i have come to that portion of my journeying and of my story where all day, every evening, and all night long i was conscious of the odour of mown clover, of fields of ambrosia.
i was tramping along the border of northern ohio and southern michigan, from toledo to angola, indiana. i was entering the rich west. the fields were vast and square, the road was long and flat, and straight and quiet, the june haze hung over luxuriant meadows, and there was a wonderful silence and ripening peace over the country.
one evening, as the red sun sank into night-darkened mist, i talked with an old farmer, who was smoking his pipe at his gate.
"i came along this same road like you, with a bundle on my back, forty years ago," said he, "and i took work on a farm; then i rented a farm. many's the lad i've seen go past of an evening. and one or two have stopped here and worked some days, for the matter of that."
the sower
the sower.
the farmer had left england when he was a [pg 253]stripling, and i tried to talk to him of the old country, but he was not really interested. he did not want to go back.
that is the colonial feeling.
strange to plough all day, or sow or reap, and in the evening to return to the quiet, solitary house of wood beside the great red-painted barn and not want england or europe, not be interested in it, not want anything more than you've got; to have the sun go down red and whisper nought, and the stars come up and the moon, and yet not yearn; to work, to eat, to market; to have children growing about you ripening in so many years, and corn springing up in the fields ripening in so many weeks; births, marriages, deaths, sowings, harvests....
there is all the pathos of man's life in it.
i slept that night in the dry wayside hay, under the broad sky and the misty golden moon. it was a quiet night, warm and gentle. earth held the wanderer in her cradle and rocked him to sleep.
they are kind people about here. next morning as i sat by my fire a woman sent her son out to me with a quart of milk and a bag of cookies. and milk is a much commercialised business on this western road,—the electric freight train carries nearly all the milk away in churns to toledo. it was a very welcome talkative boy who brought out the milk. his father rented one-third of a section (213 acres),[pg 254] but was now laid up with pneumonia. as a consequence of the father's illness the young children had to work very hard in the fields. and there was a sick cow on the farm—sick through eating rank clover. and the boy himself had had scarlet fever in the spring. the serving-girl had had to go away "to have her little baby," and the one that came in her place brought the fever.
"what's your name?" said i.
"charles."
cheerful little charles. he had much responsibility on his shoulders.
there were some big farms along the road, and near metamora i had the privilege of seeing a dozen cows milked simultaneously by a petrol engine, rubber tubes being fixed to their teats and the milk pumped out. it was astonishing, the matter-of-fact way in which the latest invention was applied to farm life.
"it's rather ugly," said i.
"well, what are you to do when labour is so scarce?" was the reply.
land is rich here, but labour is scarce. i fell in with a garrulous farmer who told me that land now sold at 150 dollars (￡30) the acre, and that in a few years it would rise to 250 dollars. the days of large farmers were over. all the big ranches were being sold up, and the farmers were taking holdings that they could farm themselves without help. labour[pg 255] was expensive, owing to the high wages paid in the towns for industrial work; even at two and a half dollars (ten shillings) a day it was difficult to get a decent gang to do the work in the harvest season. you could do better with a small piece of land. fields here were forty and fifty acres, and the steam plough was not used. in the old days land was dirt cheap, and you could buy vast tracts of it; there were no taxes, no extra expenses, and you just went in to raise tremendous crops and make a big scoop. to-day things were different. to work on a large scale a horde of labourers was necessary. but now the socialists were stopping the flow of immigrants into the country. socialists said that it was too difficult to organise newcomers. the newcomers behaved like blacklegs, strike-breakers, all the first year of their stay in america. they didn't know the language, were very poor, suspected their brother workmen of jealousy, and just took any wage offered them. the socialists wanted to keep the price of labour up, and my farmer friend bore them a grudge because it was difficult to develop the land unless the price was reduced.
a little later, outside fred m'gurer's farm, the jovial farmer himself came and squatted beside the fire and chatted of affairs. he had insured his house for 1000 dollars, but it would take 1800 dollars to rebuild it. "i think it's only fair to take some of the[pg 256] risk myself," said he; "and if the place burns down the company will know i didn't set it alight o' purpose."
