City homes on country lanes; philosophy and practice of the home-in-a-garden

Front matter

From the collection of the

San Francisco, California 2006

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

Foreword

I am an optimist.

I believe the world is going to be a better world for our common humanity in the next decade — the next generation — the next century — than ever before in the long history of the race. And I believe the next passion of mankind will be for the soil — that there we shall "take Occasion by the hand and make the bounds of freedom wider yet." But, if there is to be a transition in the life of the land — if new forms of industry and society are to emerge — then this will be due to the fact that the old life on the land has failed, is breaking down, and is doomed to pass away.

That is what I believe to be true. In saying so, I sound no note of pessimism, but rather the note of hope, of confidence, of boundless faith in what the future is to bring forth. I know the land is to be the healing and the saving of the people — of our people and of all the peoples.

There is no other refuge.

But before we can build the new life we must clearly understand that the old life has failed, and why it has failed. Then we must proceed to discover the principles upon which the new and better life is to be founded. In doing so, must we not inevitably draw nearer to the

vii viii Foreword

Divine Purpose in making the goodly earth and setting man in the midst of it ? And shall we not thereby evolve the Spiritual Man of the Soil, who, conscious of his partnership with God, enters at last into his true dominion ?

Cosmos Club,

Washington, D. C.

Contents

FAGB

FOREWORD . . . • . . * * * vii PROLOGUE: THE INSPIRATION 1

Part One The Way Of Life

CHAPTER

I. DIGGING TO THE ROOTS OF A DYING TREE 11

II. THE LEADING OF THE FALSE GOD, PRO- DUCTION . '. . . * ' . » . . 43

III. "A PLAGUE ON BOTH YOUR HOUSES" . . 53

IV. GETTING THE RURAL SAVOR INTO CITY

V. THE INVISIBLE CITY OF HOMES ... 65

VI. GARDEN INSTINCT REVEALED BY WAR. . 75

VII. "THE MOST VALUABLE OF ALL ARTS" . , 83

VIII. THE DAWNING OF THE NEW ART . . . 96

IX. LUTHER BURBANK AND THE NEW EARTH . 103

X. THE SPIRIT OF CREATIVE GARDENING . . 116

XI. THE OLD HEN IN A NEW ENVIRONMENT . 123

XII. THE RABBIT IN THE GARDEN ECONOMY . 133

XIII. BROILED SQUAB, AND THAT SORT OF THING 142

ix

: Contents

CHAPTER PAflB

XIV. "AND THOU SHALT HAVE GOAT'S MILK" 149

XV. THE HONEYBEE AND THE SUGAR-BOWL . 157

XVI. THE ELUSIVE MUSHROOM 162

XVII. THE LUXURIOUS TABLE IN REVIEW . . 167

XVIII. SOCIAL LIFE OF THE GARDEN CITY . . 171

XIX. THE PERSONAL EQUATION 181

Part Two The Constructive Programme

I. THE AGE OF THE ENGINEER .... 195

II. WHAT THE GOVERNMENT OWES THE

III. THE ORGANIZATION OF A GARDEN CITY . 211

IV. THE GARDEN CITY AND THE FARM CITY . 219

Part Three Mechanics Of The Garden Home

I. MAKING THE SOIL OVER . . . . . 227

II. How TO HAVE A GOOD GARDEN . . . 232

III. THE WINTER FOOD SUPPLY . , •', . V 240

IV. LIVE STOCK OF THE GARDEN HOME . .; 256 V. THE BEST TEACHERS — EXAMPLE AND EX- PERIENCE . . . , . . . . • V 263

INDEX , 269

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

Her Home-in-a-Garden , . * V . . Frontispiece

PAGE

Franklin K. Lane . . « , . . * . . . 26

Charles Lathrop Pack 78

A Prize- Winning War Garden . . . .... 86

Intensive Use of a City Lot .. . 98

Luther Burbank -.*'•'. V 106

Intensive Poultry Culture . . . . .... . 126

Rabbits for Meat and Fur . .'. !|l?£f? . .' . 134

Two Favorite Breeds and Their Housing . . . 140

Intensive Cultivation of the Market Squab . . . 146

Popular Breeds of Swiss Goats . . . . ... 150

The Milk Goat Is Ideal for the Garden Home . . 154

The Common Hearthstone * 176

Living Usefully at Eighty-One ..... . 184

Serving Her Country at Over Ninety . . . V 188

The Cooperative Department Store 216

Prologue

Of what avail Are plow, or sail,

Or land, or life, If Freedom fail?

Emerson.

