family back in overalls.

The end.

BACK ON THE FARM; part 12; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-11-03T00:01:00.000-05:00

As to fresh food! I have always said that, no matter how small my income, (and heaven knows it has been small enough) a good share of it must be spent for milk and butter that my children could have all they wanted of these commodities. But no one knows how hard it has been many times in town when I have seen them, undaunted by any market price, consuming great quantities of both, not to cry out, "Oh, go easy. Go easy."

Now, when I go into my pantry where there are pans of milk covered with thick yellow cream, though I know that milk is costing both time and money, I am filled with gratitude.

Then there is peace. In town often I went into my garden early, so fresh after the sprinkling my husband had given it the night before, to try and imbibe some of the peace there, to store up a little equilibrium against the day's irritations. I never got there early enough. Invariably somebody's automobile would begin chortling and choking, frightening away the song birds. Its gas would taint the fresh morning breeze. Cars would tear madly down the highway, or an early milk wagon would pass. So now when I stand on my back porch, soon after dawn has lifted, and look over the plowed field--a velvet brown oasis in a green desert--and hear only the birds singing, or a rooster crowing; inhale only the fresh mountain air, heavy with perfume of wild azaleas, well--I could more truly worship God there than in any church I ever entered.

So much for our joys and blessings. So many of them still remain unlisted. Especially these two: fresh air and sunlight. Whenever I go into a building where there are ventilators, or read an advertisement for a product that is better than sunshine--those gifts with which God is so lavish--I wonder what God is thinking. I think of a certain Bible verse: God has created man honest and upright, but man has sought out many inventions. While I may recognize the need of such inventions, a sense of defeat comes to me. God arranges it so that man must work for his bread ( or has man arranged that, too?) but to even the laziest and most undeserving He would give air and sunlight. Yet how few have its full benefit!

And I believe that we are meant to be creatures of free air, free soil and free sunlight; that the sun must seep deep into our bodies, the soil must send its magic up through our limbs, that the freshest of air must reach every part of our lungs if we would be the whole creatures God intended. Whatever we do to confine ourselves hampers our powers rather than enlarges them.

BACK ON THE FARM; part 11; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-10-29T19:26:00.001-05:00

Meanwhile I am not idle. Cooking, washing, ironing and feeding a family of six--to say nothing of the mending--is no snap. Right now I am enjoying it. I go around with a tiny thrill in my heart as I make my house tidy, and I never did that in town.

I am an advocate, then, that a woman's place is in the home? Yes, if she has work there that can be done better by herself than another. Duties neglected there can not be made up by good done outside. And in no place should a woman's work be more in the home than on a farm.

I mean: If a woman does all the work for a sizable family--which includes gardening and canning--she has done enough and should not be asked to do more. There are times of need when a good farm wife will want to help out. I have worked in a hay field, driven the horse for the hay fork, and many other things when need was urgent and I had no sons to do that for me. But a farm woman should have no regular outside work. She is no more proof against weariness than other women, and all work and no play makes her as dull as it does Jack. She should have time to read and to relax. No family gains whose mother comes to the table too tired to give them mental as well as material nourishment. Many farm women try to do a man's and a woman's work, but I do believe that they can not do both, without one or the other suffering, and too often it is the home that does. Just the other day I read this: It takes such a small amount of effort for the country woman, with her wide serene vistas, her delicious fresh food, to be the healthiest, happiest woman in the world, and at the same time the least tired. So truly I believe that.

BACK ON THE FARM; part 10; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-10-20T00:01:00.003-05:00

There have been times, too, when, driving home in my horse and buggy to work and a late supper, I have envied the town woman sitting on her cool veranda, her day's work done. That feeling always disappeared, however, the moment I felt the country breeze on my face; and again recent days have taught me that most town women work in one way or another, as hard as farm women, though perhaps, they call it social life.

There is that other kind of work that town women do, I mean in Women's Clubs, P.T.A.'s and all uplift movements. I speak of them with highest respect. They do much good and those who work in them, according to their intent, gain much from them.

As for me! I prefer down right labor. I feel as though I never want to go to a bridge party again and stretch my face to a polite smile. Nor wear a dance slipper, nor shop for a fancy dress. (Yet, oh! how I revel in a new supply of house dresses!)

It is not that I do not like fun, nor people. I love an evening at cards with friends. I dote on picnics and good theatres. I love to take people riding in my car. I have always been passionately eager for friends; so much so that I go almost to any length to have them, even to changing, or trying to, my personality.

But, now, somehow, I want my friends to please me, to measure up to my requirements. I do not want to say, "Yes, I love to read poetry," when I don't, just because the person inquiring does. I want friends who can enjoy this farm with me.

Lately I read that every one should have an island--such as had Robinson Crusoe--to which she could retire occasionally. I want to make this farm that island. For a little while I want to live away from the worrying, hurrying world and to forget it. I do not even want to read the newspapers. I know that Hoover is still president, that Lindy is still having a hard life with reporters, and I'm glad that I'm just a common person.

Perhaps this deterioration. Perhaps I have lost ambition or am shunting duties. I cannot think so. Right now it seems that I am getting more from the soil than the world can give me. And who knows but that, in time--like things that grow from the soil--from my sojourn here I can give four worthy citizens to the world; and what I can give to the world is always of more importance than what I get from it.

BACK ON THE FARM; part 9; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-10-15T00:01:00.007-05:00

Just a while ago, on my way to the garden to help with the resetting of some plants, I paused on the porch again, to look over the valley. A recent rain had intensified every color. Grey clouds, too, darkened the land with their shadows. Against the reds, the browns and the greens, the wet rocks stood out like mounds of dark velvet. Over all, broken only by song of birds or brook, was that hallowed stillness that comes after a rain, as though every inanimate object paused to breathe a prayer of gratitude for the drink. It was all so clean, so fresh! I found myself wishing I could say this beauty, as one sings a rhapsody. There came a feeling, too, in that moment on my porch, that no matter how hard one must work, could she, in raising her head from her labors see such beauty, that were enough. I felt pity for all who, pausing in their work, must gaze upon city walls.

Which brings me to the clean, cool fact that I do not believe that any one can live entirely away from soil and live fully. No story of mythology so appeals to me as that of the giant who lost his strength when held away from his mother, Earth. Only so did his enemy conquer him.

Some believe that the nearer one lives to the soil the more he degenerates. That which lies upon soil often decays, true. But the tree, whose roots go deep into the soil, the grass, does not. Nor does anything when there is an upward reach.

I, myself, never work with soil without a quickening heart beat. I seem to feel the pulse there that needs--as the air, the radio--only right forces to bring beautiful things into being. One gives into its care flower seeds and their beauty delights the eyes, their bloom fills one's home with fragrance. One plants vegetable seeds and the increase feeds his family. One gives it labor and diligence and patience and the harvest nourishes the soul.

The color of soil in New England is different from Iowa's.

"That looks like dirt," I exclaimed, as my husband mixed with the soil he was putting around the plant I held for him, a black substance he called mulching."

For Iowa soil is black and rich and beautiful. Yet the changing browns in the soil here are beautiful, too, and must be as full of good for those who put their faith and work into it.

Now don't form the opinion that I live in some kind of Utopia if your idea of Utopia is a place where there is no work to do, no problems, a place of self gratification , for this is just the opposite. On any farm there is work and trouble. (Nor do I know of any place where there is not.) I admit that the trouble with farm life is too much work and too little money. That condition, too, exists in town.

There has been the time when even I, loving farm life as I do, thought spring, for the farmer, signified hope; summer, work; fall, hopes blasted; and winter a time to be existed through to meet and begin again the perplexing circle. While I admit the need of money and the right of the want of it, I could meet a meagre harvest now with clearer vision, conscious of my spiritual harvest. Then, too, recent days have taught me that plenty of town people are poorly paid for their labor.

THE PONY CLUB SAMPLER QUILT YAHOOGROUP

2011-10-10T08:31:00.002-05:00

There is a yahoogroup that is sewing The Pony Club Quilt. Please join us for encouragement, questions and a chance to post photos of your quilt blocks. Every Monday I will be announcing the block of the week, and posting historical background information about The Lucky Pony Winner children as adults. Joining the group is easy and we've love to have you!
http://groups.yahoo.com/group/thefarmerswifeponyclubquilt/

If you do not have a copy of the book, it can be purchased at Amazon:
www.amazon.com

Or my website: http://www.thefarmerswifequilt.com/page05.html

BACK ON THE FARM; part 8; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-10-10T00:01:00.003-05:00

The sound of the hammer and saw came to my ear the other day when I drove into the yard from town. Walking down through the wet grass, following the sound I came to the hog house. Even before I got there I heard them laughing and talking. Putting my head through the small window I found them, father and son, making a pen for a sow and her new babies. They immediately became eager that I should know how the room was to be apportioned, and began explaining. I hardly heard them for I could not help thinking, as I watched them, that they were having as much fun, or more, than if they were playing golf together.

And how I enjoy our only daughter! Singing as she makes cookies, swearing me to secrecy as she concocts some delicacy with which to surprise the boys, asking me riddles as we make the beds! "I never knew," once she looked up from her dusting to exclaim, "how much work there was just keeping a house clean." I am glad that she has this opportunity to learn. That opportunity was available in town, I know, but there it was such a tug to keep her with me against the enticements that her friends offered.

As to our neighbors! We have been invited places. "And we really must go and get acquainted," we keep insisting. Yet when evening comes--no, not because we are too tired, but because we are too deliciously content to stay at home--we resolve to go next time. So we sink into deep chairs around our own fireside. While I read Heidi, or one of the Alcott books, to the whole family, my youngest son and daughter, squatted before the fire, sew on the family buttons. Only the crackle of hemlock breaks into the story, or the sudden excitement caused by the rescue of a spark that has jumped over the fire screen.

Perhaps this is selfish. I only know I'm jealously eager for an opportunity, for a little while, to get acquainted with my family. The pity is to me that so many parents are unaware of the fun they can have with--or give to--their children just in companionship.

BACK ON THE FARM; part 7; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-10-05T00:01:00.005-05:00

Helping Dad feed the calves in the warm coziness of the barn, helping mother take a biddy off the nest with her new chicks, their eyes eager, their tongues busy with questions; pitching down hay for the cows all by their "lonesome"; learning the worth of expert workmanship in no matter how small a task; to me such lessons in kindness, in care of something beside themselves that are available every hour of every day on a farm are invaluable.

When they will play there is the most helpful play. Picking wild flowers, playing school on the grey rocks, building dams in the brook, making maple syrup and trying to sell it! They made a raft, too, from which Bud slipped into the pond. He can not swim, but he caught hold of the edge of the raft and pulled himself to safety.

Then the bag swing! I stood watching my oldest boy fasten it to the highest peak in the barn. He stood on a ladder that stood on a plank supported by his father's shoulder and a six by six, the top of it braced against a rafter. It looked so precarious.

"Mercy!" I protested. "What if it should slip!"

"Then it's good-bye me, he laughed, yanking a knot in the rope.

Yet somehow it's not scars to their bodies I have ever feared, if only I can keep their minds clear!

As I finished up the kitchen work that night I could see them, through the wide door of the lighted barn, swinging. Their happy voices came to me through the warm night. They swept me back to the days when I myself had leaped from the leafy branches of a tree to such a swing. Stuffing the dishpan out of sight I went out to them.

"Let me try once."

They looked quite shocked for a moment; then quickly grew eager.

"Yes, let mother swing. Get off and let mother try. F'r gosh sakes, Bud, get off the swing, I said."

I stood on the ladder a long time, bag in hand.

"Go on mother, go on."

And, finally--

BACK ON THE FARM; part 6; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-09-30T00:01:00.003-05:00

The other day, looking out of my upstairs window, I saw my second son and his friend over by the shop, both working most diligently. So intent were they upon their work that they jumped when I asked, "What now, boys?" and held out the gingerbread.

That gingerbread got scant attention for a few moments, as the boys eagerly told me that they were doing; making an "A" coop to be ready for a new hatching of chickens. They explained every inch of that coop to me, their eyes agleam as if they were telling me of the most exciting movie.

"But I thought you had gone to a scout meeting," I said.

"We did. But we hurried home--"

Hurried home from scout meeting to work on a chicken coop! When I left them they went back to saw and hammer, letting the dog gobble up their gingerbread. (It was good bread, too.) But I carried a thrill in my heart. Don't you see? Just the thing I wanted! Making play of their work, using their surplus energy constructively.

On the way to the house I saw my oldest son,--or could he be mine, this brawny blond, as tall as I--astride a load of dirt, driving a lovely team. In undershirt, he wore a most disreputable looking hat, and there were big patches on his trousers. But the gleam in his face as he managed those horses put another thrill in my heart, and when he saw me he let out a wild whoop and flung his hat into the air. Just moving a pile of dirt from one place to another, but don't you see? More than our cows and our pigs we were growing manhood.

I paused on the porch before going in. Far across the pond, on the opposite hillside, I saw my husband, running the tractor. Behind it were fastened the disk and the harrow. Over and over the plowing he went, changing, as he went, the color of the ground behind him--as when one rubs for hand over velvet--from a dry brown to a wet darkness; circling the green oasis that is the bottomless well, trying to free the land of what, in Iowa, we call quack grass.

"See the man working," one might have exclaimed. I, smiling in my heart, thought, "See the man playing." For I knew he felt exactly as my children felt on Christmas morning as they went round and round the dining room table and under it, pulling a train of "choo-choo" cars by a string, with the added joy of accomplishment.

Sitting behind him on the harrow I knew were our youngest son and daughter. They were helping, too, holding the harrow teeth in the ground with their weight--but, my! That fun they were having!

BACK ON THE FARM; part 5; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-09-25T00:01:00.002-05:00

We never dreamed of Massachusetts. Yet here we are, I on my mountain top--one that is broad enough, however, that our cows are in no danger of being part of a landslide--and he, rebuilding a run down farm. Not his own, but he's planning buildings, studying fertilizers, going cautiously, challenging both brawn and wits, that these New England hills give back their best to us.

It seems like something I've always been waiting for, this country. From the moment I wound up the mountain to my home, the far awayness of everything, the sleepiness, made me wonder if this might not have been the original habitat of Old Rip, instead of the Catskills. If these New Englanders could go to Iowa, they might return and see their land with new eyes. Not that Iowa is not beautiful, with her broad black acres criss-crossed with baby corn as pie crust used to stripe my mother's cranberry pies; with young oats covering the earth like a velvet green carpet.