fifty-eight years old is fred m'gurer, and his son is now coming to live and work with him altogether, after seven years spent wintering in the city and summering in the country. irish once, and of an irish family—but they go to no church. the old man feels that he is a christian all the same, and will get to heaven at last, because he "deals square with his fellow-men."
fred and his son work the farm all by themselves, outside labour is so expensive. the beet-fields take all the immigrants. did i see the red waggons as i came along, full of flemish and russians living by beet-picking on the beetroot farms near by?
i saw them.
"america is a high hill for them that don't speak the language," said fred. but he said that because he likes talking himself, and can't imagine himself in a land where he could not hold converse. the immigrants manage very well without the language, and scale the hill, and rake in the dollars easily. perhaps they do not glean much of the american ideal, and the hope of the american nation. but i suppose fred did not mean that.
i had a pleasant talk with a successful german farmer, who took me in a cart from pioneer to grizier, through comparatively poor country. he had [pg 257]possessed a farm of five acres in germany, but there each acre had been worth between 450 and 500 dollars. when he came to grizier land was selling at 25 dollars an acre, and he was able to buy fifty acres of it and to bring up his family in health and plenty. his farm was now worth more than 5000 dollars.
i slept on an old waggon in a wheat-field near grizier; but about midnight it began to rain, and i was obliged to seek shelter in a crazy, doorless, windowless cottage, and there i sat all next day and slept all the next night whilst the elements raged. in the cottage were two chairs, a home-made table, and a broken bedstead. i cooked my meals on the rainy threshold. the refuge was shared by a great big bumble bee, two red-admirals, a brown squirrel, and two robins.
the second morning was sunday, radiant, fresh, and green. the road was soft but clean, with yielding cakes of mud; the grass was fresh, for every blade had been washed on saturday; the wild strawberry was a brighter ruby; on spread bushes the wild rose was in bloom; there were sun-browned country girls upon the road, who were shy but might be spoken to; the odour of clover was purer, the hay-fields had round shoulders after the storm, and you'd think cows had been lying down where the wind had laid the tussocks low. the sun shone as if it had forgotten it had shone before, and was doing it for the first time. to-day it became evident that the grain was ripening; the apple[pg 258] trees in fantastic shapes were knee-deep in yellowing corn. the little oak trees by the side of the road presented foliage, every leaf of which looked as if it had been carefully polished.
in america wild strawberries are three on a stalk, which causes a pleasant profusion....
i got a whole loaf of home-made bread given me at cooney ..., and a quart of milk at "fertile valley farm." ...
only at sunset did i strike the main angola road, and off that road i made my bed in a wheat-field and fell asleep, watching the bearded ears disproportionately magnified and black in the flame of the crimson sky. next day, when i awoke, life was just creeping into the blue-green night, a soft radiance as of rose petals was in the east, and a breeze was wandering like a rat among the stalks of the wheat. i fell asleep again, and when i reopened my eyes it was bright morning.
the sunday gave way to the week-day. there is nothing happening on the roads on the sunday; the tramp is left with nature, but directly monday comes the work and life of the people reveal themselves, and adventures are more frequent.
the store on wheels
the store on wheels.
my first visitor this monday was a man of business. as i was making my tea he came up towards me driving two lean horses and a great black oblong box on wheels. at the farm where i had drawn water for my kettle he pulled up and dismounted. a girl[pg 259] who had seen him from a window of the farmhouse came tripping to meet him. he exchanged some words with her, and then from the far side of his hearse-like cart he produced a black chest, out of which he pulled a pair of boots. the young lady then hopped back to the house to try them on. satisfied as to her purchase she took in addition a pound of tea and a packet of sugar. the cart was a moving store: here were all manner of things for sale. but the storekeeper received no money; all his debts were paid in eggs. one side of the hearse was full of merchandise, the other contained nested boxes and crates for the accommodation of hundreds of dozens of eggs.
