“Living on less is only a question of individual methods.”—H. C. OF L. PROVERB NO. 8.

“Mrs. Martin’s magenta dress stood out like a beauty-patch on a sallow complexion,” commented Mrs. Larry, threading a fresh needle with embroidery silk.

“A woman of her coloring and eyes should wear gray-greens and dull blues,” replied Claire, as she picked up the wee sacque which Mrs. Larry was embroidering for Lisbeth.

“A-hem!” interrupted Mr. Larry, lowering his evening paper to study with amused eyes the two pretty women seated on the other side of the living-room table. “In real estate notes, there is a paragraph to the effect that rents in Kansas City have advanced ten per cent.”

Claire tossed the bit of French flannel back into Mrs. Larry’s lap.

“Wh-what’s that? Ten per cent.? Goodness gracious——”

“If they try it in New York, we’ll simply have to move—we’re paying every cent for rent that we can spare—this minute.”

“Who said anything about apartment-house rents?” demanded Mr. Larry. “This is an article on lofts and warehouses.”

“Brute!” cried Mrs. Larry, glancing at Claire, who flushed furiously.

“I hope that gave you great satisfaction, Larry Hall,” she said severely, even as she flung him a dazzling smile.

“Well, it accomplished its purpose—it checked an impending avalanche of colors, materials and hats. When two women begin to talk clothes, a man must use drastic measures, or silently steal away. Now, of course, if you like, I’ll——”

He half rose from his easy chair and fairly challenged Mrs. Larry with his glance.

“Indeed, you shan’t go! We’ll talk about anything that suits the tired business man, or start the Victrola, or go to see moving pictures——”

They laughed together, these three who had come to have so many pleasant hours together. Claire Pierce had fallen into the habit of spending with Mr. and Mrs. Larry most of the evenings when she was free from social engagements. She felt the need of their unspoken sympathy and understanding attitude.

The interests closest to her heart these days found little response in her own home. Mrs. Pierce belonged to a number of advanced organizations, contributed liberally to the cause of suffrage and prated much of individual rights. But in matters matrimonial she still believed that a daughter should bow to the maternal will and be practical. She considered marriage between Claire and Jimmy Graves a direct defiance of her wishes, and altogether impractical.

She had been more relieved than sympathetic when Claire and Jimmy had quarreled. And when the small inconspicuous solitaire had reappeared on Claire’s finger and letters from Kansas City arrived with their old-time regularity, she was tolerant, but not congratulatory. Mrs. Pierce’s idea of the proverbial cottage in which love should thrive among roses, was a Colonial mansion on a Long Island estate, reached by a high-powered motor-car.

In the house of Larry, Claire found not only the sympathy she needed in her lover’s absence, but help in her absorbing task of studies in household economics. Somehow, too, the contentment in her friends’ simply appointed home made her own way seem easier. One could be happy on a small income, if she made the most of little joys.

So it happened that when the evening mail brought a postcard depicting vegetables printed in brilliant hues, Claire was quite as interested as her two friends.

“Looks like an advertisement for southern California real estate,” suggested Mr. Larry.

Mrs. Larry held up the card for all to see, as she read the message:

“Home hampers delivered at your door, like this, for one dollar and fifty cents.”

“Direct communication between producer and consumer,” commented Mr. Larry, as he took a closer look at the card.

“What do you mean by that?” inquired Claire.

“Simply what so many economists are discussing to-day—the elimination of middlemen with their commissions, and direct dealing between the farmer and the housewife. This probably comes from a group or organization of farmers on Long Island.”

“I wonder why Teresa Moore never told us about it,” said Mrs. Larry.

“Perhaps because she does not know about it,” suggested Claire dryly.

The two women exchanged significant glances which were lost on Mr. Larry. His wife rose briskly.

“I think I’ll ask her over the phone. We have no particular adventure in thrift planned just now. And it does sound so nice and fresh and inviting—‘Home Hampers.’”

She returned from the telephone, wearing the expression commonly attributed to the cat that has just consumed a canary.