Yet the broad stern acres seem to challenge one. Here the land--not the people, for no people could be kindlier than Iowans--seem friendlier. Beauty is so riotous. It lures one away from work. It seems to say, "Relax, we will take care of you--"

Still, how a living can be wrung from these rocks I have yet to learn. As I coast down the mountain these homes that crowd close to the pavement mystify me. I want to go inside, know the people. In Iowa I did not feel so about the homes I passed. There, I knew the spirit. Here I have yet to learn it.

Skeptics may wonder if the realization of my dream equals the dream itself. I only repeat: Life is one thrill after another. My youngest son leaping down the garden path, arms and legs at all angles, as he goes each early morning, to feed his baby chicks; my husband and sons surveying in the pasture, or the sound of their voices coming to my opened window as they work in the garden below me; the whole family gathered around "Dad" by the stove as he tries to feed warm milk, with a spoon, to a chilled baby pig, each child jealously eager to do his bit, hold a spoon, a cup--! Farming is such a family affair, and as such, it is the source of my thrills.

BACK ON THE FARM; part 4; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-09-19T21:15:00.001-05:00

We began talking--if we'd ever stopped it--of getting back on a farm. He hunted for farms that were for rent. Once he took me to see "a good opportunity." It meant our oldest boy driving twenty miles to high school every day, or boarding in town and I was not moving to a farm to leave the boys behind me. I wanted them where they could be under the wing of real fathership. I vetoed that.

Nor was he sure that he wanted to make the break. Were he alone he would have been carried back to a farm as surely as drift wood is carried to shore. But he hated to plunge us into uncertainty. Farm conditions--well, you've heard of them. And we did have an income--which might as well have been called an outgo.

As for myself, I felt this way: Were I set down in the middle of a great city with him, where he must earn his living with his head, I fear our living would be of the meagerest. Were we shipwrecked on a desert island it would not be long, I am sure, until we were living in ease, and such luxury as the island afforded, so great is his resourcefulness when put up against difficulties of the soil.

Yet we let that spring pass, and the summer--

But in the fall--he'd been secretary for our county fair for many years--when I saw how that fair gripped him! He worked with farm people again, grappled with farm problems. Overnight he became different. He worked sixteen hours of every day, or more, without in the least wearying. His elasticity returned. And happy!

"That settles it," I insisted, watching him "cease to live" after the fair. "Next spring we go on a farm. We've got to manage it."

He wrote letters while I prayed that some way would be found for him to do the work he loved to do. Which did the work? Both, perhaps, for God helps them that help themselves.

It has always been a dream of his to rebuild a run down farm, even when we lived on one of Iowa's most modern farms. For a long time he looked away from Iowa's high priced farms to the deserted farms of the East. Grazing beef in New York, or raising hogs in the South. As for me, of all farming countries, Norway or Sweden--where they tie their cows to a tree to keep them from falling out of their pastures--has appealed to me. Farming in the mountains!

BACK ON THE FARM; part 3; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-09-07T00:01:00.001-05:00

My husband was not happy in town. He took an insurance adjustor—a dandyfied looking personage who winced at the sight of a hog lot—into the country one day to settle a lightning loss.

“Lord!” ejaculated the immaculate one, trying, unsuccessfully, to pick his way through mush to the busy farmer. “If there's one thing I hate about the insurance business it's wading through manure.”

I can imagine my better half as he laughed at that. “That's what I like about my job. If it weren't for this occasional wading through manure I'd quit the insurance business tomorrow.

Inelegant as that remark may be, I like it. It revealed so plainly that his contact with farmers, while he sold insurance, was his only freedom. “That man ought to be back on the farm,” I assured myself for about the millionth time, as he repeated the story.

I have never known so perfect an example of resistlessness as my husband is. He takes each day as it comes and does the very best he can with it. He never gets angry, nor too discouraged to smile. After twenty years of living with him I marvel more and more at his sane, clear way of looking at life.

But he was different in town than he ever had been in the country. His vibrancy seemed to have gone out of him. He had to hound himself to his work. He was always coming home from his business trips into the country with “Saw a dandy farm today a fellow could fix up with a little money.” The only time he seemed his real self was when he fussed with the chickens he insisted on keeping, or worked in the garden.

“Funny,” he'd say, as he packed down the dirt—oh, so tenderly—around the tomato plants as I handed them to him, “how so many fellows want white collar jobs while I've got to work with my hands.”

Never could any one make a vegetable garden a spot of beauty as he did; smooth black ground, long even rows of growing green, all closed in with vines and rose trellises. How our gardens flourished!

The more I thought about it the less I could bear to have this uncommon man, the roots of whose heart went deep into the soil, so what common men were doing—struggling for a mere living—while I grew more and more certain that by doing the thing he loved to do the living would come.

BACK ON THE FARM; part 2; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-08-31T00:01:00.001-05:00

"Mother, where can I go, where can I play, what can I do?" Such questions pommeled us continually in town. Small wonder. We lived bang up against a dusty highway, packed tight between two houses, one containing an old couple, the other a lonely old man. Luckily, the old man was deaf. The couple were not. They had raised one family of boys on a farm and were entitled to quiet. But how could I keep it so? Our sandpile, where the children of the neighborhood gathered, was under their dining room window. One day the children were having a hilarious time--in the hammock. Mrs. G--- complained. I did not blame her. Mercy, I wanted quiet myself. But what could I do about it with--well, about twenty children. I sent them to the other side of the house--the deaf side--but there was nothing to do there. A neighbor farther on had an apple tree, though. Soon she called me on the telephone, most righteously indignant: "You're children are in my apple tree, eating all my apples."

So that's where the gang had gone. I called them home. I did not scold. Children have to do something ; the blame is to grownups who don't provide the right something. I simply explained; I was always having to explain. Perhaps I took all the children into the house to make cookies; in times of stress I often did that.

But I did some hard thinking, too; perhaps praying.

"Dear God, put us back on the farm where the children can make all the noise that they want to, and eat all the green apples."

Better a stomach ache than a bruised mind.

If the children were not under my feet I worried about whom they might be annoying. I tried to keep them busy. I hunted paper jobs, and helped them deliver the papers. I pestered my friends: "Haven't you a lawn for a good boy to mow?" So few wanted to bother with boys; they wanted men to do their mowing.

Reading of the wildness of present day youth I knew it would floor me if my children did likewise. That all young people were wild I did not believe, nor would I let mine be--if possible.

I have never wanted my children to "have it easy." The hardening process of life is as necessary to a child's soul as work is to his body. I wanted to teach my children to do what they did not like to do, cheerfully. (A thing, alas, it took their mother long to learn.) I wanted to teach them the dignity of labor and the great truth--so scorned by this age--that they can never be truly happy outside of their work. In no place, that I knew of, could I better teach these things than on a farm.

BACK ON THE FARM; part 1; By A Farm Woman Who Went Back; 1930

2011-08-24T00:01:00.001-05:00

Yes, after five years in town we are back on the farm. And how glad to get back! What thrills we are getting. Those minute particles of happiness that all the world is seeking elsewhere we are finding at our farm home, one after another.

If that is the way we feel about a farm one might wonder why we ever left in the first place. The only reason seems to be that necessity demanded it. Like many other farmers, we bought too much land when the war boosted farm prices dropped below normal. Yet I value those five hard years in town. In no other way could I have acquired so true a sense of values; could I have seen how much better off than the average town family is the average farm family.

Why did we move back? You've heard this: "The farmer gets his living, and that's about all." Well, that is why we moved back. We wanted that living, rather than the one that was ours in town.

We were "getting no place" in town. Studying the situations of friends who were blessed with more material possessions, with larger salaries than we were, we decided that they were getting no place either. To be sure, they should have arrived somewhere for they were going, going, going, all the time; dances, parties, conventions, motor trips. (People on a farm are so tied down; you've heard that, too.) No doubt they considered that they got a better living than the average farmer, but what a price they paid of it! Letting the things that they wanted to do pass them by; making contracts they did not care for; worrying, hurrying, gathering to them nothing worthwhile, though they thought they were living. They saved no money, either; instead debts madly pursued them.

Even could we have afforded it, that was not the kind of living we wanted. We wanted soil that would bloom at our touch, an outdoors where our children could make all the noise that they wanted to, a home where the evenings would not find us scattered: Father in his office , Mother at Women's Club, the children at the movies. And farming is such a together job! Don't you think so?

THE GARDEN OF LIFE; by Dr. John W. Holland; part 2 of 2; 1930

2011-08-17T00:01:00.000-05:00

Do you want the red apple? Knowledge is the first step in the ladder of life. By knowledge men can make nature's forces do their bidding. They can unsheathe the hidden secrets that help them to create a new world, and better living conditions in it. To possess knowledge has been considered the greatest gift. And yet, can the understanding of the head make over the heart of man? It cannot. Nowhere has it been found that knowledge alone has made the earth better. There is something more than knowledge!

The white apple is the apple of the heart. "As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he." Since character is determined by what we care for, then our hearts are the important things.

Some have had gold and knowledge, but have plowed the earth with war and sowed it with hate. I have often been impressed with the great character in "Pilgrim's Progress." It is "Mr. Greatheart." People with wrong heads and false ideals came to him, and he shed light upon their pathway.

Jesus came as a teacher, not of the speculations that men could not understand, but of the simple truths of the heart, that "he who runs may read."

Women may be tempted to think that their work in the training of children is not so showy as the gay cavalcades of society folk, but it is far more lasting. The mother who teaches a child the meaning of truth-telling has done more good than any glib-tongued doubter, even through he knows the lore of many books.

When you feel discouraged with your lot, wondering whether or not you have chosen well, turn to the eleventh chapter of Hebrews and read it again. If you doubt that the possession of good character is the one supreme attainment in life, look over the front page of any daily paper, and see the wrecks caused by people who want wealth or knowledge apart from good character.

There was another provision in the ancient fable concerning the white apple. "No lack or want should long come to those who chose this apple."

A Bible writer said, "I have never seen the righteous forsaken, nor his seed begging bread." In another place read, "Seek ye first the Kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you."

Which apple do you propose to take?

THE GARDEN OF LIFE; by Dr. John W. Holland; part 1 of 2; 1930

2011-08-11T00:01:00.001-05:00

I want to tell you a story. Once upon a time, when the world was young, there was a great garden in a valley. It signified the entrance into life. An old man, who represented the wisdom of the world, sat at the gateway, through which each young person, arriving at adulthood, had to pass. The old gatesman pointed out to them the way through the garden.

Near the entrance stood a tree the like of which none had ever seen. Upon its branches hung three kinds of apples, yellow, red, and white. Each young person who came was allowed to pluck but one of these apples. He must choose.

The yellow apple gave the youth power to turn his ventures into gold. He would be made successful, and attain the power that gold gives to men.

If the entrant should choose the red apple, he would gain knowledge. The book of the world gain knowledge. The book of the world would lay open before him and its mysteries be unraveled. He would be enabled to accomplish everything that he desired in life through the power of knowledge.

The white apple conferred a different power. Whoever chose it would attain the power of becoming personally agreeable, pure in character, and "become patient, even with cranky old women." Through the white apple he would have power to make the world happier and better.

Only one apple might be chosen. That rule was passed to prevent an envious person from choosing all three, and thus becoming a pest in the world.

Whoever you are that reads this: You are as the youth in life's garden.

Do you want the yellow apple? Who does not desire gold? We live in a world of things. Since money is the chief thing-getter, therefore to get money seems to be the chief thing.

Gold has great power. It can aid in every great undertaking. It can be turned into books, food, shelter, and medicine. On the other hand it can engender jealousies that curse the earth with wars. It can create artificial distinctions among people that are almost impossible to eradicate. Gold is not the greatest thing!

THE FARMER'S WIFE PONY CLUB SAMPLER QUILT--Ordering Begins

2011-08-07T22:00:00.004-05:00

Please visit my website for ordering information for The Farmer's Wife Pony Club Sampler Quilt. http://www.thefarmerswifequilt.com/

This pre-order offer is from August 8--September 8. The books will ship beginning September 12.

Thank you!

THORN APPLES AND SWEET ACORNS; by Elizabeth Wilson; 1915

2011-08-04T18:47:00.001-05:00

I love the taste of thorn apples and sweet acorns and sumac and choke-cherries and all the wild things we used to find on the road to school.

And I love the feel of pussy willows and the inside of chestnut burrs.

I love to walk on a country road where only a few double teams have left a strip of turf in the middle of the track.

And I love the creaking of the sleigh runners and the snapping of nail-heads in the clapboards on a bitter cold January night.

In the first cool nights I love the sound of the first hard rainfall on the roof of the gable room.

And I love the smell of the dead leaves in the woods in the fall.

I love the odor of those red apples that grew on the trees that died before I went back to grandpa's again.

I love the fragrance of the first pink and blue hepaticas which have hardly any scent at all.

I love the smell of the big summer raindrops on the dusty dry steps of the school house.

I love the breath of the great corn fields when you ride past them on an August evening in the dark.

And I love to see the wind blowing over tall grass.

I love the yellow afternoon light that turns all the trees and shrubs to gold.

I love to see the shadow of a cloud moving over the valley, especially where the different fields have different colors like a great checkerboard.

I love the little ford over Turtle Creek where they didn't build the bridge after the freshet.

I love the sunset on the hill in Winnebago County, where I used to sit and pray about my mental arithmetic lesson the spring I taught school!

VACATION TIME; by Alta Booth Dunn; 1930

2011-08-01T00:01:00.001-05:00

Oh, all the care-free world is gypsying
While I, home-bound, must do the hearth-tending!
But Summer's at my cottage door
With blithesome visitors galore;
With birds and bees, and little winds that bring
Perfume from many a lovely blooming thing;
With fleecy clouds that run like lambs at play,
And thunder storms in splendid pageantry...

So all the day I work and sing
And go a-traveling
On fancy's wing!

GOING TO COLLEGE; Ima Farmer; part 2; 1930

2011-07-29T00:01:00.004-05:00

Some boys have taken time off to work on public works, or in the western wheat harvest, starting in the southwest and working north with the crew and the season, until the last of the northern wheat is threshed. I know you will say that such work is dirty and hard, and sometimes degrading. It is--all but the last. A man can be degraded only by the weakness in his own character. My own husband worked during summer vacations for a man who was terribly coarse and obscene. But when my husband told me about it, he said, "Strange as it may seem, it simply steeled me against such things."

Some girls may be able to use the knowledge gained in sewing club to do dressmaking for the girls at school. I accumulated a little money by doing housework in the city. When hunting a job, go to the Y.W.C.A.; it will help you.

There are always a limited number of jobs around a college for the girl who wishes to work her way. When I was a student I waited tables, worked in the office, stayed of evenings with a professor's children, helped a woman in town with the Saturday housecleaning, and during my last semester, I made sandwiches and sold them to the girls in the dormitory. I have seen girls--orphans, with no one in the world to help them,--working their way and making high honors in scholarship.