the storeman gave me a lift and explained to me his business. he possessed a cold-storage establishment in the city; he credited the farm people with sixteen cents (eightpence) for every dozen eggs they gave him, then he stored them in his freezing-house till autumn, when they could be thrown on the market at twenty-five to thirty cents the dozen.
he was a great believer in cold storage. "meat," said he, "is tenderer when it has been frozen some weeks."
business in eggs used to be better. now the state set a limit on the time you could keep them in cold storage. sometimes he had to sell out at a loss. the hope was to keep all the farm produce till there was a real scarcity and prices went high. then it would be possible to make a small fortune.
[pg 260]
"but i'm tired of this business," said the storeman, "i'd like to give it up and buy land."
we lumbered along the road and stopped at each farmhouse. sometimes we sold articles, but whether we sold anything or not we always took a few dozen eggs; every farmer was in business with my man and used him as a sort of egg-bank. even if they were not in debt to him they were glad to hand over their eggs and be credited with the corresponding amount of money. we took four or five dozen eggs at least at every farm, and sometimes as many as twenty and thirty dozen. the storeman left behind an empty crate at each farm, so that it might be filled for him next time he came along, and he took aboard the crate already filled. in exchange he sold kerchiefs, boots, corsets, cloth, brooms, brushes, coffee, corn-flake, wire-gauze to keep out mosquitoes, etc. at the end of his round he would have got rid of almost all his merchandise and have filled both sides of the hearse with eggs. he took home upon occasion as many as five hundred dozen eggs!
a cheerful american with a word of news, a titbit of gossip, and the top of the morning for all the country women. he was eagerly awaited, and children at farm-gates descried him a long way off and ran in to tell their mothers. even the babies were excited at his approach, for they knew he carried a supply of candy. at each farm where there was a baby the[pg 261] storeman left a little bag of candy. he knew the value of good-will.
"it's a good business," said he; "no expense of keeping a shop, double profit,—profit on the goods and profit on the eggs; it pays all right. but i'm tired of it, and i think i shall give it up and buy land." to several of his customers who asked after his business he replied in the same terms. he was getting tired of it, and was thinking of buying land. when i took a photograph of his cart and himself he said he would be very glad to have a copy, just to remind him of old days—for he was thinking of giving it up, etc.
it is interesting to observe the commercialisation that goes on in the country in america. not only does the egg-bank and travelling store come round, but the cream-vans come also and buy up all the cream, and the baker comes from the bread factory and dumps, twice or three times a week, huge baskets of damp, tasteless loaves, all wrapped in grease-paper. not many people bake their own bread—they save time and take this astonishing substitute. then travellers in coffee have exploited special brands—"euclid coffee," "primus coffee," "old reliable," and the like, done up in pound packets. rural americans do not realise that good coffee is coffee and no more.
no one had a quart of milk to spare on the road to[pg 262] angola, so i hit on a plan which i recommend to others in like circumstances. i went to a farmhouse and asked for a cupful of milk to have with my coffee; i got it easily and freely. the farmer was rather touched. but as you cannot make decent coffee with one cupful of milk i went to another farm and begged another cupful, and then to another. i was able to make a good pot of coffee, despite the scarcity of milk.
whilst i was having lunch, i had an interesting talk with an ancient man who was mowing grass at the side of the road.
"you look like father time," said i.
"well, i've mown a good many days," he replied. "i shall soon die now. there's no strength in me; my day is over."
"have you enjoyed life?" i asked.
"yes, i have," he replied, his face lighting up.
"do you work your farm yourself?"
"no! my son works it; he is twenty-two. yes, i married late. thirty-two years i wandered as you are doing. i've been in thirty states. i was ten years on the lakes, a sailor."
"ever across the atlantic?"
"never on the big waters."
"and how do you think america is going on?"
i had an interesting talk with an ancient man by the side of the road
"i had an interesting talk with an ancient man by the side of the road."
