| Contents
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix
PART ONE: Philosophy and Hobbies . . . . . . . . . . . . 1
PART TWO: Career, Romance, and Family in
California, Utah, and Europe . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19
PART THREE: Love and Grief . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 81
PART FOUR: Reminiscences of Family, Youth,
and Early Manhood . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101
PART FIVE: Ruminations on Life and Art . . . . . 119
PART SIX: A New Life . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 147
Appendix . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 161
Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
On October 16, 1940, James Taylor Harwood's long and interesting life and career came to an end. The following tribute was published in the Salt Lake Tribune later the same day:
James T. Harwwod, dean of Utah painters, loved by hundreds of artists both old and young, died today at 1:30 P.M. He was 80 years old and until very recently continued his painting. His canvases are cherished in many homes for he was a skilled craftsman who saw the beauties and exquisite loveliness of nature and reproduced them.
He was a patient, loving teacher who gave the searching young artist an incentive to work hard for perfection in spirit, mood, live composition, design and the special touch that makes a painting a real work of art. Among the many students at the James Harwood studio . . . were A. B. Wright, Lee Greene Richards, Mary Teasdel, Myra Sawyer, and Mahonri Young. Each one of these artists and many more found a high rung on the ladder of accomplishment.
Many years before, Harwood's friend Alice Merrill Horne had written: "While Mr. Harwood will be remembered as a painter he will never be forgotten as a teacher."1 It was already true, and a list of only a few of his pupils over the years proves the point.2 Even the most casual peruser of the history of this state's artistic development will recognize Harwood's students as a most impressive group. And since a great many of these students became teachers themselves, both in Utah and elsewhere, the Harwood influence goes on today not only in his home state, but in every region of the country. This is especially true when one realizes that there is another group of associates and friends with whom Harwood traded "tips" and ideas.3
What these two lists of individuals represent is a virtual "Who's Who of Early Utah Art," and when the students and associates of all these persons are also taken into consideration, the full impact of Harwood as the "dean of Utah painters" begins to take shape.
What was the Harwood accomplishment and influence? Of the artist's own work in oil, the critic, James L. Haseltine, has correctly written that no early Utah painter "possessed greater natural gifts." And further, "Harwood's strengths were a fine sense of structure, . . . a deeply rooted feeling for professionalism and craftsmanship, and a good control of muted color." On the other hand, in the words of the same critic, the artist "missed the point" of the "later movements" (i.e., the various directions taken by the Post-Impressionists and their followers).4 As Harwood stated himself:
. . . the founders of the impressionistic school were right both in theory and practice, I believe. But some of their followers—these men who draw fantastic figures that have little recognizable meaning for an average mortal, or who, for example, paint a landscape in straight lines—they have wandered from the original impressionistic concept . . . . They used to worry me, these painters and their unusual paintings. I could not understand what their pictures meant, and I thought perhaps the fault was in me. But now I only smile at such paintings. That is all one can do.5
Harwood was right not to worry any further about such developments. After all, he had grown to young manhood in an essentially conservative environment (in the artistic context), and trained with romantic realists in Utah and California and traditional academicians in France. He then returned (more or less permanently) to the general environment of his origins for what turned out to be the remainder of his career. And yet, given all of that, the painter managed to evolve stylistically from the figurative romantic realism of his youth and early maturity, to a realist-impressionist orientation in his middle years that ultimately developed into a reserved, but painterly neoimpressionism. Of this final development, Haseltine has written:
. . . It is sad to learn that the artist felt the works dating from the late 1920s to the end of his life to be his "most perfect means of expression." A mechanical kind of impressionism, they only serve to underscore the solidity of his earlier work.6
I used to agree with this estimation wholeheartedly. The earlier work is so often impressive as to the skill and total understanding of the painter regarding his aims and means to accomplish them. In those pictures, a quiet dignity and clarity, a soft-spoken sophistication with honest feeling, all exist as elements I have always found very appealing. The sudden shift from the earlier Harwood to the older pointillist landscapist he became can still be a wrenching experience. This is especially the case in regard to the change from images where a sense of style is a secondary awareness to later examples in which the style is the first thing with which the viewer must contend. Yet, more recently I have found that late Harwood paintings wear very well.
Within the later context there is the same degree of expert craftsmanship and quietly expressed love of subject that exists in the earlier creations. One must live with the late oils a little and let them finally free themselves of constant comparison with Harwood's other paintings of his earlier manner. Another element in developing appreciation of the last Harwood paintings is to gain a knowledge of the middle works. They are not normally as much in public view as the very early or very late pictures, and this is too bad. It is also infortunate that the oil sketches, watercolors, pastels, pencil drawings, etchings, and even the slightly more available color etchings are not as frequently seen as the larger oils. There are many rewards in these too, and such works, like the middle oils, also fill in the gaps within Harwood's continual and always thoughtful progression through the various visual problems he assigned himself.
"Oil was his medium," Haseltine wrote of the artist, and when Harwood painted in watercolor, "the results could be labored and dull."7 And, the perceptive critic and adroit watercolorist George Dibble tended to agree with this estimation when he commented that "there is a [Harwood] tendency to exact from a lighter medium a detailed and engrossing performance it fails to sustain."8 Yet, Haseltine added that an exception to this "norm, is 'Through the Port Hole,'" a Brigham Young University-owned Harwood watercolor of 1911.9
Several comments seem to be appropriate in regard to these statements. First, when anybody paints in any medium, the results can be and are, on occasion, "labored and dull." The test is, of course, whether or not the paintings are mostly this way. It is my opinion that the many Harwood aquarelles do not substantiate such a conclusion. There are numerous works by the painter in this medium that have a more freely expressionistic quality than is usual in his oils. A third point is that we are looking at Harwood from a much changed point of view in time than that existing in the 1960s. The search for suggestions of modernism in the works of our earlier artists had reached near hysterical proportions in some quarters by 1960-65, in this as well as other regions of the nation.