“Think—for the first time since we started these adventures in thrift, I have been able to give Teresa Moore a tip. I do feel that puffed up.”

She seated herself on the arm of her husband’s chair and laid the picture postal on the table.

“And I heard you ask in the most casual way: ‘Teresa, do you think it would pay us to investigate the Long Island Home Hamper?’ just as if you had known about it for five months instead of five minutes,” commented Mr. Larry, pinching his wife’s cheek.

“You really can’t blame her,” said Claire. “Teresa is so horribly wise; and she has made us feel so inferior!” “Not that she meant to,” added kindly Mrs. Larry, “but I have had to follow her lead so long—and I—well, I did enjoy handing her a bit of information.”

“No doubt,” laughed Mr. Larry, drawing her close. “And now that you have unearthed the Long Island Hamper, what do you propose to do with it?”

“Find out what it is worth.”

“My dear, you certainly are gaining in directness.”

“Oh, Larry, what an inviting collection of fresh green things! Do you suppose it could taste half as good as it looks? See—those are really, truly new potatoes that show pink through their skins.”

“Looks as if the hose had been turned on them.”

“And corn, lima beans, summer squash——”

“What is the thing that looks like cabbage gone to seed?”

“Kohl-rabi, silly! And cucumbers, onions, cabbage and beets. I couldn’t buy them at Dahlgren’s for less than three dollars. Yet this postcard says we can have such a hamper delivered at our door every week for one dollar and fifty cents. I think I will order one. Address Medford Demonstration Farm, Medford, Long Island.”

She reached for her pen, but her husband stretched out a detaining hand.

“Why not run down to the farm and learn all about it—in the interest of economy?”

“Because it would not be economical. It costs money to ride one hundred miles on the Long Island railroad.”

“I wasn’t thinking of a railway trip. We might go by motor. Burrows, our company lawyer, left for San Francisco Tuesday, and he told me that if I would like to use his car some Sunday or week-end, to telephone his chauffeur, who’d probably be joy-riding, if I didn’t.”

“Oh, Larry, a real motor! Just as if it was our own?”

Claire felt a little pang of regret as she studied Mrs. Larry’s radiant face. How much this friend had done for her, yet she could not place the family car at her disposal. It was rarely used for such unselfish purposes, but must be always at the command of her mother and sisters for calls, shopping and the briefest errands. She suddenly realized that Mrs. Larry was addressing her personally.

“Think of it, Claire—a whole perfect day in the country, with everything coming out of the soft brown earth to find the sunlight. It may not mean so much to you, for all your friends have machines. But you’ll go with us—because the trip may prove profitable. And I’ll take the babies, and, yes, Lena—she has been so faithful, and—is it a seven-passenger car, Larry?”

“It is, but it won’t hold the entire block.”

“No-o—only Teresa Moore.”

“Teresa goes. This is your party!”

So it happened that the next Sunday morning Mrs. Larry, with eyes shining, carried her “thrift party” off on the most delightful excursion so far undertaken. Even the Burrows’ chauffeur relaxed at sight of her happiness and enthusiasm, and forgave the early start, for at eight-thirty they were spinning over Queensboro Bridge. Behind them lay the city, for the most part asleep, as New York generally is after its Saturday night gaieties.

“We early birds will have the famous Merrick Road practically to ourselves,” said Mr. Larry, as they swept through Astoria. On they went, now through little towns, now past stately homes, now between rolling truck farms, green with corn, gray-blue with cabbage, spattered with the scarlet of tomatoes. It seemed as if all Long Island was yielding a bountiful store of fresh things, enough to feed three cities like New York.

“And yet,” sighed Teresa Moore, “we pay absurdly high prices for vegetables, which, though raised within an hour’s motor run of our doors, reach us withered and pithy.”

“Well, we’ll know why very soon,” said Mrs. Larry. Then she turned to her husband. “Who did you say owns this farm?”

“The Long Island Railroad. The president of the road, Mr. Ralph Peters, found on investigation that his road ran through territory which was without value, as the average American sees it—without lumber, without coal or minerals, without any great water power, without any opportunities for developing industrial plants of any sort. Half of this territory, lying within fifty or sixty miles of New York City, was a howling wilderness, selling at three or possibly six dollars an acre, and no one buying it.