"i think she is going bad. the new generation is weak. there'll soon be no old farmer stock. the[pg 263] old folk work, but the children go to school. my father was an old connecticut yankee—a republican—so am i; but the party has broken up, the country's going wild."
the old man had a dog "colonel," named after colonel somebody, who was his father's squire in connecticut.
"a fine dog," said i.
"more helpful than a boy," said the old farmer. "he can drive the hog home straight, and he always helps me up when i tumble down. i'm weak now—have had two strokes, and after the last i was just like a baby. i can't mow properly—no strength to move anything. often i fall of a heap, and colonel runs in and gets under my stomach with his head and raises me. a 'cute dog...."
a pleasant vision of not unhappy age!
i passed through angola—a neat little city round about a shoppy square; a quiet market-place functionising the agricultural country round about. i had dinner at one of several restaurants, and had three quick-lunch courses brought to me at once—an array of nine or ten plates on a little grey stone table—not very appetising.
there were three or four country loungers at the ice-cream bar of the establishment, and a negro was sitting at another table with a tall glass and a straw and a "soda." at my side was what i took to be a[pg 264] piano—very dusty, and with the keyboard out of sight. suddenly, without any warning, it jumped into music, and thumped out a cake-walk in its interior. it was as if a lot of niggers were doing the dance in an empty room.
i paid no attention, facially. alas! we are quite familiar with such marvels, with all that can be shown. we raise no eyebrow. but bring in an aboriginal chinee and sit him there where i was, and start this box a-going, and he'd jump out of his wits. how was it started? some one went softly across the room and put a cent in a slot—that's all. is it not maddening to be uninterested, unthrilled? none of us paid any attention. the loungers gossiped with the ice-cream girl, the nigger drew up his soda, i strove with my hard roast beef.
* * * * * * *
st. john's eve! unusual things might be expected to happen this night. i had lived with the growing summer, had caught in my hands one evening not long since a large dusky lovely emperor-moth, and had received an invitation from fairyland. the strange thing was that as i tramped out of angola on the lagrange road, it did not occur to me what day it was. only in the middle of the night did i reflect—there is something unusual astir, something is happening all about me, this is no ordinary night.[pg 265] and only in the morning did i realise it had been st. john's eve.
i slept by an orchard on a hill. below me was a little lake, on the right a straw stack, on the left an apple tree, over me a plum tree with wee plums. all night long little apples fell from their weak stalks, the frogs sang—now solos, now choruses, the mosquitoes hummed in the plum tree. on the surface of the little lake little lights appeared and disappeared as the wandering fireflies carried messages from reed to reed. processions of clouds stole over the starry sky, and i thought of rain, but the whole night was hot and odorous and full of dreams.
i did not awake next morning till it was bright day. between me and the straw stack there was a fluttering and squawking of young birds being taught to fly by their mother. every time a young bird alighted after a little flutter, it always fell on its nose. my attention was divided between the birds and a big bee, who thought i had made my bed over his nest. what a distressing way the bumble-bee has of losing himself and thinking you are to blame!
i tramped to the reedy lake of whip-poor-will. the wind blew now hot from the sun's mouth, now cold from a cloud's shoulder. the question was, would the midsummer day turn to heat or come to rain? it turned to heat. what a day of happiness i spent on the sandy ups and downs of country roads![pg 266] after weeks among plains, i was glad of a countryside that had corners again. i was among "dear little lakes," the children of the great lakes—in the nursery.
i came to flint, and met the "pike road" from detroit to chicago. flint has a large general store and a barber's shop. i bought three oranges out of the refrigerator of the store, and, to make them last longer, half a pound of honey-cakes.
at noon i made my mid-day fire in the bed of a dried-up rivulet. the weather was almost too hot for tending a fire; tawny spots appeared on my wrists, and, viewing my face in the metal back of my soapbox, i was startled to see the fire in my eyebrows and cheeks. but with the heat there was a wind, and in the afternoon great cumuli grew up in the sky, and it was possible to think the earth was a ship and the clouds the billows which we were rolling over. up hill and down dale, round corners, by snug farms with green and crimson cherry orchards, over hills where miles of corn were blanching and waving! i came to brushy prairie and camped for the night in an angle of the road beside the village cemetery.