Within what is sometimes called the "post-modern" period of today, perhaps the Harwood restraint and more studied approach to painting do not seem overly reserved or too conservative. One can only hope that we are able to enjoy both the ordered statements of Harwood and the emotional fervor of "Utah's fauve," Henri Moser (1876-1951), for what they are—different. A validation of the late Harwood approach is stated by a local writer as follows.
He used a modernistic handling of color rendered with a subtlety that makes one feel the charm of the old world. Harbor scenes, studies of the sea and the shipping lanes along the Marseilles water front were deftly handled by him. He worked with ardor and joy that renewed itself in the blending of his pigments. He understood the sea and its changing moods. His mother told him many stories of the sea, and his love for water stayed with him all the days of his life.10
One thing is clear—Harwood was a talented and substantial artist to such an extent that he is one who, among the ranks of Utah's early artists, can be criticized and discussed in the way one does the far above average practitioner. He does not have to be dealt with as the vulnerable, though lovable, pioneer struggler. He was instead, and as he himself said, by "profession, an artist."
This last statement is never more the case than when dealing with the color prints of Harwood's last two decades of life. A review of an exhibition of the arist's prints in the Deseret Gymnasium in 1930 states
. . . In his colored [color] etchings he achieved effects so exquisite that his fellow artists and friends could wish Mr. Harwood confine his future creative efforts to etching. This medium seemed to belong to Harwood. His sensitivity for line and technical expertness in this medium were hard to equal. One of these the "Bridge on the Seine River," won him fame in exhibitions. He . . . [is] an excellent craftsman. The etchings were full of sensitive colors and atmospheres with strong light and dark colors.11
I have seen, on more than one occasion, an example from Harwood's St. Tropez prints (1930) virtually "sing-out" in color and crispness among the often nice but, for the most part, simply decorative works in collections of Utah art of essentially the same vintage. And, once again, Harwood the teacher in this context had not been selfish with the knowledge possessed by Harwood the artist. By the mid-1920s he had installed an etching press and was teaching a class in color etching at the University of Utah which was "the only instruction of its kind in the United States" during the period.
One other thing must be stated regarding Harwood as artist/art educator in regard to my analysis. I probably lost some of my objectivity when evaluating artistic accomplishment in regard to James T. Harwood. Knowing more than ever before about the Harwood who was by "profession, an artist," I am also much more aware and captivated by the Harwood who was, by "hobby . . . a farmer" and whose religion was "a church with one member." This condition of knowing more about a man's life and thought usually adds insight into an artist's creative parts and the sum, but it is also an invitation to "color the etching." These memoirs are by a very worthwhile, loving, and much-loved human being, and most of it was written (beginning in 1923) in the midst of agonizing grief. It is impossible not to see the work as a form of self-imposed therapy as its initiation came soon after, and much of the material dwells upon, the loss of the author's first wife Harriett Richards Harwood (1870-1922).
The memoirs are called by its creator A Basket of Chips, and several problems are involved in the work's title, organization, character, and purpose. First of all, what is a "chip"? It is "a small fragment, as of wood, chopped, cut, or broken off." Also, it can be something "having qualities of that from which it is taken;—especially of persons; as 'a chip of (or off) the old block,' a child that resembles his father."
That Harwood's chips were meant "to light your fire and the glow give beauty to all that come within reach" is clear from his dedication. It also seems certain that such chips are "off the old block," as he dedicates his writings "to my children, their children, and all my posterity." He also refers in the manuscript to his first son, Willard, as "this chip," and then makes statements about "tendencies inherited" by the boy. Reference is also made to "another chip . . . born to the Harwood family, this time to James [Harwood's second son from his first marriage] and Frances." Yet a Harwood chip is more complex than this. For instance, the original "block" implied is sometimes the painter's father. "Our object was . . . to propagate the English walnut that my father was intrumental in bringing to this state. The 'chip' you see." Then, at another point "The tendency of this chip came from both sides of the family . . . . The combination . . . resulting in handing to me my mode of expression, and I cannot remember when I was not trying to draw." Here the block is enlarged to include the whole Harwood family (English walnut) tree.
The answer to the question raised by the title is, of course, that the chips are all of these, and they are each of the themes or memoirs under the chapter headings the writer used to designate individual lines of thought. Fortunately, however, he does not belabor the point, and the chip references are few. The need to stay with this play on words is compelling in terms of one more aspect of A Basket of Chips. Having handwritten the chips in the form of notes, Harwood then collaborated with his second wife Ione Godwin Harwood in the 1930s and created a typescript. The original handwritten notes have disappeared, and copies of the original typescript are all that are presently available.12 In the memoirs the "basket" has been turned over, and the "chips" have tended to fall where they may.
Throughout the text there are indications that certain "chips" and "chips" of "chips" have fallen together a bit differently than originally intended. For example at the beginning of "The Narrow Escapes," Harwood writes: "During the time of my hunting and trapping period something happened that . . . ." Then, information on what it was about is not forthcoming but begins several sections later under the heading of "Early Days," which discusses Harwood's first tendencies toward art before becoming almost totally devoted to his boyhood experiences. This lack of organization continues throughout the memoirs. According to his wife Ione, Harwood questioned the organization of the memoirs, but he died before he could do anything about it or other concerns he had about the work.