“In 1905 he decided that the one hope of this part of Long Island lay in agricultural development. In the offices of his railroad was a man named H. B. Fullerton, who was in charge of the general advertising, taking photographs, issuing booklets of scenery, and so on. Such work had taken Mr. Fullerton practically all over the railroad’s territory. Also, Mr. Fullerton had traveled all over America, and he said that the Long Island land showed the same undergrowth as he had seen in Cuba, New Mexico and sections of South America, where vegetables grow luxuriantly. He believed that Long Island could grow beans, asparagus, peas, potatoes, cauliflower and other vegetables, instead of loblolly pines. The upshot of this discussion was that the Long Island Railroad Company bought ten acres of scrub oak waste, practically considered the worst land in middle Long Island, with the avowed intention of providing the fresh food for which New York City had been starving, from the countryman’s point of view.

“In September, 1905, Fullerton and his hands dynamited out the first scrub oak stump. The next year they raised three hundred and eighty-one varieties of food on the poorest land of Long Island.”

“And that is the man we are to meet?” asked Claire.

“Yes, together with his wife and daughters.”

Just beyond the Medford railway station the motor road cut its clean way through the arbor leading from the railroad to the farmhouse of the Demonstration Farm. Three concrete steps afforded the only “station” for railway passengers. The framework of the arbor was hidden by grape-vines and banked on either side by masses of garden flowers.

Beyond the farmhouse, a two-story, wide-porched bungalow, lay the barns and outbuildings and the cottages of the farm hands.

Mr. and Mrs. Fullerton, who had been advised of Mrs. Larry’s adventures in thrift, were more than hospitable, and after a tour of the grounds, they explained to their interested visitors many phases of merchandising in foodstuffs which are a mystery to the average city dweller.

“Our experience as farmers started about fifteen years ago. I had been a sailor and was a rolling stone,” explained Mr. Fullerton. “My wife was born and raised in the heart of Brooklyn. We moved to the country because we thought the country was the best place to raise our children. We started a garden because we had so much trouble buying fresh food. What little was raised on the farms around us was shipped to New York, then brought back to our little town of Hollis, and sold to us at city prices by our village merchants.

“We bought a two-acre place at Huntington, thirty-five miles from Brooklyn, and we raised all of our own vegetables, because we preferred fresh vegetables to stale ones. The potatoes we raised cost us seventeen cents a bushel, when our neighbors were paying the village grocer from one dollar and fifty cents to two dollars a bushel. Corn that cost us from eight to ten cents a dozen ears in our garden cost our neighbors thirty cents in the stores. Our two acres, worked almost entirely by my wife and an occasional helper, with what assistance I could give outside my office hours, cut down our cost of living more than half. Any family in a small town can do the same, but the city housekeeper is up against a different proposition, and we found that out when we took hold of this demonstration farm.

“We were here for a definite purpose—to prove that Long Island men could raise garden stuff to market in Greater New York, and that men who bought Long Island land could run truck farms at a good profit. The first part of the proposition was easy enough. The first year we raised more than three hundred varieties of vegetables, herbs and fruits.

“The second half of the proposition was not so easily solved. When we shipped out produce to the New York commission merchants, we soon found that the returns were less than the cost of the boxes in which it was shipped.

“As an example, we received six or eight cents a bushel for tomatoes, the very best ripe tomatoes. The box in which we shipped them cost us fourteen cents; then came express and freight. Of course, the Long Island Railroad, which was employing us, would have franked all our produce, but that was not what Mr. Peters wanted. He wanted us to find out exactly how a farmer would handle his produce, so we paid the charges and had a record of what everything cost.

“We faced this situation: With the best of tomatoes to sell, we could show no profit on them; instead, our books would show a loss. What were we to do? We did the natural thing, we went to New York to see why. At the end of three days we knew the truth.