Part One The Way Of Life Prologue

"True dignity abides with her alone, Who in the silent hour of inward thought, Can still respect, can still revere, herself, In lowliness of heart."

Wordsworth.

THERE once lived a very noble woman who shared with me the dream of a new and better life to be realized on the soil, and who, in her own sphere of action, did what she could to bring the ideal to pass. For many years she was vicariously associated with a great public movement that transformed deserts into gardens and filled the waste places with homes. But usually she came first, and, after her, the homes and gardens. Hers was the era of the unbuilt house, of the unplanted ivy and roses, of the untamed soil, of the new hopes that struggled up toward the light through thickets of sagebrush and mesquite and cactus.

Often she found herself in poor frail cabins on the desert claims, and often she mingled her tears with the tears of lonely pioneer women who could not see the glory that was to be — perhaps because of the clouds of dust that came swirling from the treeless land. So she wept with the women, laughed with the children, and shared with the sturdy, ambitious men the hope of independence that sustained them in their struggle with the grim old desert. But these experiences always left her sad. "It is fine for the men," she would say ; "they see their chance for achievement. But it is hard for the women — hard." And she felt there must be a way to soften, to ameliorate, the lot of the pioneer woman.

Fate made her at length a pioneer woman herself — the First Lady of a settlement embarked upon the most daring adventure of all, dedicated to the proposition of "a little land and a living" with the smallest unit ever adopted by any considerable number of families at one time and place. She did not shrink from her duty, ner opportunity, but met it more than half-way with outstretched hand. "Now," she said, "we shall see if it is possible to bring a little sunshine into the lives of the women, while the men are showing us what they can do on the land."

The amount of money available for the building of her home was small ; the hope of a clubhouse, suited to her plan, remote. In this dilemma, she put nine-tenths of her building fund into a single beautiful room, ideally adapted to social purposes. For the rest of her home — tents ; nice, roomy tents, connected by covered passages, and supplied with floors, windows and doors; so that in a benign climate, where shelter is almost negligible, it made a livable and attractive "camp." Even so, it represented a sacrifice of personal comfort in the interest of her numerous neighbors.

Festivities began with the "house-warming," which occurred even before the roads were made, though twenty or thirty homes were built, and others under way. It happened to be a Fourth of July — the flag had been broken out on the tall staff for the first time at dawn — and fireworks lighted the way for the settlers as they came through the sagebrush, or new-plowed fields. In spite of the season, it was cool enough, in that land of divine nights, to justify a modest blaze in the great cobblestone chimney, in token of hospitality. Everybody came in the best they had. Even dress-suits were worn by those who had them.

The affair was more than a "house-warming," more than a social function. It sounded a new note — a note of absolute democratic fellowship, for everybody was formally invited and everybody came; a note, too, of distinction, for it was then and there understood that the social and intellectual life of the community was to be placed on the highest possible plane, and steadfastly maintained at that level. Moreover, it was announced that on the following Thursday afternoon, and every Thursday thereafter, the hostess would receive the ladies of the community in her big reception room ; that every lady was cordially invited ; that these affairs were designed to be as fine in all respects as they would be in any town or city of the land; and that in that spirit each person was urged to do her part.

And the ladies responded with alacrity and the utmost good will. There were no absentees; no one was ever tardy; no one ever wore less than her best. Among them were wives of professional and business men of liberal culture and wide social experience. There were others who were strangers to such functions. All met the same warm hand-clasp and gracious smile at the wide-flung door; all were soon equally at ease. The flowers, the music, the games, the refreshments, the favors, were precisely what the hostess would provide if she lived in town, or on a lordly country estate, instead of in a humble "camp" on the side of a sagebrush hill. And she made those pioneer women happy — filled their cup to the brim. One of them remarked: "It's worth all the work and worry of the week, just to be here on Thursday afternoon." It was not simply the good times — it was the leveling of all social barriers, the striving for the very best there is in life.

The influence thus projected did not stop with one afternoon in the week, nor with the women alone. It spiritualized the whole community. It elevated the public meetings in the rude town hall, setting a high standard for all entertainments, and all meetings of an intellectual or social character. It overflowed into the front gardens and beautified them with flowers, some of them still fragrant with roses and tender with vines given by the gracious lady on the hillside. For, as her own love was perennial, so she loved to give her friends perennial plants that should fill the air with fragrance year after year. Yes, some of them are blooming yet ; and they do not forget her. They have long memories — those roses !

I tell this story of the beginnings of our New Earth — the New Earth that is to bring security and contentment to millions — because it illustrates a deep social principle, the absence of which has had its part in the decadence of American rural life; also, for another reason of equal importance — the fact that it brought forth a noble phrase that immensely widens our horizons.