However, with just a few "historical markers" relative to the entire work, the chips pour out of the basket in a very meaningful way. The result is undoubtedly the most effective autobiography ever written by a Utah artist, even though one may learn more about farming, gardening, bird watching, and good cooking (or, more accurately, the eating of good cooking) than expected. Harwood was a man of many parts, and sometimes you may wonder whether the biggest part was farming (his hobby) or painting and printmaking (his profession). That depends. Painting in Utah for profit could and can be frustrating in the extreme. Farming, on the other hand and especially as Harwood pursued it, could be wonderfully rewarding. The two could be a particularly good combination on occasion, as when his pictures were not selling, but food was available from his garden, or when the farm needed equipment and a painting suddenly sold for a good price. Willard and H. James, the sons of James and Harriett Harwood, both remember many days in the early 1900s when their father enthusiastically passed his Seventeenth South Street studio on the way to their Holladay farm apparently with no thought of his art. But much evidence also exists (both visual and written) that there were times when Harwood could not think of anything but his brush or etching needle.
Primarily, A Basket of Chips is about James T. Harwood's early love, Harriett Richards ("Little One" or "Little Mother") and their life together. From 1928 the autobiography or memoirs becomes a sporadically written journal, and there are great gaps in regard to Harwood's life with "Laughing or Loving Eyes," his late love, Ione Godwin. There is no less zest in the way he writes about these last years. It is just that he was too busy living and loving in the "Land of El Dorado" to write much. More than anything else—more than being a farmer, or an artist, or a home health care expert, and too much an individualist to be a joiner of churches or any organization not directly related to his profession—Harwood was a "lover." He loved Harriett and then Ione. He adored and idealized Ruth (his eldest daughter), especially in his paintings of her. He felt tremendous affection for all his children and grandchildren, and experienced great joy and tenderness toward other members of his family (especially his mother), toward good friends, and even toward animal and bird friends, which he often named. As a practical farmer, however, he sometimes ate these "friends" for dinner. ("In two weeks . . . 'Runt' had gained. He was not afraid anymore and would crowd himself in with the others. He grew up to be a brief ornament on our dining table.")
Harwood loved life so much that when he was totally involved in that life, he had little time for writing. And, if he had not needed something to save himslf in that time of desperate loneliness following Harriett's death, he probably would not have written his memoirs. Indeed, for most of his life, James Taylor Harwood was exactly as he was described in 1914.
Physically, this painter (Utah's strenuous painter, James T. Harwood) is a magnificent type of manhood, strength and endurance . . . He has figured out how to utilize every waking moment of time in work, and study and play. I have given some idea of what is his study and work; his play consists in keeping a small farm, a truck garden, and an orchard, and much reading of fiction (which occupies his evening hours).
Mr. Harwood is versatile, conscientious and truthful, full of integrity, and noble in his conduct of life. Those qualities show in his work. An artist cannot get away from what he is. His work will tell the tale. The degree of sympathy, and tenderness of the painter somehow gets into the paint.
Mr. Harwood has . . . spent many years in mastering his tools and he has mastered them. He is entering the best era of his art career. Nothing need come between him and his soul expression. In the ripeness of life and art what may not James T. Harwood undertake to its marvelous accomplishment?13
NOTES
1. Alice Merrill Horne, Devotees and Their Shrines—A Handbook of Utah Art (Salt Lake City: The Deseret News, 1914), 54.
2. A selected list of Harwood's students would include Elzy (Bill) J. Bird, Amelia A. Brotherhood, Lara Rawlins Cauffman, Lu Deen Christensen, Raymond E. Chugg, Emma Frances Daft, Joseph A. F. Everett, Louise Richards Farnsworth, Herman H. Haag, Rose Hartwell, Harriett Richards Harwood, Ruth Harwood, Paul Higgins (Pablo O'Higgins), Alice Merrill Horne, Frank Ward Kent, Mary Kimball Johnson, Elaine S. Michelsen, Lee Greene Richards, Rose Howard Salisbury, Myra Sawyer, Elsa Saxod, Jack Sears, Lillian W. Senior, M. Ruth Ballard Snow, Clyde Squires, John H. Stansfield, Mary Teasdel, A. B. Wright, and Mahonri M. Young.
3. The Utah luminaries that come to mind within this context are his teachers in early days Dan Weggeland, George Ottinger, John Tullidge, and Alfred Lambourne; such older artists as George Beard, G. Wesley Browning, H. L. A. Culmer, and Samuel H. Jepperson; Willis Adams, a good friend; his Lehi playmate and another University of Utah Art Department chairman, Edwin Evans; Harwood's close artist friends Cyrus Dallin, John Hafen, and George Henry Taggart, along with Mary Teasdel, the painter's student and colleague; other Parisian trainees from Utah of around the same time, John W. Clawson, John B. Fairbanks, Henri Moser, Lorus Pratt, and Lewis A. Ramsey; and younger associates and fellow educators Corrinne Adams, Bessie Alice Bancroft, Avard and J. Leo Fairbanks, Calvin and Irene Thompson Fletcher, Mabel Frazer, Harvey Gardner, Maud Hardman, B. F. Larsen, Edith Maguire, Waldo Midgely, Mary Moorhead, Rena Olsen, Caroline Parry, Cornelius Salisbury, Le Conte Stewart, Minerva Teichert, Caroline Van Evera, Florence Ware, and the architect/artist, Taylor Woolley.
4. James L. Haseltine, 100 Years of Utah Painting, Selected Works from the 1840s to the 1940s (Salt Lake City: Salt Lake Art Center, 1965), 19.