i read and wrote, mended my clothes, cleaned my pack of waste dust, collected hay to make a bed. many carts came past, and the people in them hailed me with facetious remarks. after i had lain down one old village wife came to see if i were sick and wanted medicine. it was strange to lie by the [pg 267]cemetery and hear a party of girls go by in a buggy, singing, "when the roll is called up yonder, i'll be there."
i lay and watched the sky, scanning the clouds for a certitude of a dry night. a great war was going on between the forces of the clear sky and of the clouds. there was a party of skirmishers advancing from the south-west. there was a long array of clouds in the north and in the south, and the main army lay heavy and invincible in the north-west. but the clear sky scattered the enemy wherever it encountered them, and even forced the main army to take up a new position. the camp of the clouds was made far away, and lights came out in their leaguer.
the night became silent and brilliant and perfect, and i lay with my eyes open, and did not look, but just saw....
i slept. whilst my eyes were closed there was a great night attack, and when i woke again i found the armies of the clear sky completely routed. there was a shower of rain, and i jumped up and tripped along to the church. the door was open. i struck a match and saw all the pews and prayer-books and hymn-sheets, and away in the shadows the platform and the pulpit.
but the shower ceased. i reflected that if heavy rain came on i could easily come into shelter, so i returned to my hay-spread, and lay down again and watched the renewed battle in the sky.
[pg 268]
a desperate rally! one star, two stars were shining, and round about them a great stand was being made. they fought lustily. they seemed to be gaining ground. yes. three, four, five stars showed, six.... i fell asleep again, knowing that the side i favoured would win. when i wakened next it was to greet the great general coming from the east in all his war-paint, and hung all over with silver medals. a glorious day followed.
i spent a morning by the clear st. joseph river. on the road to middlebury wild raspberries abounded. i could have picked a pound or so of berries along the road. raspberry bushes occur in many places, but i've seen few raspberries hitherto. that is because the great friends of the raspberries live so near—human boys and girls—and they are always taking the raspberries to school, to church, to the corn-field. if they are going home they insist on taking the little raspberries home too, to the distress of fathers and mothers sometimes, for the raspberries know how to disagree with the children upon occasion, especially the young ones.
there were not many farm-houses about here, but at one of them i was given a pot full of ripe cherries, and made a "smash" of them, and ate them with milk and sugar.
a motorist took me along a dozen miles in a bouncing, petrol-spurting runabout car, a dutchman, who[pg 269] paid me the compliment of saying i spoke very grammatically for a foreigner.
there was a thundershower in the afternoon. in the evening i obtained permission to sleep in a barn, and the farmer talked to me as i lay in the straw. there had been a runaway team the day before, and his neighbour's bay mare had twenty-four stitches in her now, and he didn't reckon she'd be much more good.
a waggoner taking fowls and dairy produce to sell at restaurants and quick-lunch shops took me into elkhart next morning. elkhart is a large city, with many car factories and buggy factories, and by comparison with the country round is very foreign, full of italians, poles, and jews. it is a well-built, handsome city, with much promise for the future.
as i stepped out on the shipshewaka road i saw by a notice that a prize was being offered for the most popular woman and the homeliest man. what a contrast this implies to the life of the east. here is a land where women are public, and where nobility in a man is best expressed by being handy about the house.
i tramped along the north side of st. joseph's river, through beautiful country under delightful conditions. the cornfields had turned red-gold, the grass was all in flower, and little brown fluffy bees considered it the best time of summer. what a sun there was,[pg 270] what a breeze! i found the "bachelor's retreat" on the st. joseph's river, two boat-houses, a stairway through the forest banks, and a little wooden pier stretching out into the pleasant water—a good place for a swim!
just before mishewaka i met old samuel judie, seventy-six years of age, lying on a bank with a stick in his hand, tending the cows of his own farm and philosophising on life.