To the boy or girl who wants higher training, I say,--go right after it. And keep after it. You may not be able to progress as rapidly as you would like, but the only thing that can actually stop you is you yourself.

2011-07-27T17:58:00.002-05:00

THE FARMER'S WIFE PONY CLUB QUILT BOOK UPDATE

2011-07-26T07:26:00.000-05:00

The Pony Club Quilt books have traveled the ocean two times! Once all the way to Chicago, Illiniois, just 2-3 hours from my home (!) and the second time, back to their original "home" in Hong Kong. They are now off the ship and in the factory being repaired. I am expecting a small advanced air-shipment of books in the first half of August. If all is well with them (and I fully expect that they will be fine) I will begin taking pre-orders. During that time, the largest portion of the books will take their last voyage back to the U.S.

GOING TO COLLEGE; Ima Farmer; part 1; 1930

2011-07-22T19:40:00.001-05:00

I wish I might talk to your sons and daughters, and tell them what I want to say about going to college. Won't you give them this message for me? If they want a college education enough, they can go.
You mothers should not worry or fret if you do not have money to send them. Many boys and girls have been ruined because they were sent to college with too many nice clothes and too much spending money. But the boys or girls who have the courage and the grit to work their way through, receive a training that is more valuable than an inheritance, and no one can take it away from them. When they finish their education, they will be far better equipped to face life on the farm or elsewhere than the petted and pampered ones, and they can go farther and climb higher, if they have had the courage and the vision to get all the training they need, instead of stopping half way.

And how, are you asking, can our boys and girls go about it?

There are dozens of ways, but they can be summed up in one word. Work!

Some boys and girls have made the farm yield the extra money. Some of them have taken the information that they gained from the calf or pig club and turned it into cash. Some have grown and marketed strawberries.

IT'S FUN TO RAISE CHICKENS; part 1; by Clara M. Sutter; Nebraska; circa 1935

2011-07-15T00:01:00.003-05:00

"It's fun to raise chickens when you do it right and make some money doing it. It's fun to watch your settings of eggs bring forth fluffy young chicks; it's fun to help those chicks grow. And then when they bring the family some hundreds of dollars extra each year, they make possible a lot of comfort and satisfaction.

This is the way Mrs. W. J. Joyce, who has one of the best record flocks in her state, doesn't think about it that way. She finds in her poultry yard a change from household routine, a pleasure in dealing with live things, and a satisfaction in mastering the problems of poultry growing and of making some money. Besides, her family is enjoying a more modern, more comfortable home which was made possible largely by the flock earnings. "We haven't always had a furnace, electric lights, running water and a telephone," she says, "but the chickens helped us to get them.

"The chickens add many hundreds of dollars to our farm income each year, besides furnishing all the chickens and eggs we care to eat. There is no other way I could add so much to the family income. Although poultry growing is a sideline, it is one of the most reliable sources of income on our farm and it gives pleasure as well as profit."

Mrs. Joyce's poultry business had very humble beginnings about thirty years ago, when she and her husband set up homemaking on their Clay County farm as bride and groom. She brought with her a few hens that were a wedding present. A high shed was the only place for them to roost, and they had to hop painfully up a ladder to the roosts that rested on the plates of the 10x16 foot shed. "It makes me laugh even now when I think of them perched way up under the roof," Mrs. Joyce says. "When I went in after roosting time, the hens looked down on me and made a great fuss.

"That first year those wedding gift hens didn't lay an egg from fall to winter, but winter laying wasn't the fashion among Nebraska hens then.

FUN FOR THE BOYS; New York; circa 1935

2011-07-11T00:01:00.001-05:00

How shall we entertain our young people during vacation? This question came to us a year ago as we had two grown boys who needed a change and amusement during vacation, also we had two younger kiddies.

We decided to take a small unused building and move it to a quiet spot in a remote corner of the farm by the side of a stream. There surrounded by trees and flowering bushes, not far from a spring, we made our haven. Picnic tables, benches and a fireplace were built and soon our little cabin had a large, partly-sided porch from willows, cut by the men-folks. Boards from an old fence served as roof, covered with tar paper which was the only expense.

Cots were added and the boys spent their nights and leisure hours there during the hot weather. The fishing was good, with a boat anchored at the dock for convenience. Also there was a diving board and swimming place near by.

Our city relatives and friends drive for miles to come to this restful place with their well-filled picnic baskets. Even Fourth-of-July fireworks in the city were of no interest to them.

REVIEW PAGES FOR THE FARMER'S WIFE PONY CLUB SAMPLER QUILT

2011-07-06T08:59:00.000-05:00

To see sample pages from the book and CD, please click this link. http://www.thefarmerswifequilt.com/

2011-07-06T07:00:00.001-05:00

THE AMERICAN FLAG, July 1931

2011-07-01T00:01:00.000-05:00

I found this on the “Children's Page” of the July 1931 issue of The Farmer's Wife.
Memorize these rules about Our Flag:

Our Flag must not be used as a tablecloth. Nothing but a Bible may rest upon it.

Never place Our Flag below the seats on a platform or stand, or twist it in any fancy shapes whatever. Use bunting for decoration instead.

Never let Our Flag touch the ground or floor or trail in the water.

When hanging against the wall, Our Flag's stripes may be vertical or horizontal but the stars must always be in the upper left-hand corner as you stand facing it.

When in parade with other flags Our Flag must always be at the right or in front.

When Our Flag is hung over the middle of a street it should be hung vertically with the stars to the north in an east and west street or to the east in the north and south street.

When a flag is worn out and can no longer be used, it is burned with reverence and respect.

QUILT SOAP

2011-06-28T18:27:00.002-05:00

I thought I would share something a little different today.... Inspired by my quilting projects, my daughter Amy, a soapmaker, recently made me a "quilt block" made of soap. It worked out well, so she's excited to try more intricate blocks in the future. You can check out her shop to see what other soaps she has.

http://www.zibbet.com/tenthavenuesoapworks Enjoy!

HEROES OF THE NORTHLAND; part 4 of 4; by Carroll P. Streeter; 1929

2011-06-27T00:01:00.001-05:00

Yet not one of the 379 mothers died who had their babies at the Outpost last year. No doubt this was partly due to the regular visits which each nurse finds time to make to all of her prospective mothers. She can not neglect this phase of her work for she dare not risk having a needlessly complicated case on her hands later. Often she can prevent such trouble but if it is apparent that she can not, she may at least be able to get the mother in advance to a more distant hospital, where there are doctors.

Keeping in touch with each case intimately the nurse knows when to expect the mother at the Outpost. And woe to the husband if he neglects to bring her in time! Sometimes, of course, the patient arrives only to find the little place full. Then there is nothing for the nurse to do but give up her own bed.

Although the nurse is sometimes on duty twenty-four hours a day caring for the sick, she manages, somehow, to hold an occasional clinic for physical inspection of all the babies in the community or to teach a class of mothers how to keep themselves and their families well.

As population becomes denser some of these nursing homes have developed into small general hospitals themselves. At Bengough, just fifteen miles above the United States boundary, a little one-room cottage with three beds, established as an Outpost in 1922, has been replaced by a small hospital with thirteen beds and a staff of three nurses. Most of these enlarged stations are in the prairie wheat belt, however. Several of the Outposts are in the southern part of the Province.

On the other hand, there is Carragana, in the untamed, unconquered bush land of the north. Carragana is twenty miles from Prairie River and the railroad, and sixty-five miles from the nearest doctor. A handful of ex-soldiers of the World War are there, trying to scratch a living from the soil despite a short growing season. Their wives are as true pioneers as any women who ventured west in prairie schooners three-fourths of a century ago.

Imagine what the Outpost means to them.

"I am certain that you saved my life when my baby was born," a Carragana mother recently wrote the Red Cross nurse. "You took me in when I had no one to help me. I would have written to thank you before but didn't have a cent for postage.

"I went harvesting last fall for seventy-five cents a day but it ruined my health and I can't do very much now. I spend all I can earn to buy food for my five children, for I can't bear to see them go hungry. They scarcely had bedding of any kind until we got the flannelette you sent us.

"The clamor from my little family now is all 'how soon will Santa Claus come?" But I am afraid he won't come at all as crops are frozen down here and times are so very hard."

This is reality is a cry in the wilderness. It is one of many. And it explains why, if you were to push through the bush land to Carragana today you would see a Red Cross flag flying above a little log cabin.

HEROES OF THE NORTHLAND; part 3 of 4; by Carroll P. Streeter; 1929

2011-06-24T00:01:00.001-05:00

These things happen. And when they do, who meets the emergency? Who takes care of the mother in childbirth, when not even a midwife is available? And who takes care of the accident victim who will die within the next hour or two unless he can get expert care?

The answer is, the Red Cross Outpst--Saskatchewan's own invention, since duplicated in Alberta, Manitoba, Ontario, New Brunswick, Australia, Poland and Germany. There are now forty-four in Canada, fourteen of them in Saskatchewan. You find them in such places as Cut Knife, Lucky Lake, Wood Mountain, Nipawin, Rabbit Lake and Carragana. In each instance the local community furnishes the building and pays part of the annual deficient, each year taking over more of the burden if possible. The Red Cross furnishes a well-trained nurse, the equipment, supervision and the rest of the deficit. Patients are charged $3 a day and pay as much of the bill as they can.

The Outpost hospital may be a neat little cottage, built according to plans furnished by the Red Cross, or it may be nothing more than a log cabin or the bare little shack which once served as a makeshift community hall. In one instance it was a railroad caboose, which followed miners in a gold rush.

The Outposts average seven beds but often have eight to ten patients. They are primarily for maternity and emergency cases. Each little hospital is in charge of a Red Cross nurse who is midwife, first-aid expert, community authority on how to bring up babies, public health worker and sympathetic friend in time of trouble. Stationed all the way from thirty to one hundred sixty-five miles from the nearest doctor, as in most of the Outposts, she must be able to deal with any emergency.

"Today," one of them recently wrote a friend, "we had a christening, a death, an operation, admitted three new patients, discharged two old ones, treated six in all and turned one away from lack of room."

Comforting a mother whose baby lies dead in the next room, rejoicing with another over the arrival of a fine new son, convincing a farmer with acute heart trouble that he simply must not pitch hay today, telling an expectant mother what she should eat and bandaging a boy's leg which had been cut in a mowing machine--all these are everyday tasks for the Red Cross nurse.

No comfortable ambulances with their patients roll up to the hospital door here. The "ambulance" is apt to be a dog sled, a canoe or a farm wagon. In one instance an expectant mother came to the Outpost on a railroad "speeder" car, which, incidentally, proved none too speedy. The first baby born at one of the Saskatchewan Outposts rode home behind a yoke of Herefords and another had his first ride behind a dog team.

HEROES OF THE NORTHLAND; part 2 of 4; by Carroll P. Streeter; 1929

2011-06-20T00:01:00.002-05:00

Many another story like this might be found in the experiences of the frontier people of Saskatchewan, but little by little civilization is pushing medical service nearer to the distant outposts. The Saskatchewan government has built a modern little hospital up in the wilderness at Ile La Crosse, 300 miles still farther north, to serve some two thousand prospectors, hunters, traders, fishers and Indians, who are scattered through a wide area of scrub timber and lake country. It is the northernmost hospital in this great province of Saskatchewan. Dr. F. G. Amyot, has had his adventures, too. One night not so long ago a messenger hurried to Ile La Crosse by canoe to report that the plane of Flying Officer A. F. MacDonald, of the government air service, had crashed near Dillon Village, seventy-five miles away. The pilot was reported near death. Twenty minutes later Dr. Amyot was in a canoe heading out into one of the north's most treacherous large lakes in absolute darkness. A high wind was whipping the water until those who saw him start were certain he could never get across. But Dr. Amyot had been one of the best canoeman in Canada during his college days.

His companion baled continually throughout the night, and when morning came the water was still so rough that the spray of the canoe hid the shore for minutes at a time, but they landed safely.

Crossing another large lake the doctor finally arrived at the scene of the accident. He found the aviator with broken ribs, a broken ankle, deep cuts, many missing teeth and severe burns from the fire of the wrecked plane. Although Dr. Amyot had been without sleep for twenty-eight hours he immediately set about making, temporary splints, dressing wounds, and feeding his patient. Four days later the doctor returned to his little hospital, frost bitten and sick himself.

These adventures are only two of many which doctors of this wild northland could relate. Others, just as exciting and often more tragic, could be told by the wives of the pioneers who are pushing across these new frontiers. To farm folks in the United States such dangers may sound like fiction, but they are grim fact to the stout hearts who are out there trying to subdue the wilderness.

HEROES OF THE NORTHLAND; part 1 of 4; by Carroll P. Streeter; 1929

2011-06-16T23:31:00.001-05:00

A blizzard was on the way in northern Saskatchewan.

And because he felt that it would be no mere flurry, Verner Johnson drove his dog team up to the cabin of John Littlewood near Foam Lake, 120 miles from civilization with the intent of putting up there until the storm was over.

But just as Johnson arrived, Littlewood hurried out to meet him with disturbing news.

His daughter, Rose, had acute appendicitis, it seemed certain, and must be rushed to a hospital at once.

Hospital? There wasn't even a doctor for two hundred miles, not until you reached Prince Albert. And besides, the only way you could get over the first hundred and twenty of those miles was with dogs. Racing that far against time was a man-sized job at any time, and with a storm rising it seemed impossible, even though the driver was an experienced frontiersman and though his leader, Prince, was known as one of the best dogs in north Saskatchewan.

Nevertheless, a few minutes later Johnson was on his way with a heavily-bundled, frightened girl on his sled, praying that Providence would grant her time enough to reach that distant hospital.

They were bound for Big River, a little settlement at the end of steel on the most northerly branch of the Canadian National Railways. Half way there the storm caught up with them. A heavy fall of fine snow, driven by a gale which seemed suddenly to come out of nowhere,hid the few landmarks there were. Soon Johnson could scarcely see beyond his team, then the stinging flakes made it impossible for him even to keep his eyes open. He was lost, yet he must keep on going somewhere. Fortunately, Big River was home for the driver and his dogs, and maybe Prince could find it. In that hope Johnson, depending on the trail sense of his dogs, stumbled along, head down, as best he could.

Many hours later a weary team and driver plodded up the main street of the little village to the depot.

A spare engine was hooked to a caboose and the little "special train" rushed the girl to the Prince Albert hospital in time for an operation that saved her life. The heroic incident was officially recognized when the Right Honorable W. L. Mackenzie King, Premier of Canada, publicly awarded Johnson a certificate of the Royal Humane Society of Canada, and put a silver collar around Prince's neck.