5. Ibid.
6. Ibid.
7. Ibid.
8. Ibid.
9. This watercolor was reproduced on pae 17 in Haseltine's 100 Years.
10. Elsie S. Heaton, ed., Pioneers of Utah Art (Logan, Utah: Kaysville Art Club-Educational Printing Service, 1968), 75.
11. Salt Lake Tribune, 17 December 1930.
12. The typescript is located in the James T. Harwood Collection, Manuscripts Division, Special Collections Department, University of Utah Library, Salt Lake City.
13. Horne, Devotees, 55.
* * * * *
PART ONE
Philosophy and Hobbies
The Right to Live
All creatures have the same right to live that I have, and it is just a matter of survival of the fittest. My code of morals is "Live and let live." I will make war only on the life that would exterminate my life.
By hobby, I am a farmer; profession, an artist; religion, a church with one member.1 In my farming I gather crops that pay me well though the bank account may be all on the wrong side. On my farm there are many harvesters, and often it leaves me much the loser financially, but much the gainer in knowledge. The locusts (grasshoppers) were getting away with my apples, corn, beans and other crops. That meant immediate action. I prepared a large mixture of poison bran which was nicely sweetened to their taste and it was very effective.
There were other creatures fond of sweets,—the ants. A few days later I noticed where the poison bran was scattered, small rings of light colored substance on the ground, and looking closer, I found the home of a small black ant family. The flakes of bran were all far enough from the opening to form a ring. The harvesters had gathered in the bran, and the chemist below had rejected it. There was no evidence of any ants being poisoned though there were millions of grasshoppers killed.
Another class of farm "helpers" are the gophers. And every farmer carries his "battle ax" ready for them. His useful allies are the cats, snakes, owls, traps, poison, and irrigating water. Yet wherever they are, enough gophers always live to make a network of runways underground that will carry a stream of irrigating water from where it is badly needed to an outlet a hundred feet away to irrigate a stretch of road that will call forth all the profanity a motorist can invent.
I had a good supply of the gopher folk on my farm, and of course I encouraged their natural enemies. The rattler will go down their underground runways and fatten himself on them. I was to take the water during the night, and was making the ditches ready where I expected to go. As I passed through a weedy spot, (weeds did well on my farm) a sudden rattle like dry peas in a pod attracted my notice, which meant "look out where you step." And I looked. There was a fine big rattle snake in no hurry to move away. I took a good friendly look at him and told him he was very welcome to live on my farm, but as I intended to water that piece of ground in a few hours and did not wish to step on him, I would be obliged if he would move right out of that quarter. He made not the least effort to accommodate me so I concluded to remove him as carefully as possible. I slipped a small stick under him and raised him gently from the ground. He objected, but not in an angry way at all; just slid off. I tried again, and it did not work, so I got a forked stick and slipped the forks under him and held him with another stick across his back and carried him right out of that vicinity. He didn't show the slightest anger or fear any more than I did. I am convinced that I could have taken him with my hands, but I would have been sure to show nervousness and he might not have understood it.
Our attitude toward man or beast will be returned. If you hate, he will hate, and the reverse. I did not meet my friend again but I noticed fewer gopher mounds that season.
My farming was carried on under difficulties. Our home was in town six miles away from the farm.2 The horse, cow, pigs, and chickens, were at the town home,3 and all the farm produce I hauled in with the horse and light wagon. We were a happy family, my dear wife and children.4 Every day was a holiday to us; a new thrill came each day. I will speak later of my wife's beautiful ideals that are living again in her children. We acquired the farm through her careful saving our of my small earnings. Our object was to have a place where we could get close to nature and give our children some training in thrift, and the out door life; also to propagate the English walnut that my father was instrumental in bringing to this state.5 The "chip," you see.
The farm consisted of nine and a half acres in north Holiday [Holladay]. My son, Willard, a husky youth, but at the age when labor of any kind makes no appeal, helped me plant the lower half to orchard; the balance was in alfalfa. My love for the farm came from both generations ahead. Though it ends with me as far as the male portion of the family goes, it has broken out in Ruth, our eldest daughter, now living in California.
Our money was all spent to buy the farm. And the horse, tools, and wagon were the next needs, and no money to buy them. But they came nevertheless. First, I must tell of our experience with my father's horse, Old Brown, that he lent us.
To bring Old Brown here was a thirty mile trip, from Lehi to Salt Lake City.6 I went down on the train and drove him back. He was a wise old chap and had never been out of that country. By the time we were in this valley, he would turn his head and look back at me and say as well as he could, "there is some mistake, but I will go on if you insist."
We arrived in good time and the children wer happy to have a little drive around the neighborhood.
My father had told me to be sure to tie him very securely as he could undo any kind of a snap. That day, after our ride, I staked him securely out in the field a few rods from the fence, and he went to nibbling the grass. But I noticed him facing toward home, 30 miles away, a little later, and he was tossing his head to operate on the snap. Bur I said to myself, "you can't do it there! In a stall it is different." A little later I went out to look and I saw him just disappearing through the willows with his flag up, going as hard as he could. And on the second day he arrived home and happy to get there. Did he think, or was it instinct? Can you do it?—undo a snap from a ring without your hands?
The need to own a horse of my own, also wagon and tools for the farm was pressing, and there was no money to buy. But I must explain more definitely my circumstances. As I said, an artist by profession, and I was teaching art in the City High School.7 I was a member of the Society of Western Artists, and this year I was exhibiting with them a picture I called the "People of the Plains,"—Indians moving camp.8 At this time when I was in such need of money I returned from my work one day and my wife put a telegram into my hands. I opened it and saw it was from Pittsburg where the exhibition was. Just a few words—"$250.00 offered for your picture. Telegraph is acceptable." What joy and understanding I saw in my wife's eyes. An answer "accept-!" was instantly returned. And in due time the check came and we bought the horse, wagon, and tools—fully equipped the farm.
