THE AGRICULTURAL GUERRILLA.

Southland Times, Issue 1737, 6 May 1873, Page 1 (Supplement)

THE AGRICULTURAL GUERRILLA.

("Farmer Crumple," in the New York Tribune.) My neighbor, Sam Simpson, has sold out and is going West. There has been a plain, honest, industrious, economical German (Hans Leibenstein) hanging around Simpson for some time, trying to purchase his farm. At last Hans got it — Simpson thinkß he sold it at a bargain. Doubtless Hans thinks he got it at a bargain. I had an errand down to Simpson's the other night. I had not heard that he had sold his farm ; but upon my entrance into the house, I saw by the look on the faces of the family that some unusual excitement was animating them. " TJell, Crumple, you are going to lose me for a neighbor," was Simpson's first word» after I had got settled in the splint-bottomed chair his daughter Sally handed me ; and the whole Simpson family looked at me as if they expected I would jump out of that chair on account of the news, with a suddenness and force only equalled by an explosion of nitroglycerine under me. But I didn't^ I ©imply asked, "How's that ?" x v, " I've sold." " Sold what ?" "The farm." " To whom ?" " Hans." That was the whole story. I didn't need any further explanations ; but Sirrpson proceeded to say : — " You see the old farm is completely run out. I can't make the two ends meet the best of years. I've got tired of tumbling around among the stones, and I'm going where there's some virgin soil that will produce something. So I struck up a trade with Hans. He has been after it, off and on, for a year or more. I wanted 40dols. per acre for the old place. He offered me 25d015. Finally he offered me 30dol8. ; and after considering the subject, 1 told him I would take it if he wouid pay me cash down. Hadn't any idea that he would do it, but be said if I would throw in the stock and farm implements he thought he could raise the inouey. I finally told hioi L would ; and what do you think, sir! He hauled out ot his greasy old pants pocket a 1000 <lollar bill, and handed it to me to bind the bargain, and said as soon as. the papers were receipted he'd pay me the balance, which he has done to-day. I feel kind o' sorry to part with the old place ; but the thing is done, and there's an end cn't. What d'ye think?" All this time my Crumple nature had been rising within me like an inspiration. Here was this man Simpson who inherited this farm — one of the finest in the neighborhood — who had skinned it without scruple until it would scarcely raise white beans under his system of treatment. And he had got to leave, or mortgage the farm of his ancestors, to live on ! Then here was Hans, who came into the neighborhood with his frau five years before, with only his and his wife's strong and willing bands, economy, and industry. They bad rented a worn-out farm, which they had finally purchased and paid for, and had saved 3000 dollars with which to pay for Simpson's 100 acres. So in answer to "What d'ye think?" I was ready to respond — and I did in this wise ! " What do I think ? I'm glad you're going, neighbor Simpson ! I'm glad Hans has got the farm. He deserves it ; you don't. He has got brains and industry ; you haven't got either. Under your management the farm is a disgrace to the neighborhood ; Hans will make it a credit. Tour farm lying next to mine depreciates the value of my land ten per ce"nt. ; the same land owned by Hans will add to the value of mine twenty per cent. I shall be the richer' for your going and the poorer for your staying. I am glad you're going !" You should have seen Simpson's and his family's faces. They grew cloudy and long. Indeed, I believe they began to scowl at me. Simpson said : " You're pretty rough on an old neighbor, Crumple, now that he's going. I thought you and I had always been friends. I've tried to be a good and accommodating neighbor. You've been a good one to me, and I'm sorry to leave you ; but if you're glad I'm going, I'm not sorry either." " Simpson," I said, " let us understand each other. As a neighbor, as far as neighborly intercourse is concerned, I've no fault to find, and I am sorry you are

going. In talking about you as a farmer — you are, and always have been, a poor one. No man, with such a farm as yours ought to want to sell — at least there ought to be no necessity for selling. But you are not a farmer. 7ou haven't got a single quality essential to makea^good farmer. In the first place you detest the business ; you don't take any pride or interest in it; you don't care whether your land improves under cultivation or not ; you want to get all off it you can without taking the trouble to pay anything back ; you skin it year after year, and cry out against the seasons ; you denounce every man you deal with as a sharper or swindler because you do not get the prices for your products other people do ; and yet you do not seem to know that the reason is that your products are poor in quality and put on the market in miserable shape : your stock has been running down ever since your father died ; you haven't built a new fence and scarcely repaired an old one ; your manure has not been hauled out and judiciously used on the farm ; your pigs have bothered the neighbors more than they have benefited you; your cattle have become breachy, and I have had to shut them up in my stables in order to keep them out of my grain ; you have distributed from your fence corners more weed seeds than any farmer I know of, and thus given your tidy neighbors more trouble than your favors to them would compensate. In short it 'is time for you to move. You ought to have a virgin farm ! It will take you but a few years to strip it of its fertility ; then you'll have to move again, and keep moving. You belong to a very large class of farmers who are a curse to any country. The fact is, you are not, never were, and never will be, a farmer in the right sense of that word. You are only a guerrilla. You live by robbery — robbery of the soil. And H is not right, neighbor Simpson. You had better seek some other vocation, now that you have the cash to start with. You like hor.ses ; you know horses; you can talk horse from daylight till dark ; you can't be fooled with horses ; you like to trade horses ; you had better go into some smart town and start a livery stable. You'll make money at it ; you'll never make money farming ; you'll grow poorer and poorer the longer you attempt it." Just then Sally Simpson clapped her hands and said : — " That's so, father ! Haven't I often told you so ? Mother and I have often talked it over, Mr Crumple, and you are just as right as can be ; and father knows it, too, if he would only say so. I know you too well (and you've done us too many kindnesses for us ever to forget them), to believe that you have talked to father in the way you have out of any unkind feeling. It is true, every word of it, father, and you ought to%thank neighbor for talking just as he thinks. I do ; and I don't think a bit the less of him, either !" Then Sally burst into tearß, and Mrs Simpson drew a long breath and sighed in a way that endorsed all that Sally had said ; and Simpson got up and came over to me and said : — " Crumple, I do believe you're right ; I only wish you had talked to me in that style ten years sooner. It shan't make a bit of difference in our good feeline towards each other, old fellow ; and I'il ■ never forget how you once saved my boy " " There, there ! Simpson ! enough of that. It's all right. If I can do anything for you before you go, let me know," and he shook my hand with a strong grip as I passed out of the back door.