NOON-TIME MELODY; part 5; by Myar Hansen; 1937

2011-06-10T00:01:00.002-05:00

“Now don't get excited, Susie,” Paul tried to sooth her. “There's no chance in a hundred that they'll be out your way. I just thought I'd give you a little free advertising.”

“Oh!” Susie drew out the exclamation faintly. “But isn't there some kind of a reward?”

“A big one,” Paul said hurriedly. “The Banker's Association will--”

“I'm so glad!” Susie cut in.

And while Paul's mouth dropped open in astonishment, she went on to explain.

Paul whistled finally. “Gee, that's great! I'm going to put it over the air!” He started to hang up the receiver and then called again: “Susie! The next record I play is for you. Listen for it.”

Mr. Reynolds tried to ask him what it was all about. “Listen in,” Paul said hurriedly and opened and closed the glass studio door.

He put his mouth to the microphone.

Here's a rare treat for you radio listeners. Here's news so hot the police don't know it yet. Are you listening, police?

The two masked men who help up the County Trust Company this noon turned their sedan off the main road at the Corners, ten miles above here on U.S. 7. They took the road that leads past Aunt Carey's place.

Aunt Carey, previously warned by this station that they were coming, kept out of sight as we advised. But first she took a bagful of large-headed roof nails and sprinkled them all over the place. Uncle Carey got out his double-barreled shotgun and loaded it, just in case.

The black sedan came thundering past just about as soon as they were finished. Aunt Carey says she heard distinct reports like shots as tires blew out. Then there was a crash. She says Uncle Carey didn't need his shotgun because both of the men were unconscious under their car upside down in the ditch.

Are you listening, police?

The two men who held up the County Trust Company this noon are now locked in the Carey's root cellar. Better go get them, but look out for nails in the road.

Complete details will be found in this afternoon's edition of the News.

The next recording on this noon-time melody program is by the Casa Loma orchestra: “Name the date, Sweetheart”...

NOON-TIME MELODY; part 4; by Myar Hansen; 1937

2011-06-06T00:01:00.005-05:00

He put the music back on.

Gosh, if only he were not tied down here with his broadcast, he'd go out and chase around looking for those holdup men himself. Probably everyone with cars in the twenty mile area reached by this station, were already out cluttering up the roads. That ought to show the state police authorities that they should come alive and put in a radio car system for their troopers.

Just about then another bright idea hit Paul. Mr. Reynolds might get sore—but Aunt Carey's would come in for a lot of free publicity. Besides, he'd be keeping interest up in Station WACX. Too, he'd be doing a good deed by getting some of the curious off the main road and leave it free for the police.

He spoke into the microphone again.

Here's more news of the holdup. The two robbers are believed to be the same pair who held up the Lamoille Bank last week.

I have a special message for Aunt Carey, up past the Corners. Everybody knows Aunt Carey who cooks those wonderful chicken dinners. Gosh, I'm getting hungry just thinking of them.

Are you listening, Aunt Carey?

The holdup men are supposed to have turned off the main road in your direction. Keep out of sight, as these robbers are desperate and would think nothing of shooting to kill if they thought you recognized them and would warn the people. Keep out of sight!

It was scarcely five minutes later that Paul saw Mr. Reynolds motioning to him again. “Quick. A phone call! Party says it's a matter of life or death!” cried Mr. Reynolds.

Paul recognized Susie's voice immediately. She sounded strangely agitated.

“Paul, it's about those holdup men,” she began.

NOON-TIME MELODY; part 3; by Myar Hansen; 1937

2011-06-03T00:01:00.002-05:00

The tourist business for them had dwindled to nothing; nobody was going out of the way to look for a tourist home, or a chicken dinner either. About ten meals on a Sunday to people who had been there before, was the best they could do. It wasn't enough to pay the interest on the mortgage, let alone pay off the principal.

It was enough to make anybody sick, Paul kept thinking, as he sat at his desk. Especially when he now had charge of the radio station and was getting twenty-eight dollars a week—enough, as he'd pointed out time and again, for two people to get married on. But Susie still insisted that they'd have to wait until the mortgage was paid. Which, to Paul, seemed like forever.

“Well,” he said out loud and then started another record.

If there were only some way of getting people to go out that way, getting them to stop at the farm again. Paul had racked his brain without result. There didn't seem any way at all.

Suddenly an unusual noise broke the studio quiet. Paul turned and saw his boss, Mr. Reynolds himself, waving his arms at him from outside the glass door, and holding up a slip of paper. It must be pretty important, Paul thought, to get Mr. Reynolds so aroused. He went over and got the message. He read it, and he too began to feel the excitement.

He stopped the music abruptly, spoke into the microphone.

Here's a special news flash. The County Trust Company has just been held up by two masked men. Mr. Rollins, the cashier, was slugged over the head with the butt of a revolver when he tried to put up a fight. The teller, the only other person in the bank, was forced to hand over more than five thousand dollars in currency. The two men escaped in a black sedan.

Look for further details in this afternoon's edition of the Daily News.

He put the music back on.

NEW PONY CLUB BOOK SCHEDULE

2011-06-02T09:29:00.002-05:00

Thank you all for your patience. The dust has finally settled and I have a new delivery schedule, but first the explanation.

For you who had not read, I received an advanced air-shipped copy of the Pony Club book. It looked wonderful at first, but I soon discovered that the binding and cover were done incorrectly and would not hold up to any kind of wear. By the time the U.S. printing office had notified their Hong Kong office, the ship had sailed. For more than a week the printing company has been trying to arrange a rush job for a new printing. Try as they might, nothing has worked out, so we must deal with the already printed books. First they must arrive in the U.S. Then they will return again to Hong Kong, get new covers and then once again (third time!) make the long voyage to their final home. The books are in the ship pictured to the left. It is huge!

So when will the books finally be available, you ask? Sad to say...September! My original schedule more than a year ago was May, so I am a "bit" behind that, to put it mildly. :) But it is what it is, and I'm trying to not whine too much and make the best of it. I should know by the beginning of August if anything else has gone wrong! but if all is well, I will begin preorders later in the month.

Thank you all for your patience. And for what it is worth, I am really very pleased with the book and I hope that when you finally see a copy, you will be too.

P.S. BTW, other possibilities such as in redoing the covers in the U.S. were discussed, but for various reasons, were found not to be viable options.

NOON-TIME MELODY; part 2; by Myar Hansen; 1937

2011-05-30T00:01:00.003-05:00

The Carey's farm was located about ten miles from Hoskins, a small, thriving industrial city. It wasn't a very large farm; Mr. Carey kept six cows and about a hundred hens; raised vegetables which he sold in the city in season along with milk and eggs to earn a comfortable income without too much effort.

One Sunday, a year ago, after a dinner at the Carey's Paul had had a bright idea. It was a chicken dinner, prepared as only Mrs. Carey and Susie knew how; deliciously roasted spring pullet, thick rich gravy, soup as clear as liquid gold. Apple pie thick and juicy, with a crust that left his mouth watering.

“Gee,” he'd exclaimed, “what people wouldn't give for a dinner like this! You ought to hang up a sign, 'Tourists,' you're on the main highway and business would be great.”

The Careys had been thinking of that very thing for a long time and Paul's remark hastened their decision.

The upshot of it was that they put a thousand dollar mortgage on the farm so that necessary alternations could be made on their old-fashioned home,--a huge new screened-in porch where meals could be served; a new bathroom; rooms made over upstairs for guests; painting inside and out. By the middle of that summer “Aunt Carey's” was doing a rushing business, not only with tourists, but from entire families who came out from the near-by city for Sunday dinner.

And then the blow had fallen.

There had been agitation for paving on this main trunk line that ran past the Carey place and finally the State had decided to build a concrete boulevard with the aid of government funds. Paul and Susie had been jubilant, thinking that it meant bringing still more trade to “Aunt Carey's.” And then, without any warning whatsoever, engineers had rerouted the new road to avoid two steep hills and a bridge over a brook. The new strips of concrete now lay a quarter of a mile from the Carey's front door.

NOON-TIME MELODY; part 1; by Myar Hansen; 1937

2011-05-27T07:42:00.002-05:00

Tall young Paul Keith finished broadcasting the few brief news items he uses as "teasers" to start each noontime program over the Hoskins Daily News local station, WACX.

John Bilger was instantly killed when the automobile he was driving caromed off a tree near Sunderland Hollow.

No traces of the two masked men who held up the Lamoille Valley Bank last week have yet been found.

Three hundred employees of the marble quarry here are out on strike today...

You have just heard the latest news dispatches brought to you through the courtesy of the Daily News through arrangement with the Associated Press. Look for further details in this afternoon's edition of the Daily News.

The first recording on today's program of noontime melodies is "Isn't It a Lovely Day" by Don Bestor and his orchestra.

Music flooded out over the air waves. Paul Keith ran a smoothing hand over dark hair and settled back to wait until the end of the record, when he would read an advertisement and then play another recording.

Susie Carey would know that he would be out tonight at about six. His playing one of Don Bestor's recordings first on the program meant just that in their own secret understanding. If he started the program with one of Bing Crosby's, Susie would expect him at about eight. One of Rudy Vallee's records played at the beginning meant that he could get away right after the program was over at one-thirty.

The music stopped and he read the coal company's ad about how clean and efficient their coal was. Paul's speaking voice was soft and pleasant, and he had a natural gift of knowing how to modulate his tones, how to put feeling and depth even into announcements.

Mr. Reynolds, the crusty old owner of the Daily News, had placed Paul in direct charge of the small station when he had first installed it about a year ago, once he had heard Paul's voice over the air. Paul had been a cub reporter on the paper then; he was still a reporter, but with the handling of the radio station added to his duties.

Paul set the phonograph needle on another record of Don Bestor's orchestra. And while the music played and the crooner sang in his husky, throbbing voice, Paul kept thinking of Susie. Susie had honey-colored hair, a dimple in each smooth cheek. Susie was softly rounded all over and could cuddle up close, but say with a firmness that belied her rounded chin: "We'll have to wait, Paul, dear. Soon as the mortgage is paid and Mom and Pop'll have nothing to worry them, we'll be married. It won't be long."

To Paul it seemed as if that mortgage would never be paid. And the mortgage was his own fault, too. That's what got his goat.

NO MORE COLD LUNCHES; M. E. S., Missouri; 1926

2011-05-23T00:01:00.001-05:00

When I was a child attending district school many years ago, the most disagreeable part of the entire day was the cold lunch. Sometimes my appetite would lag and nothing tasted good when the cold food had to be eaten in a room that was none too warm.

When my own little folks started to carry school lunches I regretted the inability to provide them with warm food for their noonday meal.

I have observed that children who have not appeared to have any digestive troubles in their pre-school days have developed them soon after starting to school where the lunch had to be carried and eaten cold.

In our school we now serve one hot food to each child every day during the cold weather, and there is a noticeable decrease in sickness among the pupils.

It is managed this way: The school is divided into two sides. Each side takes its turn in providing for, and in preparing the hot food.

Often, hot soup is served, of which potato, tomato, bean and vegetable soups are the favorites. Sometimes potatoes are boiled in their skins, macaroni is served, or, maybe boiled rice with sugar and milk, or, hot cocoa is liked for a change. The menu is varied that the children may not tire of one thing.

Each child carries his own bowl and spoon which are washed when the meal is over. A large kettle is provided in which to cook the soup, and other foods. A large spoon, fork, soup ladle, dishpan and cloth and towels which the children bring from home complete the equipment. The food is cooked on the regular heating stove, the children bring the towels home to be laundered, and everything is kept clean.

This hot lunch I think is the best thing accomplished in our school, not only for the past year, but in the entire history of our district school.

A TWENTY-YEAR GARDEN STORY; C.S.L., New Jersey; 1926

2011-05-20T00:01:00.001-05:00

Two weeks before we were married we were driving through a woodland road and we dug some ferns and a magnolia and dogwood tree from Father's woods. They were placed in the back yard of the home in preparation for further garden work. For twenty years they have been early-spring cheerfuls, adding to our joy and helping us pass it on to others in the early blooming dogwood and the fragrant magnolias through a long season. Hundreds of people have had the flowers from our largest magnolia tree. We always have some in the home and when anyone admires them, we share them.

We seldom take a trip in the car or otherwise that we do not pick a bunch and take them with us. There is always an abundance and enough are left on the trees to form red berries or seed and make feasts for the birds. We added a new magnolia tree each year until we had a dozen or more. We dug them from the upland and placed them north of the house for they need partial shade. Every summer is a magnolia summer for us and our friends. They are so woven into our lives that we sometimes leave them for calling cards and our friends know who has been there, if they are away.

Twenty years ago, after the June wedding, we found a bunch of daffodils the size of a dinner plate in the hardy border. They had been planted by my grandmother when the house was new. We dug them up and put them into the dark woodhouse until fall and then the trouble began! "The man" said, "there is enough to plant the place!" He planted and planted and we gave bulbs away.

The next spring and for nineteen years our yard has looked better than a gold mine to me. We pick and give the lovely things away to friends, sick and well, to hospitals, churches, golden weddings. And there are always enough left to make passers-by exclaim.

Before the old year is out, my husband digs some of the bulbs which are starting under ground and we place them in bowls of water, held up by stones, put them in a sunny window and they bloom in a short time. These make delightful winter gifts. He digs the bulbs periodically and we have them blooming in the home all the time in cold weather.

I wish I could tell of our memory garden, its joy to us and its joy to other, though only a small part could be put on paper.

Shakespeare counsels, "No day without a deed to crown it," and if giving away flowers, bulbs and roots can be classed as a "deed" then we have scarcely a day without one.

MY EXPERIENCE IN DRESSMAKING; Mrs. H.G.S., Tenn.; 1926

2011-05-16T00:01:00.002-05:00

I am on the shady side of fifty and have lived on a farm forty years of that time--most of the time near a small village. In my young days, ready-to-wear garments for women were unknown to the stores of this village, so my mother taught me to make my own clothes. I began by making clothes for my dolls and soon learned to cut the garments by patterns of my own cutting. Mother encouraged me in this by giving me old garments to cut up into patterns. They could be measured to a doll more easily than a paper pattern and if they did not fit there was no particular loss. I soon learned to tell just what was wrong with my pattern so that a second or a third cutting would be exactly right. This idea has saved me both time and money, for in dressing two girls through high school many dresses in many different styles are needed. There are no patterns sold in our village so when the design for a dress has been decided on I save cost of pattern and time it would take to order it by resorting to the idea taught me by my mother.