The horse was so badly needed that the purchase was an unwise one—yet there was much adventure and happenings that are worth telling. The unexpected was ever in store for us. The horse was balky and to one who knows horses, that word means much; "Will stand without hitching and safe to drive."
I soon found that kindness and light loads would do more towards speeding up than any other formula. In many ways he had very good qualities and when it came my turn to sell him I think I could have entered a horse trader's contest. This I knew: that he was safe, too safe. His ears were always at attention to hear the word "Whoa," and that was my trump card in making the sale,—to drop the lines and call it out, he would stop so suddenly that you would be jerked forward. He was also very quick at backing, and on any occasion it might happen, the lines were useless there. On one occasion it happened and I will remember it as long as I live and it will explain the splendid force of man—his ever readiness to act in emergency.
President Taft had arrived and the city had turned out in everything driveable.9 By then we had a nice little four-seated surrey, and we all embarked for the occasion. My wife, little boy four years old, H. James, and self were in the front seat, the others at the back. We got into the procession with horse-driven and motor-driven cars. People lined the streets each side for many blocks. For some reason the line suddenly stopped in front, and our horse stopped suddenly and started backing. The little boy was instantly thrown out on the ground and would have been trampled, but in less than a minute there were men at every wheel, and at the horse's head, holding all firmly. There has always existed in my heart an unshaped monument of worship for the fine things man can do at the critical moment.
Another time we drove in town to see the circus parade. We knew enough to park where there was more room in our rear than in front. The word "whoa" was the safe guard against advancing, but nothing served for the reverse. All went well 'till the elephants came along. Sancho had no use for them and we left the performance at a good trot backward. We were ready to return anyway.
You may not know, but farmers have a great habit of stopping in the road to gossip on crops or any other topic. We never could pass one without a hearty "Get Up" or Sancho would come to a dead stop, which was embarrassing in many ways. I seemed to be unsociable and gave the appearance of everlasting punishment, as the "Get Up" was not enough without the whip. My whip bills were enormous, but fortunately I was formerly a whip maker, and my knowledge came in handy for repairs.
My horse was a poster scheme, rather more than suited my retiring disposition, and I was soon known all along the line. He was a Pinto decorated with good large spots. In selling him I answered all questions truthfully but one point I did not advertise.
The next horse I bought was an improvement in many ways, but I lost her as she was stolen or strayed away. I left her in a little fence enclosure and one morning she was missing. That was the last I saw of her.
My third one proved a very good animal, but he had one queer habit. He would shy off from a pile of sand or dirt of any kind and always showed fear of it. One day I made the remark to a dry looking individual, who seemed to show interest in the animal, "that he was a fine horse in every way but was afraid of a pile of dirt." "Huh! Queer! There's plenty of it around," he answered shortly. I laughed over that remark and his expression for many years, and still smile at the recollection.
The horse was the greatest mischief, but the strangest thing is that if he got into any kind of trap he would just wait patiently until he was released. He was very fond of rolling. I had put in a hydrant with a sturdy post next to it to protect it. After the hole was all filled he found there was some loose dirt there, and that became his favorite rolling place. The next day I came home I found him stretched out in a sea of water, calmly waiting for me to release his hind foot that was caught between the hydrant and the post. He had attempted to roll, was caught and he did not try to do anything for himself. He had turned on the water when his foot was caught. Any other horse would have kicked until the hydrant was a wreck.
Another time the heel of his shoe hooked on to the single-tree attached to the plow, but he made no attempt to release himself for he knew that I would attend to it. I soon learned that he was playful when the edge of his iron shoe touched my elbow as his hind feet flashed above my head. It was just an expression of joy as he plunged forward for a run on being released into the open lot for a few hours. Always after that we separated from the fore quarters rather than the hind.
He did good work at the farm, cultivating, plowing and work in general and I became very much attached to him. But the day of parting came.
The strong desire took root somewhere under my hat to do all the work with the man-made-motor-animal. A neighbor promised to rent me a horse whenever I needed one, which sounded ideal to me. I tried it for two seasons, but I will not repeat the too familiar story. Repairs! Punctures! Blow outs! Run out of gas! Damage to gates, houses, plants, trees and so forth! And the weeds flourished! For the horse I was to use was always busy except the days I could not be there and by the second year the farm was a forest of undesirable weeds.
We had many nice little trips the first year when our car was new and we could bring in our produce in less time but it was very much bounced about and did not please our customers so well as when handled with the horse. The car, I found, did the work only partly and to one who loves living creatures, the machine does not fill the bill. It was a constant worry and kept me always on the look out for accidents. We had some narrow escapes. Ruth, our oldest daughter, started to learn to drive but when she ran into a load of lumber she had all she wanted of driving.
When returning from my farm in the early morning after having been up all night irrigating, the rocking of the car would send me to sleep for a moment, and I would find myself close to one side of the road travelling at the rate of twenty miles an hour. It was always a shock on awakening, but I felt a comfort in knowing that I carried an accident policy. With the horse I could sleep on returning, and the last one I had would turn out to pass a team and keep right on in the road whether I was awake or asleep.
During the third season I sold the car and went back to the horse. What a revelation it was to drive over the ground I had not truly travelled for three seasons. There was beauty and pleasure every inch of the way. I saw pictures everywhere; I wanted to stop and paint. I was really living again! The road was watched and studied by my travelling companion, and I was enabled to give my attention to color effects, for the season daily changes along the way. I could see the improvement the farmers had made and the preparations of the land for the coming crops. All was interest and pleasure.