The first experience in social upbuilding was followed in two other communities under the same leadership ; then came a period devoted to the intensive cultivation of the ideal by other means. One day near the close of her mortal life — the Pale Horse and his Rider were even then on the road and rapidly approaching — she walked into my library and laid a slip of paper on the desk with the smiling request : "Some time when you feel just like it, please write something for me with that title." I looked and read the cryptic words:

"The Dignity of the New Earth"

It was a revelation, and to me a startling revelation — not only of the depth of her own thought, but of the broad metaphysical basis of our work and our ideals.

This, then, is her chapter, as nearly as it is possible to approximate her thought and language:

I was reared in an old New England town. As a child, I loved a certain street which was filled with fine old homes setting well back from the rows of stately elms. These were the homes of our old families. They seemed enviable to me, not because of their luxury, for most of them were not at all palatial, but because of their dignity — a dignity attaching to their age .and permanence.

In these homes children were born and grew up. And in these homes the children's children were born and grew up. So it had been for generations ; and, in a few cases at least, for two centuries. To my childish mind there was no dignity like the dignity of a permanent family home from which all members of the household went forth into the world, and to which they might all come back on occasion.

To me the contrast between the repose of that street of old family homes and the restlessness of newer sections was always very striking. It was an industrial town that grew rapidly. As factories multiplied, new population flowed in; at first from the surrounding country and then from foreign parts, until the number of languages spoken was amazing. This new population was mostly of floating character. It was housed in crowded tenements. The part of the town where it lived tended toward slum conditions. It was, of course, the very opposite of the street of old family homes. The gulf between them was not wealth and poverty. It was a far deeper gulf. It was dignity and the lack of dignity, and that is a matter of character, not of worldly possessions. But environment and training have everything to do with character.

The lesson borne in upon me was that ownership and permanence of the home are essential to the highest dignity of life. Now it oddly happened that I was never to know these advantages in my own experience. While we owned more than one home in the course of our lives, they were only temporary, because it was of the nature of our work that we should be constantly on the move. This work had to do with the making of homes for thousands of people in many States. I have always thought of it as evangelical work, and of my husband as an evangelist of the Peter-the-Hermit sort.

My longing was for a home that might become a family shrine, where my children and grandchildren might come after me. In the defeat of my own hopes I became passionately attached to this hope for others — for our country and the world. To make such a hope possible of realization, I came to see that there must be a New Earth, or rather a new conception of the earth in its relation to the home.

As our work unfolded over a period of more than a quarter of a century, I thought I saw the dawning of the New Earth in the very humblest way in a pioneer settlement where we went to live and work with the people who shared our hopes. Everything was very crude, my own home with the rest, yet, I could see in the little homes all about me that street of my childhood's fancy in the old New England town; and I could look beyond the crude beginnings to the time when the same quality of dignity, growing out of the same laws, would become the possession of the many.

The New Earth, as I think of it, begins with the recognition that it is God's gracious provision for man, and as such too sacred for any purpose except to serve the needs of humanity. That conception rules out speculation. To put a price on land beyond fair compensation is unjust and really nothing less than an attempt to repeal a great law of God, and defeat His ends. This, too, from so low a motive as selfishness — a selfishness to be paid for by woman's toil and tears and by innocent children deprived of their heritage.

When we comprehend the ideals of the New Earth in all their purity and beauty we shall strive to make the most of it in every way, and the measure of our success will be the amount of human happiness thereby created.

To my mind, these hopes are inseparably bound up with the dignity of mankind — its capacity for self-respect, its worthiness in every sense, its elevation of thought, bearing and conduct.

The next attribute of the New Earth is workmanship. It is not to be like the slovenly industry I have often seen on many farms that so evidently belonged to the Old Earth where pride of workmanship was wholly absent.

Pride and Dignity — these are twin sisters. I mean the kind of pride that springs from worthiness, that scorns things mean and low, and most of all scorns them in ourselves.

The New Earth is to be the object of loving care as much as our children. It begets a new spirit that is born of ownership, of the thought that here on this spot of land I will rear a family roof tree; that here my children will come in future years, and after them their children, and their children's children; and that thus the generations that trace back to me will enjoy the shade of my planting, the shelter raised by my thoughtful care for the future. Could anything so elevate, so dignify, the labor of the pioneer? Could anything so invest it with a skill and a forethought surpassing all human skill and forethought and reflecting the Divine Intelligence?

Beyond the individual and family life lies the life of the community. It is here I see the widest possibilities of the New Earth. It is here that the manifestation of Love will be highest because it loses much of its selfishness in the thought of the Common Good.