When our oldest girl went to college last fall, she wore to travel in, a brown-and-tan plaid wool dress made from a circular cape she had worn the year before. The only cost of the dress was one dollar for a brown kid collar and cuff set that exactly matched and gave it the precise tailored look a college girl would wish.

In buying piece goods or ready-made garments, I find it economical to buy good materials for they hold color and shape better and I am sure to use a second and sometimes a third time by remaking. I plan the made over garment by studying the fashions and comparing the old garment with them. Sometimes the changes in styles are so radical that the old garment cannot be used. In that case I store it away with a few mothballs till the next season and pretty soon a design comes out by which it can be used either alone or in combination with something else.

What is worth as much to me as the money I save by my sewing, is the fact that our girls have developed habits of economy in dress for they know that one season's wear for a garment is not the end of its usefulness, and they can design and make their own clothes and remodel the old ones.

I LIKE TO LIVE ON A FARM; Lena Martin-Smith

2011-05-13T00:01:00.001-05:00

Where there is work and more work,
All of it worth while and essential;

Where the air is pure and sweet all day,
Not blanketed with smoke from factories;

Where we may see without obstruction
The pinks and lavenders of the dawn;

Where the golds and reds and silvers
Are clear and open above the fields, at sunset;

Where one may see the full canopy of stars
And moonlight does not have to rival street lights;

Where the sounds of living and growing
Mingle with the breath of pines and maples,
Not marred by rushing traffic, honking horns,
Cut-outs and street cars;

Where labor is of one's own choosing,
Of great variety and based upon ambition
For accomplishment and not "eight hours;"

Where women and men are real business partners,
The women an economic aid and not parasitic;

Where the standard of housekeeping
Is the pleasure and comfort of the family;

Where social gatherings are few enough
To promote real joy in the company of others--
Fun, laughter and story-telling
Rather than boresome toleration or keen competition
For favors from the other sex;

Where we may dare to eat real butter
And cream, fresh eggs and smoked ham,
Through we may not possess a single pair
Of cobweb silk hose!

And these are only the beginning of
Reasons why I like to live on the farm!

WHEN WE VISIT THE SICK; Virginia Carter Lee; 1918

2011-05-09T00:01:00.002-05:00

To know just when to call, how long to stay and just what to do and say when visiting the sick, requires tact, judgment and common sense.

The first thing to consider is the selection of a seasonable hour. The patient needs regular and periodic care and the visit should be timed with reference to this and not merely to the caller's personal convenience.

Most invalids are better able to enjoy seeing their friends during the middle of the day than at other times. Few invalids care to receive their friends until the room has been freshly aired and set in order for the day, the daily bath and toilet completed and the doctor's morning visit over. Neither early morning nor late evening are favorable visiting hours.

Some visitors never know when to go. As a rule, from fifteen minutes to half an hour is a sufficiently long period, for it is far better to go while the welcome lasts. If the visitor is wise, she will not allow herself to be entreated to remain longer or to prolong her call by the invalid's plea that she is "not a bit tired."

She is probably more or less excited tho not able to realize her real feeling until after her guest's departure.

But more important than all else in visiting the sick, is the atmosphere the caller consciously or unconsciously carries with her. Conversation, manner, even the tones of the voice have their effect on the invalid.

Too much sympathy with the patient is a mistaken kindness and often positively harmful. After a few kindly inquiries, the visitor should tactfully lead the conversation away from the patient's ailments into other channels. Diversion of the right kind is really as valuable to a sick person as a dose of medicine.

The visitor should carry cheerful news and avoid all that my be depressing. One's own personal worries and trials should be left outside. Entertaining news items, descriptions of the latest book read and letters from absent friends will all be of interest to the lonely shut-in.

The caller should dress attractively. Only those who have experienced much illness, realize what a positive refreshment a caller's charming toilet may be nor with what delight the tired eyes take in every bright detail. You must remember that what is merely an episode to the caller is an event to the patient.

Just what to take to a sick friend may be a problem. Flowers, fruits and jellies are customary gifts. If your friend is supplied with these dainties, a new book or magazine, will be even more appreciated as bringing a fresh element into the sick room.

Any little novelty that helps to break the daily monotony will prove attractive.

DAYS WORTH WHILE; part 2 of 2; Mrs. D. W. E., Kansas; 1924

2011-05-06T00:01:00.001-05:00

After returning home, I did not feel in the mood to tackle that pile of sewing so I wrote a dear friend and then prepared lunch for the babies and myself and afterwards we all lay down to rest.

In the meantime the mail carrier had left a new magazine and when I arose I could not resist taking just a peep. The girls came home from school and found me still reading. Immediately the cry went up, "Oh, Mamma, can't we have a little picnic? You said you would take us to the woods some day. You're not very busy. Can't we? We're awful hungry." I laughed. No, I was not very busy! So I gathered together some eats and we all started for a walk. We ate our lunch in a sheltered place. The children hunted pretty stones and exclaimed over the beauty of the woods and we returned home just in time to do our evening work and prepare supper.

The pile of sewing was still waiting for me to find time to do it but still I did not feel that the day had been wasted. I had done so many things that I had planned to do when I had time.

Why not take a few of these rare days when we are left alone to do the things we always mean to do "some day," the pleasant things, the things our children will remember us for instead of always the big piece of work that we want to get out of the way.

I mean to have another such a day when the opportunity comes

DAYS WORTH WHILE; part 1 of 2; Mrs. D. W. E., Kansas; 1924

2011-05-02T00:01:00.003-05:00

Dear Folks: I wonder how many farm women have the same habit I found myself in: Whenever the men folks were all away from home for the day, I would pitch into some big job that I had been dreading and work frantically all day, the children and myself eating a pick-up lunch at noon. The two reasons for this were that I need not stop to cook dinner and wash dishes and that I could get things cleaned up before the men returned.

One morning recently, my husband carried his dinner with him to work in a far-off field, so I let the two school girls also carry their dinner that day. They tripped away blithely, pleased at taking their lunch to school. I turned to my day's work with the thought that now I could put in a long undisturbed day at sewing that was waiting.

The two babies, aged one and a half and four, were playing on the floor. Suddenly the older one got up and looking pleadingly in my face said, "Mamma, you said we would visit school some day when you had time. Don't you have time today?" Immediately the baby chimed in, "Go kool! go kool! I go kool, too." I started to tell them Mother was too busy when the thought struck me how often I answer their eager questions that way. So I said, "Why, yes, let's do go today!"

After tidying the house and getting the three of us into fresh clothes, we went to school. The older girls were so pleased to have us visit them, the teacher was genuinely cordial and I greatly enjoyed the time spent there.

THE NEW PONY CLUB YAHOOGROUP

2011-04-29T08:12:00.001-05:00

A few days ago I started a new yahoogroup just for The Pony Club Quilt.
Here we will share tips on block construction and discuss our fabric choices; groan over the "challenging" blocks, and rejoice over the "easy-peasy" ones. I also hope that we can start a fabric swap, especially for those who want to sew using cowboy, western, etc. fabrics.

In addition, we will be discussing the letters with our Block of the Week. I have been looking over census records and plan to post information about The Lucky Pony Winners as they grew up. Maybe your grandmother or grandfather was among them!

To join our happy group, click the button on the left.

A SELF-HELP COLLEGE ON A FARM; part 5; Harriet S. Flagg; June 1919

2011-04-29T00:01:00.002-05:00

"Three classes of young people go to college," said Dr. Hudson. "In the first class are those who can pay their way. Next come those who cannot pay but are able to battle their way through college by work and economy. Such a student was the late John Green Bradey, three time governor of Alaska, born a street Arab in New York. He worked his way through a small western college, through Yale and through a theological seminary. A boy or girl with qualities such as that, does not need the help of Blackburn. There is a third class; it is the class that Blackburn college is organized to help and includes financially-poor young people from mortgaged farms, who crave an education yet have not the worldly knowledge which is needed for self-help. They require, at the start, more individual attention than the average university can give them. They are splendid young Americans. We know this, for Blackburn proudly sent fifty of her young men to serve in Uncle Sam's army.

"This is only the third year of our self-help plan," continued Doctor Hudson. "Some of our students have gone to further studies in larger universities, other have returned to the farms. The girls who graduate are skilled in household management besides the knowledge they have gained from books. The young men have learned scientific agriculture and have had some training in farm management."

"If Lincoln were a boy today," said one of the trustees of Blackburn college, "he would, I believe, find his way to Blackburn where he would be welcomed. He would split rails and work on the farm for his education in an atmosphere that would make the most of his wonderful natural gifts."

Blackburn college is working to raise a half-million-dollar endowment fund. If it succeeds in doing this, then the little prairie college with the big idea, will be in a position to better realize its great dream of helping young men and women help themselves to fine, efficient citizenship.

A SELF-HELP COLLEGE ON A FARM; part 4; Harriet S. Flagg; June 1919

2011-04-25T00:01:00.002-05:00

Five years ago Dr. William M. Hudson answered the call to reorganize Blackburn. He called the trustees together and proposed that Blackburn turn over a new leaf. As there are so many other colleges better equipped than Blackburn to educate those who can afford to pay, Dr. Hudson suggested that Blackburn be turned into a college for young people who without means to pay for a college education are yet eager for training. "Let the students," said Dr. Hudson, "earn money running the farm belonging to the college for young people with pluck enough to work for an education.

"When we were ready to open the doors of the college, I wondered if we would have any students. The first year we had eighty young men and seven girls. The second year, we had over a thousand applications from students all over the world. Unfortunately we have only accommodations and equipment for about one hundred."

Dormitory room was sorely needed. There was no money for a building. Dr. Hudson asked the Pullman company for a discarded sleeping car. They gave him two. These retired Pullmans have been put on foundations, heated and equipped with electric lights. The lower berths were removed to make room for furniture and the girls sleep in the upper berths. While Pullman dormitories are picturesque, Dr. Hudson hopes soon to replace them with a modern fireproof building which will accommodate at least one hundred girls.

Recently Blackburn college received a gift of all the equipment used at the Woman's Land Army camp at Libertyville--where the war-emergency farmerettes were trained. This $10,000 equipment included horses, harness, wagons, farm implements, cows, dairy equipment and complete household furnishing for fifty people.

A SELF-HELP COLLEGE ON A FARM; part 3; Harriet S. Flagg; June 1919

2011-04-22T00:01:00.006-05:00

Of course other college and universities offer opportunities for students to work their way through. In any college, there is a proportion of students who tend furnace, do janitor work, wait on table, clerk in the office, whatever they can do to earn their way through. But the majority are able to meet their college expenses without work. The remarkable thing about Blackburn college is that the children of well-to-do parents are discouraged from coming there; young people who have plenty of ambition but little money, are welcome.

If you could have stepped with me into the college kitchen you would have found two good-looking girls rolling paste for eighteen apple pies for dinner. I tasted the pies and rolls baked by the students that morning. They were delicious. In the afternoon I had a chance to see that these girls were just as clever in solving a problem in geometry as in making apple pies.

The girls work in groups, which rotate regularly. By the end of the year each girl has served her turn at sweeping, dish washing, bed making, laundry work, preparing vegetables, cooking and waiting on table.

The girls handle the food, plan and prepare the meals for the one hundred students under the direction of the instructor in domestic science. They run the power washing machine, and do all the laundry work. In dressmaking classes they learn to design, cut and fit their own clothes. The young women work out, in kitchen and diningroom; the lessons they have learned in the domestic science classes. In the same way the young men are taught agriculture. Then they apply what they have learned on the college farm under the direction of an experienced farmer, who acts as farm superintendent. Every student is expected to spend two and a half hours at some practical work each day.

Blackburn has a small pure-bred Holstein herd and the young men do all the dairy work studying best dairy methods.

Besides practical training in household and farm management, the college carries its students as far as the state university does in its first two years.

Blackburn was founded in 1837 by the Rev. Gideon Blackburn, a Presbyterian minister, but the old college has been born again through the gospel of self-help.

A SELF-HELP COLLEGE ON A FARM; part 2; Harriet S. Flagg; June 1919

2011-04-18T00:01:00.007-05:00

Blackburn is not large. It has accommodations and equipment for about one hundred students. One large, brick building, built just after the Civil War, a science building, two retired Pullman sleeping cars used as dormitories, a barn and silo, with some poultry houses,complete the list. Fine old elms, maples, ash, oaks, add at the beauty of the 10-acre campus, which adjoins the prosperous prairie city of Carlinville. A seventy-acre farm, owned by the college, joins the campus on the north, and beyond this the college is working one hundred and twenty additional acres.

Blackburn College does more than "teach." It reaches out into lives with constructive, inspiring help. May I tell you the story of one of its students, Bob, as his friends call him?

When Bob was nineteen he was earning ninety dollars a month in a Pennsylvania coal mine. There was an accident and Bob lost his left arm. Through the long days he lay in the hospital thinking, "If I am to win out, I must get into a business or profession where I can use my head more than my hands. I must get an education. But how can I get it--now?

His family had no pull. He was poor. How was he, with one arm only, to get good-paying work, much less an education?

A friend told him of Blackburn College.

Bob wrote to Blackburn and the president replied, "Come along!"

Work was found for him. For a month he used a pick and shovel, holding his place with a gang of two-armed laborers. Then he rigged up an ingenious, arrangement on his left arm whereby he could punch rivets in an electric shop connected with a coal mine. A year ago he passed the Illinois state examination for mine inspector and was appointed to one of the Standard Oil Company's coal mines close to the college, at a salary of one hundred and seventy-five dollars a month. He attends college in the morning, spends the afternoons studying, snatches a few hours' sleep in the evening and begins his mine inspection tour at one o'clock in the morning.

Although sorely handicapped at the start, Bob is more than self-supporting. He has helped his family and has saved $2,200. With his savings and the education he has received at Blackburn, he is ready this fall to enter one of the large universities where he plans to begin the study of law.

A SELF-HELP COLLEGE ON A FARM; part 1; Harriet S. Flagg; June 1919

2011-04-15T00:01:00.005-05:00

"Doctor Hudson: I am hungry enough for an education to do anything within the bounds of reason to get it. I am not afraid of hard work. I was born and raised on a farm. When I was fifteen I got a job waiting on table in a small hotel and went to school at the same time. Then I had to quit school when I was sixteen to earn more money. You surely must know what it would mean to me to go to college. If I can work my way through Blackburn College, I want to know at once so I can come right along. Don't think any work will be too hard to me. All I ask is just the chance to prove how much I want an education."

This young girl's appeal for help is like many of the letters that come to Dr. William M. Hudson, the president of Blackburn College, Carlinville, Illinois, a unique college on a prairie farm about sixty miles north of St. Louis.