This new animal, Blanch, so called because of her whiteness, took an interest in everything we did. I must relate how I acquired her. I knew by my past experiences that if I obtained a first class animal I must get the services of a good reliable veterinary. So one day, near the time for spring work the doctor and I sallied out to inspect the stables where there were horses for sale. We examined dozens superficially and a few very carefully but there were none, so he said, that answered my purpose. We saw at least five, any of which I would have bought and thought I was getting a treasure. As we came away from each he would say, "Did you see that left forehoof?"—or right knee joint or other damaged parts.
"Yes," I said, "but saw nothing wrong."
Well there was so and so the matter with it and could never be cured. It was the same with all the others, a crooked leg or some other ailment. It was interesting to note how the owners talked up their wares, but they all knew Dr. K. and realized that it was no use to try to deceive him. He said to me how strange it was that there was such a large crop of horses born in 1909. It was some moments before I saw the joke. Horses may stay at nine years old for many years and the novice will not know if he is older or not. This was the year 1918.
He finally located one, that he highly recommended. It was a white mare, about twelve years old, which I bought and never regretted. She was used to city life, had no fear of anything and was the best worker I have ever used. She was very easily kept, would clear up the hay left by the cow, needed very little grain, and was always plump and well. Her worse fault was finding the dirtiest spot possible and rolling in it. That meant much combing and brushing on my part.
We soon had the farm in good condition. It was always a pleasure to hitch her up as she would step over the shafts and take her place perfectly. The others had to be carefully backed in. What a pleasure it is to associate with an intelligent animal that takes an interest in the work to be done. This one always looked back at me when I stopped at any unusual place as though she wished to know if there were any changes in the program.
Amateur Veterinary Experiences
One interesting experience I had after the veterinary had filed down some back teeth that were too long. I had given Blanch the usual feed of hay at night,—six o'clock was the time for the night feed. About seven I made the rounds of the farm creatures. I noticed something wrong with her eating; there were wads of chewed hay that she had rejected. I watched her take the usual amount and chew it awhile, then drop it and take more and do the same thing. I called up the veterinary but he was out on a call so I had to wait for the result. But the next morning she took her feed all right. This is the conclusion I came to: there was a different felling in her mastication and she didn't understand the reason. It was the good animal's conclusion "safety first,"—not to swallow anything there was doubt about. How many humans are there who would have gone hungry under like circumstances I wonder. Anything will go that can be swallowed, let it be badly chewed or not, unless the throat puts up a barrier. Anything at any time and at any hour is acceptable until nature invites one of the many germs that are for that purpose, to call a halt.
As I am on this subject I will state, from what I have observed and read, that the human is the most unwise, and knows less how to live of any living creature. During the usual cold epidemic seasons of the year what a nuisance it is to try to follow a lecture or sermon. To one whose hearing is a bit faulty it would be better for him to spend his time with a book. Suppose it were possible to collect the like number of animals together at the same or any season of the year, you would not find one but what was in perfect health. Under no condition would they eat what was not good for them unless they are compelled to by man, through continued lack of correct food. Mark Twain wrote that if wild creatures lived as man does, there would not be one living on the face of the earth at the end of twelve months.
I have learned more about treating illness and infections from caring for domestic animals than in any other way. I will give some of my experiences. First, poultry. I have frequently said that if I know as well at the end of my life how to live, as a six week's old chicken, I will have achieved considerable. Watch how the baby chicks learn what to eat from the mother hen. As soon as they are old enough to digest the whole wheat, scatter a hand full containing some June grass seed or wild oats. the mother will call them to it and urge them to eat, which they will do, though you will find that nothing but the wheat has been touched. The following day put the same in a hopper; they will select the wheat and leave the other. The very silence of the mother is enough. They will never touch what whe has forbidden in not accepting it as food. Also with the insects they eat, the chicks are carefully watched by her, and if a chick finds a little bug and rushes off the eat it, she will scold it severely, take it away, and if she says "yes, it is good, take it," then ten to one the chick she hands it to is not the same that captured it. Such is life. The harvest is not always gathered by the one who plants.
If you care to see a scrimmage, throw a few earth worms to some young chicks. What a rush and grab there will be! Two will get a hold of a single worm and tussle until the worm separates. The habit of the chicken is always to look at what he has before swallowing it, and at that moment when he is laying down the morsel, another chick will seize it and make its run for the goal. In the meantime every chick has had a turn or two and worked very hard, and was well exercised for the little bit of meat it got.
Chicken illness can generally be attributed to either the food given by man, or badly ventilated houses. I obtained a very fine looking cockrel at the market for breeding purposes. I found after a few days that he was coming down with the roupe [roup].10 Thinking I would get the latest and best remedy from the person in charge of the poultry display at the State Fair, I went to him and he gave it in very few words,—"The hatchet." And in looking up printed information, the same advice was given, with treatment, if one cared to use one, which meant a lot of trouble. I concluded to try nature's remedy,—"fasting." I prepared a coop that was isolated from the others and gave him nothing but water. I noticed in a few days the swelling stopped and in a week was disappearing. In the meantime six young pullets came down with it, caught from him. I took him out of the hospital and put the pullets in on the same treatment,—only water. I gave the cockrel the run of the front yard where he could get water and whatever he could find to eat, which would be only animal and plant life. He soon entirely recovered, and the pullets also, though some went entirely blind for a short time. If I had followed the expert's advice, I would have been the loser of seven choice chickens.