"it's a marvellous thing that the sun stands still and the earth goes round it," said he. "a marvellous thing that there are stars. they find out how to make automobiles, and they find out lots of things about the stars, but the human race won't ever know out the facts."
to most of the remarks i made mr. judie answered "shah."
"england has fifty million people."
"oh, shah!"
"london is twenty miles broad and twenty miles long."
"oh, shah!"
"there are plenty of farms of only ten acres."
"oh, shah!"
he grumbled a great deal at the automobiles.
old samuel judie, lying on a bank, and philosophising on life
"old samuel judie, lying on a bank, and philosophising on life."
"last sunday," said he, "a man and his wife were knocked down just here. they had been saving and pinching for years, and had at last cleared the [pg 271]mortgage off their farm, and were reckoning to live decently. the automobile cut the woman's head right off, and the man is lying in the hospital. there ought to be a law against the automobiles rushing through from elkhart to south bend on sundays."
"i suppose south bend is a rich place?"
"shah!"
"what do they make there?"
"boots, waggons, ploughs, the wooden parts of singer's sewing-machines.... they are terribly hard up for hands.... you'd get a job easy.... there is a great lot of girls working in the factories, many foreign. they soon marry and go on to a farm. factory folks make a pile of money; get tired, and then buy a few acres of land and live on it. farms about here are split up into small portions and sold to poor folk. some want me to divide up my farm and sell part of it, but i won't do it."
mr. judie had had to work all his life, and to work hard a good deal of it, and he felt entitled to have his own mind on any subject, and to act accordingly.
a wealthy american took me along in his car through mishewaka to south bend, and showed me the great factory of wind-mill sails, dodge's factory of "transmission power" of pulleys and connections and all things that join up engines and plant; then the famous studebaker's factory of plough-handles, shafts, waggons, etc., the rubber-boot factory, singer's frame[pg 272] factory, and several other establishments which indicated how busy these indiana cities are.
i tramped out to new carlisle, spending a night there under a deep dark maple tree, which after sunset looked like a great overlapping thatch—not a poke of light came through. as i lay beside the highroad, and as the american holidays had just commenced, scores of cars came by, and as each one appeared on the road horizon it lit up my leafy ceiling with its great flashlights. how hot the night was.... i slept without covering. it was hot even at dawn.
it was next day on the road to michigan city that i gave water to a thirsty calf, who actually ran to me and butted into me to persuade me to fill his bucket. it was on this road that having thrown a potful of water at some sheep they followed me down the dusty road, crying to me to do it again.
michigan city was sweltering. i took refuge from the heat in the waiting-room of the large railway station, and watched the crowds in the new york and chicago trains, and the rush of the restaurant boys with hundreds of cones of ice-cream.
a pretty negress came and sat next me and began talking.
"ah come over heer two manths ago to the carnaval, and have been playing vaudy-ville, but the home folks said ah mus' come back. mai, how i cried when i heard. i did take on...."
[pg 273]
she was under police supervision, and a big irish policeman came and took her away when he saw her talking with me. she stood on the platform until the train came in, and then she was put in charge of a guard. she had, no doubt, been arrested under suspicious circumstances in the streets of michigan, and had been brought before a kind magistrate, who had forborne to punish her on condition that she went back to her mother.
the road from michigan undulated over a weedy wilderness and gnat-swarming marshes. i had a bad time as to the heat and the mosquitoes, and, despite use of strong disinfectants, i got badly stung, and was consequently feverish for some days. i was also very idle, very much inclined to sit on palings and consider how hot it was. on the sunday, just to see whether the plaints of the farmers were justified, i made a census of all the vehicles that passed me. on the monday i got to hammond, and on tuesday came in by car to chicago. that day was the hottest of the year. fifty-three people died from the heat in the city that day. i could have understood a few tramps dying even on the road.