During a day which I spent at Blackburn, representing The Farmer's Wife, Dr. Hudson let me read some of these letters. They were, I found, from ambitious young men and women, from lean, mortgaged farms, mining and lumber camps, backwoods clearings, offices, small settlements, all crying out for a chance to get an education.

Everybody works at Blackburn. That is why Blackburn differs from most other colleges. The majority of students at the ordinary college or university usually have enough money to pay their college expenses and comparatively few work their way through. At Blackburn, the students form a working community under competent supervision. Everybody has some job which helps pay his college expenses. The girls do all the housework, the cooking, cleaning, washing, mending. The young men run the dairy, manage a 200-acre farm and raise most of the food to supply the college.

The student pays $150 the first year and $130 a year after that; this includes room, board and tuition for the school year. For worthwhile young people who cannot afford even $130, there is a little fund to help pull them out of these financial holes.

YES, I AM KNITTING; by A Farm Wife; May 1918

2011-04-11T00:01:00.001-05:00

Yes, I am knitting sweaters. No, I do not neglect my housework or any other duty. Also I am practicing conservation down to the very crumbs and I am doing work that I never tired to do before. For my knitting I use time that would otherwise be wasted as far as my hands are concerned tho I have never found much time to waste--the days have never had enough hours. I knit in my car, at lectures and at club meetings, in odd moments of waiting when ordinarily I would pick up a bit of light reading or when nerves and body demand that I sit still and relax. Do you think I am ostentatious, to carry my knitting about publicly? You many think so if you like, but just the same my sweaters seem to me to grow rather magically. And you say that a knitting machine can do the work better and more quickly than a hundred women can? Probably true--undoubtedly true. But a knitting machine takes capital to set up. The knitting that I and my countless sisters are doing takes no capital to start, is redeeming thousands of otherwise wasted hours and is winning back to usefulness many women who are physically unable to render other service or who have for years regarded themselves as exempt from the common lot of toil.

2011-04-07T07:53:00.000-05:00

EXTRA PONY CLUB STORIES; 1915

2011-04-07T00:01:00.003-05:00

I have discovered some extra letters that were not available to me when I compiled The Pony Club Quilt book. This letter is from Harold Kutzler of McCook Co., South Dakota. Another letter of his will be included in the book.

Dear Pony Club: This is a picture of my pony, "Rob Roy," my little sister Leona and myself. Mamma took us all right into the studio, and had them taken, as you will notice.

"Rob Roy" didn't want to come in at first, but we coaxed him with a piece of candy. He came right up and took his place as though he did that every day. The picture man said that he had had most all of the other pet animals in the studio, but this was the first time he ever had a pony in there.

Now, boys and girls, if you want a playmate, just send in your name to The Farmer's Wife and they will help you do the rest because they are an honest and reliable company. I will just tell a few things my pony will do. He will come right in the house, and takes me to school every day. Since I got my pony I come home for a warm dinner. He will shake hands with me, will lie down as if dead, will call to me every morning, when he sees me come from the house as if to say "good morning," takes my sister and me five miles to town and home again, just a-spinning all the way This isn't half what he does do.

Laurie's note: Can you just imagine allowing these two little children to travel five miles away from home??? Amazingly, this story is not at all unusual. Similar comments are made frequently in the Pony Club letters that are included in the book. What a different world it was!

BEING A SISTER TO TED; part 4; by Faye N. Merriman; 1915

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Just why it took her so long to put on a ridiculously tiny hat and why she left three lace-edged handkerchiefs soaking the scarf upon the dresser, is nobody's business but Thelma's.

That young lady was cool and undisturbed when at length she appeared upon the driveway. "But where is she?" she asked before entering the car.

You'll see her soon," he promised. "It was a fancy of hers to meet us at the bungalow. Perhaps she already there."

But no one appeared on the wide porch when they reached their destination.

"Never mind," he said, "we'll look through the house first. You will see that I have adopted some of your ideas. You have most unusual and charming ideas about building. With a brother's nerve I calmly swiped many of them."

Many of them! She caught her breath resentfully. The house was the house of her own dreams conveyed to Ted in scraps at various times and places. All though the building it was the same until they came to the sewing room which opened off of the curving front porch.

"I believe I hear something," he said eagerly. "Will you wait here until I see?"

She nodded dumbly and he slipped through the door they had left open. She crossed to an opposite window and waited, blinded and deaf and oblivious, until he grasped her arm gently.

"Come," he said, "and meet my bride-to-be."

Perhaps if he had relaxed his hold upon her arm she could not have crossed the room but she started bravely. Through the doorway he piloted her.

"My fiancee," he said proudly.

Thelma shuddered and then with a tremendous effort lifted her head.

"Why-y-y! she stammered.

"My fiancee, Thelma," he said again, reprovingly.

Her hand flew to her heart and the figure before her imitated the action. Then with a little cry she crumpled down--into the arms of Ted Stover. For there was no one in the room--nothing but the long, swinging built-in mirror.

PRE-ORDERS

2011-04-02T20:17:00.003-05:00

I plan to begin pre-orders for THE FARMER'S WIFE PONY CLUB SAMPLER QUILT, in May. Please check back to this blog for the exact date and ordering details.

YIPPEE! THE BOOK IS DONE!

2011-04-01T04:53:00.000-05:00

It has been two years now. That is how long I have had the Pony Club Quilt idea. The book portion went to the printer on Wednesday!! Hooray!! The CD will be completed in a few weeks. On Thursday I began cleaning out my long neglected closets. Can you guess what is more fun? (If you guessed, closets, you are wrong! :)

BEING A SISTER TO TED; part 3; by Faye N. Merriman; 1915

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Thereafter he dropped in informally every afternoon or evening. Other young men came and went--rejected--but Ted's brotherly attitude remained unchanged.

One day he came to her with shining eyes.

"I haven't asked much of you, have I, since I became a brother?" he asked eagerly. "You have noticed, perhaps, that I haven't been bothering you so much lately?"

She turned away. "I really hadn't noticed," she said indifferently.

"Too much occupied with that young Raynor," he remarked. "But never mind that now. I come asking for your assistance. Will you give it to me?"

"Gladly. What is it?"

He looked away down the path. "Do you remember what I told you about saving my money?" he questioned. "Well, I have done so and have also made some exceedingly fortunate investments--so fortunate that I have been able to buy a bungalow and half an acre of garden--and--I am going to be married."

Still looking down the path he did not see her face whiten nor her slender body tremble for a moment. Then she held out her hand quite steadily.

"I am very glad," she said. "What was it you wanted me to do?"

"It's rather an unconventional thing," he returned. "I have the cottage all finished and she wants to come and look it over this afternoon. I have no mother for a chaperone and neither has she--would you come along in that capacity?"

"Certainly," she said evenly. "Shall we go now?" Where is she?"

"You are a good little thing," he exclaimed impulsively, "run put on your hat. I won't ask you to walk now for I have purchased a little car--not much of one, you know, but just right for two. I'll run it up to the gate while I'm waiting."

BEING A SISTER TO TED; part 2; by Faye N. Merriman; 1915

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He leaned back in his chair and felt in his pocket for his pipe.

"Do brothers ask their sisters if they may smoke?" he asked.

Thelma wrinkled her forehead trying to remember. "Never mind," she said at length, "go on and smoke if you wish."

She waited while the match was lit and until the cloud of filmy smoke obscured the scent of the lilacs. Down in her heart a little unnamed something stirred and hurt. Ted had never smoked in her presence before.

Her eyes sought the lilac bush but the golden singer was gone--scared away, perhaps, by the pungent cloud of smoke.

"Great idea--this sister and brother business," remarked Ted presently. "Of course I wouldn't have proposed it myself, but seeing that you did I'll admit that it looks good to me. Maybe I can save a little money now."

"Save a little money!" bristled Thelma.

"May I ask you to explain?"

"Of course," he went on, "when I was buying candy and flowers and theater tickets and hiring taxicabs, I couldn't save a cent. You wouldn't believe how near flat I was before last pay day."

"I don't think it is very nice of you to tell me about it," she answered.

"Why not?" he puffed. "Don't brothers always discuss their financial affairs with their sister? Of course they do--and borrow money of them, too, if they get into serious difficulties."

"Mr. Stover!"

"Indian giver!" he accused. "When the Indians make a present they either steal or beg it back. Girls don't call their brother 'Mister.'

"But I wanted to explain about this money business. I am going to take the money I would otherwise spend on you and start a bank account. Of course I'll remember your birthdays and--by the way when is your birthday?"

"The eleventh of March."

He sighed in relief and closed his eyes in ecstasy. "No need to think about that for nearly a year," he exulted. "I can see my bank account rolling up. Want to go for a walk?"

"Are you practising your new economy on me already?" she asked, mischievously peering at him over the arm of the chair.

His teeth bit down on his pipe stem at the sight of the laughing face with its dancing eyes; then he heaved the smoking bowl out into the garden.

"Would you like to walk?" he repeated.

She skipped from her chair. "I'd much rather walk than ride, on a day like this," she said gaily, "and I don't mind walking anyway--with a brother."

"But you didn't think much of the idea a moment ago," he said anxiously.

She put her finger against his lips. They trembled in a most unbrotherly fashion.

"Never mind, she said demurely, "I believe it is the duty of every young woman to encourage frugality and economy. And I know a spot in the woods where violets grow that would cost you ever so much a bunch at the florist's."

"Lead me to it," he commanded.

BEING A SISTER TO TED; part 1; by Faye N. Merriman; 1915

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A wild, sunshine-tinted canary flirted with the fragrance in the heart of the purpling lilac bush that nestled against the side of the porch.

"I said it would not be such a bad idea after all," said Ted patiently. Thelma reluctantly turned her eyes away from the lilac bloom with its flying shuttle of yellow.

"What?" she asked.

"I like that!" returned Ted in an injured voice. "You propose relationship--"

Thelma forgot the yellow songster and the pillar of feathery blossoms.

"Ted Stover," she interrupted bristling, "Will you tell me what on earth you are talking about? Or am I to conclude that you have gone suddenly insane?"

He regarded her gloomily. "Oh, I'm insane, all right," he admitted, "but there is nothing sudden about it. And I fancied I was behaving quite rationally just at present."

"Rationally!" sniffed Thelma. The lilac stirred gently in the breeze. She sniffed again.

Ted sniffed also. "Pretty good," he said lazily. "Now as I said, my dear--"

"'My dear!'" Thelma's color rose angrily. "Who gave you permission to call me 'my dear?'"

He turned slowly in his chair until his reproachful brown eyes fell upon her own blue ones. "Why you did!" he exclaimed. "Didn't you suggest--not half an hour ago--that you would be delighted to be a sister to me?"

Thelma stared blankly.

"Didn't you?" persisted Ted.

"Ye-es," said Thelma uncertainly.

The young man opposite nodded. "It's settled then!" he exulted. "I sometimes think I really need a sister and I'd just as soon have you for one as anyone else I know of. And being a big brother won't be so bad after all." He grinned expansively.

Thelma moved indignantly to the edge of her chair. "If you think you are going to kiss me--" she sputtered.

Ted regarded her with innocent eyes. "You must have been thinking about that part of it," he remarked. "I am sure I wasn't. There are brothers and brothers. Some are affectionate--as brother ought to be--and some are exactly the reverse. We might select a sane middle course."

Thelma beamed forth suddenly. "You are the most sensible man I ever refused," she confided.

WHAT WE ACCOMPLISHED; by Edith W. Schlegel; May 1918

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I attended Herbein's School when a little girl and thus knew just what to expect when I went there as a teacher. Thanks to the board of directors I found the building in good repair but the walls were bare with the exception of one picture which the superintendent told me was fit only for the basement. There was not even a clock and as that is a very valuable asset in a country school we decided to work for that first of all.

The children sold useful merchandise for cash premiums, taking most of the orders in their own homes. We secured a large calendar and wall clock.

The next year we worked for pictures in the same way. We now have thirteen nicely framed pictures.

Last year we had our first entertainment.

With the money received at our entertainment and a few donations, we bought two lamps, a small talking machine, records and a stand. We spent many a pleasant noon hour listening to the music when the weather was unfavorable for outdoor play.

When we were tired of our cold lunches we had occasionally an egg day or potato day. At those times we brought eggs and potatoes from home, prepared them at recess and then at a certain time had one of the older pupils put them over the fire. I am sure eggs and potatoes never tasted better.

For the last two years we have gathered on an evening in May to work in the school flower bed and to plant vines. If there were a fence round the whole plot we should have better results. Therefore, I consider the securing of the fence one of our future problems, a reading table another, still another buying more books.

PIN MONEY FROM CHILD BOARDERS; part 3; by Ethel E. Beach; 1930

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I consider that half of the board money is clear profit. The egg, butter, milk, chickens, vegetables, and fruit are produced on the farm, and are being disposed of at a very high price under this plan.

If a person has just one room she can easily care for four children by placing two beds in one room, or, better still, four single beds. The children would consider this a real privilege to all be together. All my beds are single ones. In the matter of charges, while one could charge more than one dollar per day, she probably would get less business, and would prohibit a great deal of repeat business, which is an important factor. Or she could charge less and still make money. However, one dollar per day seems fair to both parties, and is intended to cover the extra trouble of looking after the deportment and general welfare of the child, which would not be required for an adult boarder. In the matter of laundry, one dollar extra per week will amply cover the expense and labor for the average child who is dressed suitably for an outing in the country. When a child stays two weeks or more there is almost certain to be a laundry charge.

I have three children who have remained with me over two years now. I take entire care of them and send them to school. I make a straight charge of one dollar per day including laundry. I make this difference because they are steady boarders. Two of these children belong to a traveling man who lost his wife. Being out of town so much he desired to place them in a safe home. Needless to say, I have tried to be a real mother to these little helpless ones. The third child belongs to a lady who lost her husband. She could not go from home to earn a living without leaving the child alone, and she could not earn enough at home. Finally she placed the child, a little girl, with me. I have given this little one every care. I even taught her to pray, and made little dresses for her. Next week this child will return to her mother who, recently re-married, needs no longer be parted from her baby. So one will note that there is romance to be found even in keeping child boarders.