The fasting remedy will cure a large porportion of all human ailments; from two to six day's abstinence from starch and sweets,—absolute diet on vegetables and fruits can be eaten after a day or two's fast. And often when the first symptom of cold, cough, dryness of the throat appears, by simply cutting out the starches and sweets, the incubation of the germ will be arrested. Never will I forget the astonishment I felt on hearing my father-in-law, Dr. H. J. Richards, say thirty-five years ago, that colds came from over-eating and candy. He was published in the Physical Health Magazine. When I meet people who talk of taking a cold through being in the draft, or getting rained on, or stepping on the wet lawn, I pity them,—they are still plodding along many years behind times. At intervals, it is smoke and dust that get the blame, but never those loaded dishes of potatoes, sweet deserts, and white bread three times a day washed down with sweetened drinks.
It is only recently that I heard a man over fory-five years old say, as a reason or cause for a bad cold, that he had passed by a lawn sprayer and the wind had carried some of the spray on him. Think of it. I could name a similar recounting for colds, enough to fill a volume. I can truly say I have never heard five reasonable reasons for taking cold since my father-in-law's remark thirty-five years ago,—outside of his own family, either from an M. D., or other person. Yet there is much written on the subject and many dieticians practicing now.
I will tell you another experience I had with a roupe case. A choice little white leghorm hen came down with it, one that I had recently purchased with a half dozen from a man that was moving. I saw that they had been neglected, but I thought with proper care I could bring them along. The desease had gotten a firm hold and I began the fast treatment. I put her in a small coop where she could keep dry and warm, gave her plenty of fresh water, and by the eighth day she was perfectly blind with it and the discharge from her eyes and nostrils was very bad. I resolved to use the hatchet, but my wife advised me not to, as long as there was life. The day following I saw an improvement and was greeted with the slightest note of poultry song from her. I said, "little lady, you are going to get well." And each day her head cleared rapidly and by the fourteenth day I gave her food in very small quantities. But there was nothing she would touch, yet she was very hungry and only weighed a pound and three-quarters. I knew she must begin eating so I wired in a dry spot of ground that had a roof over it and gave her a dish of water and some cottage cheese. But she would not touch it. She looked and smelled of it but said, "You don't know anything about such a case as mine." The next day I saw her picking at some dry fragments of straw and leaves. "Yes," I said, "you have told me what you want. It is greens." So I cut her some young tender grass, and how she did thank me with her song of contentment after she had eaten a moderate amount. How very carefully she brought back the proper functions of her digestive apparatus, and when it was strong she ate all that she could. And then how rapidly she came back to normal weight and health, and was soon paying her board and a good margin of profit. I can assure you that a very large percent of success would follow the similar treatment of our domestic creatures. And what percent of humans would recover if allowed to be their own physician?
At the first stage of this disease the creature will be ravenously hungry for the following reason: Nature is calling for a diet of greens and animal food, which means out of doors and plenty of good fresh air. The searching for insects and bugs tends to put the body in a healthy condition; if combined with the greens and water. Of course that is what the appetite craves—hence the over-eating which soon ends in the death of the creature if it is allowed to feed with those in proper health and is given food that is either for egg production or a fattening, growing ration.
The moment the cow refuses her food don't think by a change, or something especially tempting, you can induce her to eat. She is not like your little boy, or yourself. When Nature has put up the flag he would slow up, but you bribe him by some delicacy all the worse for him, and soon it is a case for the doctor. The doctor applies his remedies and makes a few calls and you pay a big bill and grumble at it. His charges have been a good fee for medical treatment, four times as much for your ignorance. If this was made a law the doctors would soon have to put up the shutters.
It was my family doctor that helped me very much in a diet way. He was the nephew of my father-in-law. I was in a bad way after an internal operation.11 I called him up and told him my condition. He said, "Use plenty of coarse bran. You would know what to give a cow." From that day to this, eight years ago, I have used it at every meal, and most of the time I feel as though I could do Doug Fairbanks12 tricks. The feeling of health and strength is a priceless thing, and worthy of much study to secure it.
From the Story of Labrador.—The government doctor found families dying of scurvy and there were plenty of plants growing wild along the road in the vicinity that would have kept them in good health.
The Narrow Escapes
During the time of my hunting and trapping period something happened that came near to being a fatal accident. I had been cautioned by my father never to leave the gun loaded as that was the cause of so many accidents. Only once did I fail to observe this warning. I had returned from hunting and expected to go again soon, so I thought it not worth while to withdraw the charge. Some days went by and it was entirely forgotten.
When I did decide to go again I brought the gun out to clean. My sisters were playing with dolls in a little summer house not many feet from the porch. A chicken was picking up crumbs that had been thrown out from the dinner table. Thinking I would give that pullet a fright I dropped a little powder down the barrell, capped the gun, and took aim at her. But before I could pull the trigger she passed back of a post, and as she came into view I fired. I expected only a puff of smoke but instead it was a heavy charge which tore the chicken to fragments.
Had I fired at the first impulse, that charge of shot would have lodged in the bodies of those children. As I think of it now the same sickening shock comes over me. How many many people pass through life with the remorse ever before them of failing to observe the propler cautions in daily actions, and death has often been the result.
My most serious adventure came at this period of my life. Every boy should know how to swim. I never mastered the art but came very near to death through the effort. One may say that I did not go about it in the right way. But what about the dozen or more boys whom I went with to the "old swimming hole"? They were all expert in every water trick known to a boy, while all I could do was the over stroke and kick. As I think of it now, fear and lack of confidence may have had much to do with it. Had I recceived`a little training other than with the boy companions it might have been different.
One summer Sunday morning all the family, relatives and friends decided to spend the day at the head of Jordan,13 fishing, boat riding, an all day picnic. The fisherman living there owned a sail boat and after lunch all the party except my father and mother and two of the boys, went on board for a sail. We boys, Jim and Sam Taylor,14 decided to go in swimming. So we undressed in a secluded spot and took to the river. In the middle of the stream the current was very strong. We started out to swim across. It was a very easy matter for the other two, my uncle who is very near my own age, and my cousin, two years younger.