“That three-day investigation proved to us that the commission men of New York had the Standard Oil Company and the Meat Trust beaten a thousand miles. We were all paying tribute to them, big farmers and little, grocers and housewives—for you housekeepers ought to know that your greengrocer makes but a small profit on what you buy.

“Among those to whom we shipped, we found seven speculators, men who never handled or saw the goods. One man sold immediately to another firm, which proved to be his wife; another man secured three commissions by selling produce to the greengrocers through two other ‘firms’—one was his wife, the other his nine-year-old son. You see, in case of any trouble he could actually show two sales.

“We found men who had no offices, who had no bank account for their business, who had no clerks, who had absolutely no expenses, but who were making big money off the producer and the consumer. One man had an elegant home in Brooklyn and a beautiful summer place in Maine. He owned a steam yacht and three automobiles, but he did not contribute one single cent to the upkeep of New York City, in which he did his business, nor to New York State. He was not even paying a license as an ordinary peddler would have to do. He did not have to file any statement of his financial returns with the state treasurer, as other business concerns do—yet he was getting enormously rich on his commissions. He was one of the men who had promised us to sell at the best prices which grocers were paying, minus the commission. And our returns were six or eight cents a bushel for tomatoes!

“To see produce come in from various outlying states and to watch it handled on the docks, we had to stay up nights, but we got what we wanted—reliable figures and data. We knew then that there was no money for the Long Island farmer whose produce was handled by the New York commission merchant. He could sell it better in any other city.

“The next proposition was to do away with the commission man and reach the consumer direct. Mrs. Fullerton and I happened to run across a package or carrier which held six four-quart boxes. We decided that we would fill one box with potatoes, one with tomatoes, one with sweet corn, one with lima beans, one with beets. The remaining box should hold a combination—parsley, radishes, asparagus, and later in the season, cantaloupe, raspberries, strawberries or other fruits. Then we christened the ‘Home Hamper.’

“We picked out seven New York men, each of whom we knew to have families. To each of these went a hamper, with a letter something like this:

“‘We are sending you a Home Hamper to-day by express. It is full of fresh stuff, and we hope you will get it in time for dinner. We should like to have your opinion of it, and, incidentally, if you think it is worth $1.50, we would be glad to have the $1.50. If you do not, please accept it with our compliments—and no harm done!’

“Then we waited for returns. Every one of the seven sent us the dollar fifty and several customers besides. For each hamper we sent out first, we received three and a half customers in return—and the cash came with each order. Apparently we were filling a long-felt want.

“Here was a business started in one day. Within three years we were able to sell all that was raised on two of the company’s farms. After eight years other Long Island farmers took it up, and truck raisers around such cities as Chicago, Philadelphia and St. Louis.”

“How did you figure your profits?” inquired Mr. Larry.

“That was easy,” answered Mr. Fullerton. “The express company got twenty-five cents out of the dollar and fifty cents. Boxes, nails, tags and green paraffin paper, to keep out dust during shipment, amounted to twenty-seven cents more. The vegetables, therefore, brought ninety-eight cents. In order to learn exactly what we gained by using the Home Hamper over the regular commission channel, we received for an equal amount of vegetables shipped in bulk, and of the same quality, from four cents to eight cents—an average of six cents through the commission man, as against ninety-eight cents from the consumer.

“And do you mean to say that all of your customers are satisfied?” asked Teresa Moore.

Mr. Fullerton’s eyes twinkled.

“Well—hardly. If a woman didn’t want cauliflower or kohl-rabi she would write as if we had committed an unpardonable crime in sending her any. Again, some city folks were so used to hard dry vegetables, like peas and beans, that they thought there wasn’t much to our tender juicy vegetables. But most of them appreciated the freshness of the green stuff, packed in the morning and received by them before night. The lettuce still had the morning dew on it; tomatoes and melons were ripened on the vine, peaches on the tree, instead of being picked green and ripened in a car during a three- or five-day railroad trip.

“As to the saving for the consumer—by checking up on our correspondence, we find that it ranged from sixty-five cents to three dollars a hamper, according to the markets formerly patronized by our customers, and also according to their ability as marketers.