PIN MONEY FROM CHILD BOARDERS; Part 2; by Ethel E. Beach; 1930

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Children are not as exacting as adult boarders would be, and are no particular trouble, as we provide outdoor interests. They have a large yard to play in and a little shop all their own where they build bird houses and such. I see that they are supplied with nails and packing boxes to work with. They make play houses, go wading in a shallow creek below the house, play in the hay mow, and gather eggs. They play mumblety-peg, marbles, pitch horse shoes, play leap frog, and fly kites which they make in their work shop, and usually there are enough children on hand to play football and baseball. Last year the older boys built a lovely little log cabin in our woods, from which each parted with painful regret. They assured me they would return later, and that I was not to let anything happen to the log cabin in the meantime. We endeavor to grant each child under our care all the privileges that the average farm child enjoys. The child is invariably delighted beyond words, consequently a good report is given the parents and steady customers are assured.

In advertising for child boarders I clearly state that references will be required, and also given. The references which I furnish are from satisfied parents of former child boarders. The references furnished by parents of prospective child boarders are rigidly investigated. This precaution is very necessary and indeed important, as parents who have reared their child carefully have a right to every assurance that he will not come in contact with a child who has bad habits. As an additional precaution, each new child boarder is spoken to in private regarding the type of conduct expected of him, and is given clearly to understand that any infringement of rules will result in his being returned to his parents, or, in the event of parents being out of town, that he can expect to be isolated from the other children. The reasons back of these rules are carefully explained to the child. I am proud to state that I have never yet found it necessary to return or isolate even one child.

PIN MONEY FROM CHILD BOARDERS, part 1, by Ethel E. Beach, 1930

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For several years I have made pin money by keeping child boarders. It is surprising what a demand there is for this form of service. Our home is a large twelve-room farm house. We never require all these room for our own use; so for many years they stood empty. One year crops were almost a total failure, and my poultry did very poorly. We were in distressing need of cash. Then the mail carrier brought a letter from an old friend who asked if I would care for her boy for a while with her paying me what I thought it would be worth. I offered to keep the child without charge. She would not hear of this, and finally proposed paying me seven dollars per week, and one dollar per week extra for laundry.

The child was quite contented with us, but there were no other little folks for him to play with; so one day I decided to get another child for company. I placed an advertisement for a child boarder in the home paper, stating the service I had to offer and price. I received immediate response to my advertisement and within a week I had six child boarders instead of one. We needed cash, we had many unused rooms, and delighted to obtain what we had to offer. Many parents took that long talked-of vacation that year. Meantime the children stayed with me and had the best time they had ever had.

The period of each child's stay averaged two weeks. I have children come back year after year. Some of the older boys save during the winter and come out and spend a week or two on the farm where there are lots of fried chicken, peas, hot biscuits, and pie.

PLAYING THE BLUES; by Carroll P. Streeter; 1933

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To say that a depression can cause more communities to have more fun than they have had since the days of our grandfathers may seem ridiculous. And yet that's just what is happening, according to many reports coming to The Farmer's Wife.

"We began to realize that sitting at home, moping over interest and taxes, and thinking about low prices wouldn't help us any," writes Mrs. Sadie Sybrant of Minnesota, "so we decided to get busy and create some amusement."

"At the next meeting of the P.T.A." Mrs. Sybrant says, "we simply announced that we were going to have a chorus and asked all who felt like joining to come to the schoolhouse next Tuesday night. Twenty men and women turned out, the director brought song books, we used the school organ and--we sang."

Spelling bees, checker and domino tournaments, quilting contests and twenty-four other kinds of fun are making life more interesting in several West Virginia counties this winter.

Take the West Milford community in Harrison County, for example. At spelling bees the grown-ups have their own contests, using old McGuffey texts, and the youngsters have theirs. Groups of three or four families get together in various homes for long winter evenings of dominoes and checkers, with plenty of cookies and apples on hand. Then along toward spring there are community tournaments, county contests and finally an inter-county competition.

The quilts are made the old time way with quilting parties in homes. To be eligible for the contest, a quilt must be made by not less than twelve women, who must meet to work on it together. They bring covered dishes for lunch and stay nearly all day. And we'll leave it to you to guess whether they have a good time.

A MUSICAL DREAM COME TRUE; by Music Maker from North Carolina; March 1933

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When I was a girl, my greatest desire was to study music; but I was the fourth of six children, born to a poor country preacher, whose meager salary barely supplied the actual necessities of life. My eldest sister, who had been given lessons for a few years, taught me the lines and spaces; and afterward my mother sold chickens and paid an instructor to teach me for six months. That was all the training I had before I was married.

My husband was also musical, but had never had a music lesson. So we decided to see what we could do, he with the violin, and I with the piano.

We studied under good teachers for three years, then kept up our practice at regular intervals. I do my own cooking and housework. We have one child of our own, and have had two orphans and a niece living with us for the greater part of the time, so I was busy. But after the day's work was done, the evening was spent in practicing. To be sure, it was an arduous task, but we kept at it.

Now when we tune in on artists playing Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, or compositions by Schubert, Handel, Mozart, or other great composers, we appreciate their mastery of passages over which we have spent many laborious but happy hours.

We play regularly for church, and are frequently invited to play for weddings and social functions. We feel that our lives have been greatly enriched, and that our twenty years together have been much sweeter because of our music.

THE HAPPY WINNERS OF A FARMER'S WIFE PONY CLUB SAMPLER QUILT BOOK

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THE FREE GIVEAWAY

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To make it fair and impartial, one of my older children used www.random.org to generate the seven winning numbers. I have waaay too many friends here to do it myself!
I have asked the winners to tell us something about themselves if they would like.

The Winners Are:

**JOLEE H. from Greenbriar
"I am a quilter (for around 12 years) a momma to young folks (who don't let me quilt very often, but as they have gotten a whee bit older, that has gotten a little easier:-)), a librarian, wife and lover of a great big God."

**SHAWNA L. from Iowa, USA
"I am fairly new to quilting. In January, I signed up for the Farmer's Wife class at my favorite quilt shop. As of right now I have 17 blocks done. We are learning how to paper piece most of them. My home is in the southwest corner of Iowa."

**MARCIA P. from Texas, USA
I am a wife and mother of two grown kids, and I live just south of
Ft. Worth, TX. I am also a quilter of 30 years, have owned an on-line
quilt shop, am a quilt pattern designer, teach quilting, and just generally
love anything quilt related. I am also a certified Interpreter for the Deaf,
but my greatest joy is the awesome privilege of serving Jesus Christ.

**ELAINE from Dorset, England
"I am 42 years old and have been quilting for over 13 years. I love to make small sampler quilts using scraps from my stash and those given to me by friends."

**JOLENE from Salt Lake City, Utah, USA

**BILLIE K. from Texas, USA

**FRAN from Missouri, USA
"I am a retired teacher and grandmother of 6 grandsons and 1 spoiled 2 year old granddaughter. I live in the St. Louis, MO suburbs. I love quilting and spend loads of time in my sewing room."

Congratulations to the winners, and thanks to everyone who participated.

***Please note: The Farmer's Wife Pony Club Sampler Quilt books will be available early summer of 2011.***

WHO ARE THE MASTER FARM HOMEMAKERS? part 8; 1930

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Mrs George L. Renner; Sioux Falls, South Dakota:

A congregationalist but since there is no church of her denomination in the community has been superintendent of a Lutheran Sunday school 10 years. School board chairman eight years, treasurer of county farm bureau, district chairman of Federated Women's clubs. "Often I have let the kitchen floor go to write a letter to a shut-in or sick person, and I think it paid."

Mrs. Willis H. Davis; Hitchcock, South Dakota:

Came to new South Dakota farm in 1881 as a bride and pioneer farm homemaker. "A successful home is one that develops men and women of Christian character." Home library contains more than 600 books. Poultry and garden add $400-$500 a year to income.

Mrs. George H. Gallaher; Wheat, South Dakota:

"The best career for a woman is to raise a good, honorable family. Has four children, two in school and two helping farm the the home place. Active in farm women's camp, women's department at county fair and farm women's club.

"I'm sorry that we do not have some of the conveniences we would like, but we have felt that our children's education should come first." President home demonstration club, active in church work.

Mrs. J. B. Taylor; Cleveland, South Dakota:

Winner of local house dress contest, chairman school improvement committee, president women's work in the church, Sunday school teacher. Husband, wife and children are partners in 463 acre farm business.

Mrs. Hal B. Walker; Greenville, South Dakota:

"If more farm women felt that they were not neglecting a sacred duty every moment they are not doing hard work there would be more happy homes. We have every reason to be the happiest group of women. Just now our great trouble is lack of recreation. We need to get away from home occasionally, even if only for an afternoon or a day."

Mrs. W. C. Hefner; Burnsville, South Dakota:

Chief ambition is "to make good homemakers of my eight daughters and a good husband of my son. We may never give our children much of this world's material goods, but we hope to give them education and training enough to enable them to make their own way to be happy."

Mrs. Charles L. Pitzer; Martinsburg, South Dakota:

Sunday school teacher 28 years. Since husband's death has managed several farms with son-in-law's help. Home considered one of most attractive in county.

WHO ARE THE MASTER FARM HOMEMAKERS? part 7; 1930

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Mrs. Elmina Fichter; Meadow Grove, Nebraska:

Since husband's death, 17 years ago, has managed the farm as well as her home, in recent years with sons' help. Has six children. Canned 556 quarts of vegetables, fruits and meats last year. Has attractive home with modern conveniences.

Mrs W. A. Wickersham; Filley, Nebraska:

“It does children good to share home responsibilities—keeping all business matters from them and letting them live beyond their means is no kindness.” Belongs to a national book club.

Mrs. E. H. Burke; Edmore, North Dakota:

Thinks children should be made to obey but that they will do so, usually with little trouble if put on their honor and trusted. Started homemaking on a homestead 23 years ago with $500 in the family treasury. Buildings burned once, but now she and husband have well improved 640-acre farm nearly paid for. Planted 3,000 trees on their Dakota farm.

Mrs. A. D. Cross; Park River, North Dakota:

“Success is knowing you have done your best, even if you have not reached your goal.” Publicity writer for the national W. C. T. U., edits department in her local newspaper, project leader in extension work.

Mrs. Roy Johnson; Casselton, North Dakota:

“My husband and I have always been real partners in business, parenthood and living. Together we keep accounts, take inventory, make out income tax returns, talk over purchases, discuss clothing needs, and support each other in training of the children.” Insurance guarantees children's education.

Mrs. R. A. Tomlinson; Tokio, North Dakota:

“One big advantage of farm life is that the children really get to know their father.” Member of school board five years, an officer in parent-teacher association and homemakers' club. Has good plan for improving kitchen “when we can afford it.”

Miss Laura Boerger; Irwin, Ohio:

Has helped father rear six brothers and sisters since mother's death, put the six children through high school and helped two get to college. Five of the children have been 4-H Club members and three have since been leaders. Managed to have regular religious instruction in the home, including Bible reading and children saying the Lord's prayer in unison daily. Is one of four unmarried women ever honored as Master Farm Homemakers.

Mrs. George E. Ryerson; Havana, Ohio:

Reared four children of her own, now raising a "second family" of five grandchildren. Has been sending children to school for 36 years and expects to keep on until grandchildren graduate from college. "I'm not a model housekeeper--it's been my aim to be more of a homemaker."

WHO ARE THE MASTER FARM HOMEMAKERS? part 6; 1930

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Mrs. O. T. Osmundson; Blue Earth, Minnesota:

Makes approximately $1,200 a year by teaching music, boarding the teacher and selling poultry products. Has kept accounts ever since her marriage. Is 4-H Club leader, helped organize community club and is home project leader.

Mrs. W. O. Plocker; Blue Earth, Minnesota:

Thinks more young people would stay on the farm if homes they live in now and had more of city's conveniences, if children had a genuine share in the live stock as they grow up, “if when boys are large enough to farm they get a share of the crop” and if all feasible means of recreation are provided.

Mrs. T. S. Soine, Iron, Minnesota:

After 13 years in town moved back to farm on account of her six children. Moved to uncleared timber farm on Minnesota Iron Range, with only three horses, one cow and 40 Leghorn hens. Two children are in high school, two in college and another is graduate of medical school. Born in Norway.

Mrs. Charles E. Wirt; Lewiston, Minnesota:

A city girl who married a young farmer (just starting out for himself and in debt) against the “better” judgment of many of the neighbors and relatives. The first year most of her efforts were failures but since then she and her husband have nearly paid off the mortgage, they have improved the farm, remodeled the house, reared four children and helped build a better community. Takes time for leisure and self-development each day.

Mrs. Frank B. Fulkerson; Higginsville, Missouri:

Reared four adopted children, two of whom have graduated from college. President of school board, teaches nature study to neighborhood children, member of county farm bureau board and active in church and community club. “I think that work in varied organizations prevents a woman from getting petty after her children are grown.”

Mrs. Alfred Jones; Maryville, Missouri:

“Each child had his own money, partly earned by himself. During high school days each checked on the family bank account and the privilege was never abused.” Has attractive lawn, garden, lily pool and rose hedge. Says community service has given her life much of value.

Mrs. J. C. Longan; Sedalia, Missouri:

“Whatever success I may have had has been largely due to a sympathetic and cooperative husband.” Has had two Father-and-Son banquets in her home. Gets three hours leisure a day “by continually weighing the importance of each task and giving it no more than it deserves.” Adds from $600 to $900 to family income through poultry flock.

Mrs. R. E. Lee Utz; St. Joseph, Missouri:

Lives on 48-acre truck and fruit farm. Plans meals week in advance. Has kept accounts 12 years.
Twice president County Federation of Farm Women's clubs and president State Federation of Homemakers in 1929.

WHO ARE THE MASTER FARM HOMEMAKERS? part 5; 1930

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Mrs. James H. Cox; Hudson, Illinois:

Believes that amusement problem for farm young people can be partly solved by supplying plenty of recreation at home. Her eight children have well equipped playground, homemade horizontal bar, iron rings, swings and slides, tennis court, magazines, six musical instruments and flower garden. (a flower garden as recreation? interesting. LAH)

Mrs. Harvey N. Mooore; Carthage, Illinois:

"My husband and I discuss and plan our business together; we are both interested in the same things, so it has not been hard to understand each other. I watch the markets, same as he does, and we both plan how to sell to best advantage." Her poultry flock adds to family income.

Mrs. C. W. Couden; Muncie, Indiana:

"My family and I love the farm and would think it a hardship to live elsewhere; I am truly glad for the opportunity to raise my children on the farm. The fact that we labor without some conveniences only makes us more appreciative when we get them. I do not like the idea so prevalent just now that the farm family is an object of pity. The farmer is gradually working out his own relief through cooperation and more careful management."

Mrs. Hugh L. Brownlee; Sylvia, Kansas:

"We take the children with us as we work around the place (a 1,200-acre wheat and stock farm), thus helping create an interest in things of the farm; each child has some particular garden spot that is his own to take care of. We planted 30 forest trees last year."