They soon reached the other shore but I could not get out of the current. I called for help and the younger boy, seeing my trouble, called to the other that I was drowning. That alarmed me so much that I became very weak with fright. Both boys came to my aid and fought hard to save me. My parents were on the shore witnessing the struggles. My mother soon lost consciousness and my father helped by urging and encouraging the boys all he could. There was no boat near and he could not swim.
The boys realized the necessity of keeping out of my reach, as I was clutching and reaching with my hands. I sank to the bottom in spite of their attempts to rescue, but I struggled to the surface. Then my uncle swam near enough for me to grasp him with arms and legs, but he said, "let go, Jim, and I will save you."
I sank again and the desire to stay at the bottom of the river was strong, but the thought of my parents in their frantic efforts, aroused me to another attempt. I struggled to the surface and the boys were there and shoved me several feet but I had stood all I could and wanted to rest. I relaxed to sink again but touched the bottom. That feeling of earth underfoot with my head above water was the most thankful, thrilling sensation I have ever experienced. It was the touch that meant life to me.
The boys helped me to shore, and I sank down but never lost consciousness. They swam back, found a boat some distance up the stream, recrossed, took me in and returned to the other side where my anxious parents were waiting. My father and mother received me with tearful affection and thankfulness. They fixed me a bed in the bottom of the wagon and drove homeward.
I never attempted swimming again.
I came near enough to death by drowning to realize how painless it is compared to what one would imagine.
NOTES
1. James Taylor Harwood was born in Lehi, Utah, April 8, 1860, the son of James (1834-1912) and Sarah Jane Taylor Harwood ( ? -1922). Harwood's parents came from England, his father from Norfolk, and his mother from Oldham. Ione Harwood, "For the National Cyclopedia of American Biography," James T. Harwood Collection, Special Collections Department, University of Utah Library, Salt Lake City.
In his autobiography, J. T. Harwood's father (James) wrote of his and his family's conversion to the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (the Mormons) in England, their journey to the West, and their subsequent difficulties first as discontented and eventually non-Mormons in a small town in nineteenth and early twentieth century Utah. James Harwood, "The Autobiography of James Harwood, 1834-1902," 1-2, James T. Harwood Collection.
2. The Harwood farm located in Holladay (a southeast section of the greater Salt Lake City area in Salt Lake County) was purchased in 1905, a short time after the birth of Heber James Harwood, the fifth and last child of Harriett and James. Ruth Harwood, "J. T. Harwood Art Exhibition at the University," Presenting . . . James Taylor Harwood Art Exhibition Representative of His Life's Work (Salt Lake City: N. P., 1940), 6 (hereafter cited as Harwood Art Exhibition). Ruth Harwood, "Life Sketch," The Art of James T. Harwood: Script to a series of slides with notes by his son, Willard R. Harwood (Salt Lake City: Willard J. Harwood, ca. 1979), 11. George Dibble, "The James T. Harwood Story," Salt Lake Tribune, 11 November 1979.
3. The home in Salt Lake City was at 666 East 1700 South from 1900 to 1920.
4. The family at this time included James T. , his wife Harriett Richards, and their children Willard R., Ruth, Lawrence James, June Rose, and Heber James.
5. The English walnut (Juglans regia), also called the Persian walnut, is the "most important species," of the "deciduous, nut bearing [walnut] tree of the genus Juglans, in the family Juglandaceae . . . originally of southeastern Europe and China, and widely cultivated for its superior, thin-shelled nuts." Funk & Wagnalls New Encyclopedia (New York: Funk & Wagnalls, Inc., 1972), vol. 24, pp. 406-7.
6. Harwood spent his youth in Lehi, south of Salt Lake City. His father wrote of his arrival in Utah that "After traveling 1500 miles, taking about six months, we made camp on the bench in sight of Salt Lake City on the 6th Day of September [1851] . . . . We camped in the city for a week . . . . After which time we hitched up again . . . . intending to go until we came to a place that suited us. After two days we came to what was then called Evansville afterwards Lehi." Harwood, "Autobiography," 10-11.
7. Harwood was hired as the art instructor at Salt Lake City High School in 1898.
8. People of the Plains is currently unlocated. A photograph of that work (a "large oil painting of 1908") was shown in the Harwood retrospective exhibition of 1940. Harwood Art Exhibition, 10, no. 94.
9. President William Howard Taft's visit to Utah was during the congressional campaign of 1910.
10. Roup is a virus disease of poultry marked by cheesy lesions of the mouth, throat, and eyes.
11. Harwood is referring to a hernia operation he had in 1914.
12. Douglas Fairbanks (1883-1939), the motion-picture star, was best known for his portrayals of athletic heroes.
13. The Jordan River flows northward from Utah Lake, a short distance from Lehi, to the Great Salt Lake.
14. James Taylor Harwood's grandfathers were James Harwood and James Whitehead Taylor. James Whitehead Taylor, one of seven children, and his brothers William and Thomas were converts to the Mormon church. All three brothers were in Lehi by 1853 where Thomas and William founded "the mercantile firm of T. and W. Taylor, which conducted the first store in Lehi." James, a teacher, and Ann Rogers Taylor, were the parents of Sarah Jane (J. T.'s mother) and Samuel Rogers Taylor (Uncle Sam). "Cousin" Jim was apparently a son of William or Thomas Taylor, J. T.'s great uncles. Interview by author with Willard R. Harwood, 23 August 1982; Harwood, "National Cyclopedia," 1; Hamilton Gardner, History of Lehi (Salt Lake City: The Deseret News, 1913), 434-37.
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