In my own experience I was often disappointed in the expression of our ideals at the hands of individuals, but almost never disappointed by their expression at the hands of the community. If ever in the midst of our crude surroundings I have caught a glimpse of "the Light that Never was on Sea or Land" it was when a number of us were gathered together and giving expression to the ideals of the New Earth. I think — indeed, I know — that then for fleeting moments we lived in the great life of the future, though of course we only touched the hem of the garment.

The spiritual outgrowth of the conditions that the New Earth provides for vast numbers will surpass all the dreams of the dreamers. Christ will come again. He will live in the lives of millions of consecrated souls, and He will bring dignity in its true sense to common things and the common experience.

Dignity as I see it in this connection is a form of morality, because morality is the outward expression of that self-respect which dwelleth within, and is, indeed, the highest form of self-respect. Hence, anything that enhances the dignity of a man enhances his morality, and it was ever clear to me that this was the great office of the New Earth — to lay deep and true the foundations of dignity in the common life of our people, which is equivalent to saying the foundations of self-respect and the highest morality.

And here again, we pass from the individual to the community, and ultimately to the nation and the world. The New Earth so becomes in the course of time the Redeemer of mankind. It erects his life and roots his influence — his all-conquering Thought — in the fertile soil of ownership, but of ownership limited by conscience to his needs — those needs measured by the excellence of his workmanship and, hence enabling him to do well with a little land. Into that workmanship goes all the love of his family, even of the family that is to come into being in the far future. From these conditions spring growth of dignity and self-respect, and with it elevation of thought and bearing. This becomes the habit of the man, the habit of the community. It spreads with the spread of the New Earth and its ideals until it becomes in fact the New Heaven.

Chapter I Digging To The Roots Of A Dying Teee

IT was generally assumed that the world would never be the same after the Great War, and that among the results of the mighty upheaval would be new forms of life on the land. In some countries, it was plain, this transformation would chiefly relate to ownership and distribution of the soil; in others, to the manner of its use ; but it was generally anticipated that everywhere the influence of the cataclysm would be registered upon the land — in the character of its homes and institutions — quite as clearly as in any other department of civilization.

British statesmanship took stock of these possibilities while the War was still at its height, and began to brace itself against the impact of conditions that must assuredly follow the ending of the conflict. Not only in the Mother Country, but in the oversea colonies — in Canada, in Australia, in New Zealand, in South Africa — expert minds gave careful forethought to preparedness for peace. They believed their weary peoples would turn to the land, as to the shadow of a great rock.

In the United States there were men who sensed the same situation. Long before the Battle of Chateau Thierry, Franklin K. Lane, Secretary of the Interior, began to ponder the problem of Reconstruction. He anticipated that millions of men serving in the Army and Navy would be more or less weaned from their old occupations, and that a large proportion of those formerly employed in the factories and workshops would have fallen in love with outdoor life. He thought, too, that many of the places vacated by the selective draft would be filled by permanent occupants when the soldier returned, so that they would find the old familiar doors closed in their faces. It also seemed probable that the cessation of the intense industrial activities of the War would precipitate upon the country an Army of Unemployed, with consequent suffering, throughout a long period of readjustment. Though busily engaged as a member of the Council of National Defense in his part of the work of prosecuting the War to a successful finish, he yet found time to look beyond that point, and consider what the Government could, or ought, to do, in the way of preparation.

"Every country has found itself face to face with this situation at the close of a great war,'* he told the President, in a letter that will be historic. "From Rome under Csesar, to France under Napoleon, down even to our Civil War, the problem arose as to what could be done with the soldiers to be mustered out of the military service."

He looked back to the close of our own Revolution, and recalled how the veterans had threaded their way through the forests of the Alleghenies to make homes in the valley of the Ohio. He recalled the phenomenal settlement in the Mississippi Valley, which followed close upon the cessation of the Civil War, when the citizenship of whole States, like Kansas, Nebraska, and the Dakotas, largely consisted of men who had worn the blue. He realized, however, that conditions had changed in 50 years ; that there was no longer a patrimony of fertile public lands available to homestead entry, and requiring no preparation beyond the means of the individual settler. Nevertheless, the problem of the returning soldier remained to be dealt with. It was not an easy problem, but Secretary Lane possessed both the vision and the power to tackle its solution.