Mrs. E. M. Perkins; Richmond, Kansas:

"I will think that I have been a success if the children grow up to be honorable citizens, who are public spirited, generous minded, satisfied to a certain extent, able to take care of themselves and willing to help the less fortunate."

Mrs. Roy Hamilton; Mayfield, Kentucky:

"I measure a homemaker's success by her ability to spend some time with the children, some for church and social work and some for rest and reading--a real job, I'll admit." Oldest of her three sons is state president of 4-H clubs. Her family cooperates to promote community good.

Miss E. Erin Montgomery; New Concord, Kentucky

Since death of her mother has mothered six brothers and sisters, kept family together and helped five of the children get some college education. Takes time to read and rest some each day "for the sake of the family's happiness as well as for my own health."

(This unselfish woman gets the homemaker's prize for me. LAH)

Mrs. L. B. Oldham; Owensboro, Kentucky:

"We have tried in many ways to teach children to appreciate country living. When they were young they belonged to an Audubon club. We read nature books with our children, go on hikes with them and wedge in as much recreation and amusement as can be done on a busy farm." Active in community affairs.

(I wish that I had all this advice for raising a family when all my children were young. LAH)

HOW I CAME TO WRITE A QUILT BOOK

2011-02-10T20:49:00.007-06:00

On my birthday May 9, 2007, I found myself at the veteran's medical clinic with a present that I did not want. I had had a reoccurring foot injury, and it just wouldn't heal. So the VA in their wisdom, gave me a “boot” to wear. Perhaps you have seen one; they are big, black and heavy and it is almost impossible to do anything while wearing one. I was soooo disappointed! This is Wisconsin and our summers aren't very long. I had so many plans for the next few months, and now they were all gone. Two weeks later, I found myself at the VA clinic again for another check-up, still in a bad mood, but praying that the Lord would give me something to do while I was confined to a chair. After my appointment, I decided to cheer myself up by going to a fabric store. While I was there, I saw my first copy of The Civil War Diary Quilt. If you have not seen it, Rosemary Youngs pairs a quilt block with a Civil War diary letter written by a woman. On my hour and a half drive home, it occurred to me that perhaps I could do the same with The Farmer's Wife letters that I had in my file cabinet.

You see, ten or so years before, we were living in a small town, but I really wanted to live in the country. I used to dream about it, visit the library, and check out books about homesteading. It was during that time that I found the “Do You Want Your Daughter to Marry a Farmer?” booklet. I loved the letters, copied them and put them in my file cabinet.

When I arrived home, I decided to try my idea. Did I have enough material in the letters for a book? Enough farm-themed quilt blocks? What size quilt blocks and what finished sized quilt? In a matter of a few days, the plan fell quickly into place except for one thing. What about the copyright on the letters? Would they be available for me to use? When I finally inquired, I had my answer in a matter of ten minutes. The librarian told me that the laws had recently changed, and published works before 1923 were in the public domain. In other words, 1922 was the first year of copyright free material and the Farmer's Wife letters were published in 1922!!!

I was a little nervous to try, but quickly went to work anyway. I made the decision not to tell anyone. Who would have believed me if I told them that I had wanted to write a quilt book!! So I kept my secret for ten months until I received a book contract. My, it was so strange to finally tell my long kept secret! LOL

What a wonderful answer to prayer the Lord gave me. It still amazes me. Thanks again for listening.

FARMER'S WIFE PONY CLUB BOOK GIVEAWAY---DETAILS ON THE LEFT

2011-02-06T13:17:00.002-06:00

ABOUT ME

2011-02-06T09:38:00.008-06:00

I am by nature a shy person, and have kept this blog very impersonal. I want it to be about the letters and the people in the past. But I got to thinking...perhaps someone might be interested about the person behind The Farmer's Wife Quilt, so here goes...

I was born and raised in the Los Angeles area. Right out of high school I joined the Navy to see the world...they sent me to San Diego, just 112 miles from my childhood home. After I stopped crying, I found out that it really was a nice place. (I do think the midwestern, red-headed sailor I met could have also contributed to my contentment.:) We soon married, and not too long after, I was discharged from the Navy due to my pregnancy. I have been engaged in my career as a homemaker for over 35 years now. The Lord has blessed us with eleven children; a daughter-in-law, two sons-in-law, and one son-in-law in heaven. (We shall see Jared again!) We have been homeschooling since 1983, and still homeschool the youngest four children. Although raised in other religions, we are Baptists. My husband and I and most of the children, live in beautiful southwest Wisconsin. (I did get to see the world after all.)

I had wanted to learn to quilt since childhood, but it wasn't popular in the 60's and early 70's. When I got older, I remembered quilting again, but I really didn't have the time to leave my family to take a class (besides, do they take nursing babies?!) So for better or worse, I taught myself to quilt about 15 years ago. I love color, different fabrics, and trying new quilt block patterns, so samplers are perfect for me. I prefer to hand piece my quilts. It works great, since I can be with my family in the evenings while relaxing in my recliner in our living room.

When I started my first Farmer's Wife Quilt (that is another story) I also began collecting The Farmer's Wife magazines. I own more than 350 issues from 1907-1939 (some duplicates.) I am so fortunate to have one of the largest collections in existence. But I must say, that as much as I love quilting, and I do, it is the love of the letters that keeps me going when life gets crazy. What a privilege to be able to share them! I like to remember that these ordinary people could have been our parents, grandparents and great-grandparents. How special is that! Thank you all for listening. :)

THE MASTER "DECIDES THE GOAL", by Bamby of Maine; 1930

2011-02-04T00:01:00.001-06:00

Dear Editor:
I wonder. Is it "the set of the soul that decides the goal? And not the storms and strife?

When we were first married my husband took me for a sail. When we set out, the wind was in our favor. It blew gently and evenly and our boat skimmed along gracefully as any sea bird. Suddenly the wind changed. We had to shift quickly to keep the boat from overturning. In order to keep our direction, we had to tack; that is, we used the reverse wind to carry us along, but it was a slower process than running with the wind. It required considerable maneuvering to sail against the wind and still make headway.

A heavy shower came down. It seemed as though all of the winds conspired to swamp us. We were forced to furl our sail. Had we kept it set in the teeth of that gale and choppy sea, we would surely have been swamped. At length the sun came out; the sea calmed; the wind once more resumed its lawful course. We again set our sail and steered for home.

This is what I've learned from that memorable sail: We surely must set our sails. But when the storms come? When the wind and waves threaten to overwhelm us? When we cannot set sail in any directions? What then?

On the Sea of Galilee, when the Master of the winds and waves said, "Peace be still," they obeyed him. So when the tempests threaten to overcome us, then only the Master can command the storm.

It seems to me that it does not rest wholly with us, nor with the set of our sails. We must consider the winds and waves. It is these, and the Master's care, that decide the goal.

COUNTRY COURTSHIP, by Velma West Sykes, 1929

2011-01-31T00:01:00.001-06:00

He told her all the things he'd done that day--
Plowed all forenoon, and then had gone to town
For wire to mend a fence--and after that
Was done, the chores; and how he'd hurried through
To be with her. She blushed and swung her feet
And then began to argue how much more
She'd done that day--the butter that came slow,
The ironing that took up half of the day;
And then she showed a blister on her arm
Where it had touched the iron. His large rough hand
Closed over her small hard one, and their heads
Drew close together--breathlessly they kissed,
The drew themselves self-consciously apart
And laughed to hide the deep emotions stirred.

"Pa gave me the south eighty," he observed.
"It's got a house--not big--but good and warm."

"Ma gave me three new quilts last week," she said,
"My chest's so full the lid won't go clear down."

They kissed again, and apple blossoms fell
Around their feet and in the girl's dark hair.

HANDY HOUSEHOLD HINTS; #1; 1932

2011-01-28T00:01:00.000-06:00

I put my wood box on caster. Now it is much easier to move it when I clean, and on muddy days it can be moved to the door to be filled with wood and saves cleaning the kitchen floor again. F.C., Minnesota

The thread in my sewing basket was always in a tangle until I discovered this kink.
I removed the cover from a talcum powder can, cleaned the can and put six spools of thread in it, three rows of two spools each. I ran the end of the thread from each spool through a separate hole in the cover and replaced it on the can. This permits me to pull the thread though as I need it and it is never tangled. Mrs. F.C., Texas

Use an egg timer to measure your time when making a long distance call. Place a three-minute egg timer near you. As soon as the connection is made, turn the egg timer over. This will save you overtime charges, which are often quite large. V.L.T., New York

If there is no fenced-in place for the youngster to play in, and if he is inclined to run away, put a small clear-toned bell, attached to a strap on his arm. Small children cannot unfasten this and he can always be located without leaving your work to find him. Mrs. I.F., Indiana

A small clock is a necessity in the sick room, but often its ticking will irritate a nervous patient. To overcome this, cover the clock with a glass bowl. It can be seen, but not heard. E.M., Illinois

A small board cut the size of the inside of a sewing machine drawer and with nails driven in it about two inches apart, makes an ideal place to keep spools of thread. Arrange spools with the number up and each color by itself. S.B.W., Indiana

AND NOW HE GOES TO SCHOOL, part 3; by Ada Campbell

2011-01-24T00:01:00.000-06:00

One of the first amazing developments we noticed was a change in Sandy's speech. He had, up to this sixth year, spoken quite a good, pure English. But now he came home saying, "Ma, I ain't got no pencil at school; can I have a pencil, huh?" I covered my surprise and let it go. After all, if he hears the right things at home, it doesn't matter what his playground talk is like.

Of course, he brought home slang in large quantities. I expected this; just the same it is startling to have your child say, "O. K., pal," when you are accustomed to "All right, mother." Yes, when a child goes to school he ceases to be a part of your generation, and becomes a member of his own.

When Sandy had been in school for about a month, I was glad to receive a note about a parent-teachers' meeting soon to be held. I had wanted to see the room where my boy spent all day, the wonderful desk he kept telling me about, and the other children I had come to know through him. I would have gone to visit the school before, but I was afraid of the teacher. It would be terrible if she found out that Sandy's mother was so foolish on the subject of Sandy! But now there was to be a meeting, and it was all right for me to go.

It was in the afternoon, after school. We met in the auditorium, and heard talks by the principal and district nurse, who turned out to be quite human persons. Then we were invited to wander about the building. In Sandy's room, beside the cluster of miniature desks, stood his teacher receiving visitors. Around the wall was hung a row of drawings--each one depicting a girl with an umbrella. It was astonishing how good most of them were. But Sandy's! What a scrawl is was. His teacher came near, and I apologized for my child's art. "Sandy certainly shows very little promise in drawing," I said to her. She smiled. "But he reads so well!" she answered. I tried not to look too pleased. But what can you do; maternity isn't a rational business, and never was. Don't you remember the mother who heard all these things about her child and pondered them in her heart?

Some parents hate to see their children growing up. But I enjoy my boy more and more as he gets older--he is much more companionable than the cute baby I used to have.

AND NOW HE GOES TO SCHOOL, part 2; by Ada Campbell

2011-01-21T00:01:00.000-06:00

Eleven o'clock now. I put the potatoes in to bake, and wondered what to do next. Mending? No, that was too poky. Neither did I care to finish up my ironing. I looked outdoors. It was a glorious day; I might as well start now and walk slowly over to school. It seemed a bit foolish, going so early, but I could wait on the stone wall across the street.

It was good to be outdoors—the house had been so quiet all morning. Almost there, I caught sight of the stone wall. There in the warm September sunshine sat three other mothers ahead of me!

When it was almost noon, a late comer dropped down next to me. “You have a youngster starting in today?” she asked.

I talked about Sandy. Then she told me that Geraldine, who also began today, was her sixth child. “And I don't know what's got into the kid that I had to bring her here today and come after her. She wouldn't run along with the other children at all. That's what comes of spoiling the baby! I told her I'd come this one day; but I've got too much to do to traipse after that young one very long. It's a blessing when they get old enough to be off to school,” she said. “Then you can really get something done at home.”

At this point my earlier acquaintance, Margaret's mother, motioned across the street. The children were coming out; at least our first graders were. They were shrieking with joy! Sandy rushed across the street, bringing me a paper. On it there was drawn a round swirl of orange crayon. It's a ball, mother—we drew balls! And we had a good time!”

In a week I had myself disciplined to the extent of letting Sandy make the school trips by himself. The first day, I glued myself to the window and watched. From twelve o'clock until ten minutes after was a long time, but finally Sandy came running. He was pleased with himself.

And then be began to learn things! Important things. That he must put on his own rubbers, for example. How to play a game with twenty other children, and not take the center of the stage for himself. When to speak up, and sometimes to keep still. These were the things my Sandy needed to know, because he has to live in a world full of people and this is the time for him to learn about them.

AND NOW HE GOES TO SCHOOL, part 1; by Ada Campbell

2011-01-17T00:01:00.001-06:00

It wouldn't have been so bad--his first day at school--if they didn't have this high iron railing around the school yard. But there we stood, twelve of us mothers of first graders, clinging to the fence, oh, so helplessly!

The woman next to me moved closer. "Is yours a girl, too?" she asked, gallantly smiling.

"No," I said. "Mine is Sandy. See, Sandy is that curly-haired one standing there on the first step."

Mrs. Other Mother found Sandy in the little crowd. "Oh, the rascal," she said. "Why, he's right next to Margaret! Look, do you think Margaret's dress is too short?"

I was about to say that Margaret's scrap of a frock was perfect, but just then a brisk, efficient-looking young lady came sweeping down the schoolhouse steps.

"Come, children," she directed. "We are going in now." Several of the youngsters turned to wave an adventurous good-by. One boy--the biggest of them all--began to cry, whereupon the teacher gave him a gentle but determined shove--up the steps! Mrs. Other Mother and I looked at each other. Fortunately, it had not been Margaret or Sandy.

We regained our composure in just a few moments. "I suppose they have to be firm," my friend said. For we were friends indeed, after what we had just been through together. She continued, "Anyway, I often push Margaret around much harder than that teacher did."

"Yes," I admitted, and managed a grin. "And after all, I never really heard of a child being injured at school!"

We set off for home. We would see each other again at noon, we said.

There are days, you know, when a person can't accomplish a thing around the house. I tried to do a little cleaning, but somehow it didn't seem to make any difference whether the place was dusty or not. Then I had a wonderful thought. What a grand lunch I would get ready for Sandy! Baked potatoes, scalloped carrots, and cocoa with a marshmallow in it!

*FREE FARMER'S WIFE PONY CLUB BOOK GIVEAWAY--DETAILS ON THE LEFT**

2011-01-14T00:01:00.006-06:00