550 Sugar Cane Correspondence. [December, 



have tied the leaves in bundles and put them away for future use. — 

 The begass or waste, or stalks, I feed to my hogs. They are very 

 fond of them. I have used a considerable quantity for fuel after it 



has dried. 



I believe that one acre sown broadcast, would yield a large amount 

 of fodder, and sufficient molasses and sugar for any farmer's family 

 for a year. 



I will give you for your next number more items if you wish. — 

 I shall test the sugar properties next week. 



P. MELENDY." 



The following is from a correspondent in Porlland, loni county, 

 Michigan. 



"Br. Gary: — I have just concluded my experiment on the Chi- 

 nese Sugar Cane. I planted on the 20th day of May, six square 

 rods in the parsonage garden, on a warm soil, about four feet one 

 way and three the other, and then planted a hill of beans between 

 each hill of cane. The spring was cold and backward, and it grew 

 slow the fore part of the season, but our season was so favorable 

 through the summer that it grew fast. The seed did not get ripe, or 

 but a very little of it. I rolled it through a machine made for the 

 purpose, on the plan of the old fashion cider mill, put it once 

 through, and had, say, twenty-five gallons of juice. 1 then cleansed 

 with eggs and lime-water, and then boiled down to thinnish syrup; 

 cooled, and then cleansed again with eggs and milk, and boiled to 

 thick syrup. I had, say between four and five gallons of good thick 

 syrup. I know it was clean, but it does not taste right, it tastes of 

 the stalk ; somehow there is not n-i-g-g-e-r enough about it, or if 

 you like the phrase better, of southern climate. I have put it in a 

 crock in the cellar, hoping that age will make an improvement on it. 

 So I have, as the result of my experiment, between four and five 

 gallons of syrup and a full gospel bushel of beans from the six square 

 rods of land. Beat that, if you can. 



Portland, Oct. 25, 1857. W. W. Johnson." 



This world is a great slate, and Time's forefinger is never idle. — 

 No matter what we write or where we write it, Time is sure to find, 

 and moss, or stain, or crumble, or bury it altogether. 



