The Sunday Gazetteer
Sunday, October 28, 1900
pg. 2
THE JOHN B. CARLAT FARM
One of the Most Delightful Events Ever Experienced in a Lifetime.
A Model Farm - The Wine Cellar - A Tour of the Farm - Natural Oil - Grand Dinner - Visit to the River
In
the fulfillment of a long made promise, the writer paid a visit 2 weeks
ago Sunday to the John B. Carlat farm, northwest 5 miles.
We were
accompanied by Col. Reardon, Miss Francis Harnest and Mrs. R.P.
Burbans. Not a drop of rain had fallen in 3 weeks. The
weather was stifling and every revolution of the wheels stirred up
clouds of dust that enveloped the party like a mist. When we
descended into the river bottoms the drive was much more pleasant, the
trees shaded the highway and the dust troubled us but
little.
The
Carlat farm is reached after a travel of about one mile from the main
traveled road that leads to Bear's ferry, on Red river.
Passing
through several wire gates, we reached the beautiful meadow lands that
descend to the home of Mr. Carlat.
The snug, tree-embowered farm
house of mine host Carlat is one of the most inviting spots that we
ever saw. We do not believe
there is a prettier pastoral picture
in all Grayson county.
Mr. Carlat received us at the gate with that
genuine, spontaneous welcome that no other race on the face of the
earth know so well how to bestow as the sons of the vine clad hills of
sunny France.
Discarding all formalities of reception we were told
to alight and make ourselves just as much at home as if we were lords
of the manor. Mrs. Carlat took charge of the ladies, while Mr.
Carlat prepares us seats in the shade of noble forest trees.
To the
Frenchman there is no good time without the inspiration of the juice of
the grape. The rites of hospitality find expression in
the dingy
black bottle, or the casks or great pipes of wine that the imagination
places in gloomy cellars covered all over with
cobwebs that leave the
impression of mellowness and old age. We had hardly got seated
when Mr. Carlat invited us to visit the
cellar.
The cellar is an
enormous affair, built of great dressed rock. It will take an
earthquake ever to disturb it. At the entrance there is a block
of white marble set in the masonery which bears the inscription, "John
B. Carlat, 1881." Mr. Carlat is proud of his farm, proud
of his
stock, proud of his orchards and vineyards, but his affections are
centered in the cellar. Before starting out to work, at the
dinner hour, and when the day's labor is over he finds solace in his
glass of wine. He is 73 years of age and the wine warms his
blood
and makes his spirits flow, care flies and wrinkles from his forehead
go. Good wine is certainly a great comfort to old age.
Mr. Carlat makes good wine, the best wine in the world comes from
France, and the formula has descended to him from his fathers.
Down
in the bowels of the earth he has casks of wine. The scene
reminded us of the famous picture of the monks of the middle
ages who
are in the vaults under the earth giving themselves up to the happy
inspiration of the grape. Monsieur Carlat drew forth a goblet of
wine which was handed to Col. Reardon, then we heard a gurgling noise
in the gloom of the cellar and the Col. smacked
his lips over an empty
glass which he declared had contained the best wine that he ever drank
in his life.
The Colonel did not refuse another glass, and made no
apologies for a third. When he left the cellar and came forth
into the light his face glowed like an Italian sunset, and his eyes
scintilated like diamonds. Mrs. Carlat then invited the ladies to
wine and the Colonel (Col. Reardon) joined them. It looked as if
we would have to put him to bed.
A delightful hour was spent at t he hospitable board.
While dinner was preparing Mr. Carlat conducted us over his farm, the most wonderful farm that we have ever visited in Texas.
Such
evidence of thrift we never expected was possible. It would take
a volume to relate the history of the Carlat farm; how it was redeemed
from brush, weeds and bramble; it cost years of hard, persistent labor,
a constant struggle, to get the mastery of nature. The good wife
who is now sleeping in the valley and shadow of death, shared his
labors. We never met her but those who have
pay glowing tribute
to her worth, her exalted character and christian virtues. Her
hospitality was the theme of every recurring
praise. Her dainted
memory will ever live while the world loves good deeds.
The present
wife is one of the noblest women that ever lived, a kind, genial,
hospitable matron, who makes you geel at home, at
ease, the moment that
you cross the threshold of her home. She is a woman of wonderful
energy, working side by side with her husband. They have reached
the evening of life when rest should be the heritage of old age, but
they always find some thing to do. And they will work, work;
people of their temperament cannot resign themselves to a passive life.
It is their wonderful energy that keeps them from breaking down.
They would like to rent the old homestead, and let us say
right here to a man and wife who are willing to work, and who may wish
to step into the model farm of Grayson County, here is the chance of a
life time. All of the farm machinery and appurtenances are in
perfect order. There is good water, rich land, good buildings,
blooded stock, splendid orchards and over 100 pecan trees.
We are satisfied a rich flow of oil can be developed on the land,
at least it is worth the attention of capital. The character of
the country indicates oil and from what we saw this will one day become
a famous oil field. Mr. Carlat is not able to put down a
developing well
to demonstrate the presence of oil or no. Mr.
Carlat showed us all over his farm and explained things as he went
along. He states
that his wife and self worked day and night; a
detailed description would be made mighty interesting reading matter.
It shows what well directed efforts will accomplish even at the
hands of old people. There is a place for everything and
everything is in its place. The premises are sweet and clean.
Every article of farm machinery is under cover. The
chickens don't roost in trees but have comfortable quarters and there
is a separate nesting house. The cattle are gentle, Mr. Carlat
going among them and caressing them. He has a Jersey bull that
will come at his call to be petted. The hogs are confined in a
large apple orchard. They are the famous Jersey Red. There
is an incident connected with the orchard that is worth relating.
Mr. Carlat planted 250 apple trees in 2-1/2 hours. The
ground had been previously prepared by plowing the furrows.
Jessie Looney was present and he told him if the last tree was
not in the ground at the allotted time he could go to the barn and get
a wagon load of corn.
After a tour of the farm the dinner hour was announced.
We
are not equal to the task to describe the feast of good things that
were on that spread. Roast turkey with French dressing, which
Col. Reardon called down a blessing upon, tender squabs that almost
meldted in the mouth, sweet and Irish potatoes, warm biscuit, golden
butter, delicious preserves and bottles of wine and fragrant coffee;
will we ever forget the coffee? Never, never. The spirit
did move and Monsieur Carlat chanted a French hymn.
The writer has
been a strictly sober man for nearly 9 years and for the first time we
thought - well, it was a great temptation to get
just a little
hilarious, but we put the temptation behind us. Col. Reardon kept
on praising the wine and hinted that he would sing a
song or deliver a
speech if called upon. After dinner Monsieur Carlat entertained
us with incidents of his remarkable career, that
are as romantic as
ever told in books of romance. At some future time we will "jot
down" his narrative.
It was late in the afternoon before we said
"goodbye" to our host and hostess. We were loath to leave them,
they were such royal entertainers, but we promised them another visit
later on, a promise that shall be religiously kept.
We spent an hour
at the rive and it was night before we arrived home. The visit to
the Carlat farm will ever be a green spot in
memory. |
French American Roots
Biography Index
Susan Hawkins
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