“During the summer, of course, the consumer receives the vegetables fresh from the garden; during the winter, the hardier vegetables, which are stored in the farmer’s cellar.

“The passage of years has proved this to be a practical plan for both producer and consumer. The producer makes a fair profit, and the consumer a considerable saving. It is a proposition practical in all cities with outlying truck farms. Farmers are corresponding with me all over the country. Any group of women can communicate with the nearest grange or agricultural society and arrange for the shipment of these hampers the year around. I admit this will work a hardship on the small merchant, but until that merchant evolves a plan of dealing directly with the producer, instead of through a commission man, the housewife is justified in protecting herself.

“A housewife who knows how to utilize all sorts of vegetables, and who will buy directly from the producer in this way, can cut the cost of her table fifty per cent. Take the single item of eggs. When the better stores of New York were selling eggs anywhere from fifty to seventy-five cents a dozen, the commission men were paying the farmers around here seventeen cents. You can see who got the profits—the middleman. We sell eggs direct to the consumer at thirty-five cents a dozen, thereby receiving eighteen cents more than do our neighbors, who sell to the commission men, while the consumer saves anywhere from fifteen to forty cents.”

“I notice that you speak of making your shipments by express. Do you never use parcel post?”

“For fresh vegetables, eggs and so forth, I prefer express, because it is quicker, because there is no fee for the return of carrier, and because our hamper is too bulky for parcel post.”

“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Mrs. Larry. “I remember Uncle George (you know he is assistant postmaster at —) says almost the same thing, that parcel post would not spell bigger profits for the producer and worth-while saving for the consumer until what he called ‘empties’ would be returned by the United States Post-office Department, free of charge.”

“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Fullerton, “a great many Long Island farmers, especially those who ship in small lots, are making good use of the parcel post. I would advise you to interview Mr. Kelley, Brooklyn’s postmaster, on the subject. His was one of the last group of city post-offices selected by the authorities at Washington in their test of practical value of parcel-post shipment to producer and consumer.”

“Dear me,” exclaimed Mrs. Larry, as she sank back with luxurious enjoyment in the Burrows car, “it really doesn’t seem possible that we have been engaged on so prosaic a mission as investigating the ‘High Cost of Living.’ It was just a beautiful hour among growing things and charming, intelligent people.”

Mr. Larry smiled over his shoulder.

“There is no reason why a woman should not take the same satisfaction in a businesslike management of her home as her husband takes in the management of his store or office. The mistake we men make is depreciating or taking for granted good household management on the part of our wives. Perhaps if we were a little more sympathetic or appreciative, women would find thrift a joy and not a burden. And just to show you that I’ve had my little lesson as your partner in reducing the high cost of living, I’ll make the trip to Brooklyn for you within the next day or so, and present the result of my interview with Postmaster Kelley at a sort of Thrift Celebration, to which Mr. and Mrs. Moore, Mr. and Mrs. Norton and Claire will be duly invited.”

“What a lovely idea!” exclaimed Mrs. Larry. “I’ve been keeping a diary; so with our coffee and cheese, some one shall read a little summary of our ‘Adventures in Thrift.’ Of course,” she continued, with a suggestion of contrition, “I started these investigations, and I’m willing to look into parcel-post economy—but—well—My wardrobe’s getting in a shocking state, so if you go to Brooklyn, I’ll go shopping.”

“And I’ll go with you,” said Teresa.

Mr. Larry chuckled.

“Perhaps you might even find the way to thrift in department-store buying.”

“No,” said Mrs. Moore decidedly. “I don’t believe in bargain counters or sales.”

“If not, why not? I propose that you add to this quest the problem: ‘When is a bargain not a bargain?’ Is there such a thing as standardization in fabrics and wearing apparel?”

“Larry, Larry!” cried his wife. “Haven’t we had trouble enough with the food proposition? And now you’re asking us to shatter the last illusion of shopping—the bargain.”

“Nothing of the sort,” retorted her husband, “I was just thinking—if you know half as much about drygoods as you do about foodstuffs, we’ll soon own a car like this—just see if we don’t!”