He summoned to Washington men whom he thought especially equipped for the task by their knowledge, their experience, and their sympathies. He was thinking primarily of the returning soldier, but soon discovered that the problem was much broader; that it concerned directly or indirectly, the country's entire citizenship — indeed, the fate of our American civilization— for it was found that America was dying on the land ! It would be but a poor service to the returning hero to invite him to take a share in a failing enterprise, and it would amount to just that to offer nothing better than the old conditions of rural life.

Secretary Lane's counselors decided to dig down to the roots of the subject, as one would dig down to the roots of a dying tree, and find out what had happened to the fabled "cornerstone of American democracy" — the farm home. There was plenty of evidence that something was wrong. Without harping upon the dreary statistics regarding the marked tendency from rural to urban life — a tendency that dates back to the first national Census of 1830, and has been increasing ever since — it is worth while to mention a few of the latest revelations on the subject:

The abandonment of New England farms is a very old story; nevertheless, it is startling to realize that Massachusetts had three times as much land in cultivation 100 years ago as now, and that 92.8 per cent of her entire population dwells in urban centers. Notwithstanding the general increase in land values during the past few years, there are still opportunities to obtain good land, most favorably situated with respect to great and growing markets, for one dollar to ten dollars per acre. And that within a few miles of the spot where the Pilgrims landed in 1620 !

It is only within recent years that the rural decline has been noticeable in the Middle West, but in the past ten years the number of farms decreased throughout that fertile region in every State except Wisconsin and Minnesota, while there the increase was slight. In the country as a whole the number of new farms fell off about 90 per cent; to be exact, from 10.9 per cent between 1900 and 1910, to 1.4 per cent between 1910 and 1920.

In Ohio, the number of habitable vacant farmhouses increased 61 per cent in a single year; from 18,000 to 29,000 between June, 1919, and June, 1920. The number of men and boys on Ohio farms decreased 30 per cent in the same period of time.

In two years 46,000 men left the farms of Michigan, and the vacant places grew from 11,831 to 18,232 • — making a total of 1,666,000 abandoned acres. In April, 1920, there were left on the farms of Michigan an average of but eleven men and boys for each ten farms.

In New York State, 22,540 farms were abandoned in the last ten years. The State has a total population in excess of 10,000,000, but the number directly engaged in agricultural pursuits is only 380,000.

Another disturbing feature of the rural situation is the increase of tenant farmers. Figures are not available for the country as a whole, but in many of the richest agricultural States, more than half of the land is in the hands of such tenants, who have no stake of their own in the soil; hence, no interest in maintaining its fertility, or improving the standard of rural life.

But all this bears only upon effects, not causes. The easiest explanation is that men prefer the town, because it pays big wages ; and that war-time wages were particularly alluring. Doubtless the War accelerated the movement; but, since the movement preceded the War by at least 80 years, the cause must be sought elsewhere. So, at least, thought Secretary Lane and his advisers; and they determined to investigate the favorite theme of poets and orators : the proposition that the farm home is the cornerstone of American democracy, and the source of all that is best in our national life.

They started with the assumption that the drift throughout the nation from the country to the city was much greater than the tide in the opposite direction; and that the "Back-to-the-land" movement, speaking in broad terms, had signally failed. They then went on to consider another assumption, which represents an almost universal conviction — that this tendency is anti-social — and asked themselves the question: Is it so? If it is actually unfortunate for individuals and society, then it must be such in lowered —

Health;

Physical development; Mental development ; Spiritual development; Financial development; Human kindness; Social solidarity; Civic ideals; Patriotism;

Ability to think clearly on public and social questions ;

Initiative and ability to carry out convictions ; Joy of living.

As a first logical step, they employed an expert to make a study and analysis of such exact information, bearing upon their problem, as could be found in the great Library of Congress. The quest was not highly successful. While much interesting information was gathered, it was fragmentary, bearing upon typical localities which had been selected for social surveys, and not representative of the whole national field. Hence, it was suggestive rather than conclusive. It was necessary to supplement it by extensive studies, drawing from many different sources of information, much of it gathered from current newspapers and magazines; and much obtained from interviews with public men, sociologists and economists throughout the United States.

The study as a whole was at least eager and painstaking, and its conclusions so clearly in accord with obvious social tendencies as they must appear to the mind of any thoughtful observer, that there can be little doubt of their general acceptance.

It is a natural and widespread belief that life in the open country is far more healthful than life in crowded towns. So it ought to be, and so it would be if country life were properly organized, and kept pace with modern scientific knowledge and thought. That, however, is precisely what it has not done, and precisely what it can not do, unless radically reformed. The city, on the other hand, is marching to the music of science, and keeping step with the Twentieth Century. This fact bears distinctly on several of the questions raised in Secretary Lane's inquiry; and especially on the question of public health.