When Folks Was Folks (Classic Reprint)
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Excerpt from When Folks Was Folks
In central New York, where the hills are high and the valleys narrow, and where pebbly stones are a full half of the furrow turned by the plow, there runs a small stream whose waters at last pour themselves into the Susquehanna. With a soft fringe of willow it glides through groves of maple, bass and buttonwood, where wild grape-vines climb to ripen their clusters in the early frosts. Butternuts and beeches drop hospitality and cheer for winter hearth and squirrel's nest. And behind, the meadows break suddenly into steep hills with a broad calm sweep of sky-line.
Here, the best part of a century back, lived a community of farmers. Large houses with comfortable outbuildings, well-stocked dairies, kitchen gardens, poultry yards and smoke-houses, cellars bursting with potatoes, onions, turnips, parsnips, carrots, squash and pumpkins, nuts and apples from ungrafted orchards, with pasture and wind-fall growing wild berries - all bespoke the thrift and ease that come close on the heels of pioneers when decent folk think it no shame to be provincial.
The second generation was still cutting down forests to secure a wider acreage, and pushing them into pits to be burned to charcoal. Cords of hemlock bark ready stripped for the tannery lined the highways.
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