362 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



Aug. 



of sheds, where men and women are washing and 

 tying vegetables in bundles. 



"Nothing very remarkable in a field of cabba- 

 ges," says my conductor. 



"Very large and healthy-looking." I note the 

 blue bloom upon them, and the glistening drops 

 of dew collected in the wrinkles of their leaves. 



"Of course," repl es my conductor. "Before 

 this ground was planted, you see, every bit was 

 dug up two spades deep. We never have a plow 

 here. Then it was thoroughly manured — a good 

 horseload to every thirty square feet of ground." 



"Rather expensive." 



"Why, we put as much as twelve pounds' worth 

 of manure to a single acre. Supposing my land 

 could be all clear, and I wanted to plant the 

 whole of it with cabbages, I must pay twelve 

 hundred pounds doAvn for manure to begin with ; 

 without considering the cost of digging, and at- 

 tending to the crop till it comes to maturity, 

 gathering, taking to market, &c." 



"And rent," I suggest. 



"Nine pounds a year for every acre," says my 

 friend, "besides ten shillings for tithes which the 

 church is none the better for." 



"How many of those plants are produced on 

 an acre of ground ?" 



"Nothing easier than to calculate. You see 

 they are all at exactly equal distances. The 

 plants are twenty inches apart, and the rows 

 eighteen inches. That's the distance they grow 

 best al." My conductor takes out a rule and 

 proves the correctness of this to a nicety, which 

 convinces me that there is no slovenliness in his 

 ground. "That '11 give," he continues — with a 

 promptitude which makes me suspect that he 

 must have been once a calculating boy — "that '11 

 give seventeen thousand cabbages to an acre. I 

 could grow near upon a couple of millions at 

 once, if I chose." 



I indulge involuntarily in Dominie Sampson's 

 favorite exclamation ; and ask, "What those wo- 

 men yonder are raking about for ?" 



"Hoeing out the weeds. Every weed or blade 

 of grass that could steal a grain of nourishment 

 from the ground is cut down as fast as it ap- 

 pears ; our plan is to keep all employed, ground, 

 men and horses. This piece of ground, for ex- 

 ample, we shall begin to plant again the moment 

 a portion of it is cleared." 



"What will be the next crop ? 



"I don't know. Whatever is ready for plant- 

 ing." 



"But," I ask, "what is that 'succession of crops' 

 which I have always believed so necessary, un- 

 less you follow the old plan of letting the land 

 lie fallow ? What is the 'four-course system of 

 husbandry,' which some farmers are tied down 

 by their leases to follow ?" 



"Nothing to do with us," replies my friend, 

 smiling ; "nor with formers either, if they knew 

 it. Those chaps who don't put a bit of manure 

 upon their land for years, are obliged to vary 

 their crops ; for, you see, a plant with its roots 

 takes its own kind of nourishment from the 

 ground, just as a chemist extracts one or two 

 components from any substance, and leaves the 

 rest. When wheat has had its feed, the farmer 

 knows it is of no use to sow wheat again. He 

 plants tares, which extract something of what the 

 wheat has left ; next turnips, and so on. Now 



we supply our soil artificially with what the next 

 crop requires, and so can grow any thing. Thus 

 we get first-rate crops, and three or even four of 

 some things in a year, whereas the farmer will 

 seldom get more than a single crop." 



Passing through a little patch of well pruned 

 fruit-trees, I observe that every bit of ground be- 

 neath is planted with another kind of cabbage — 

 coleworts or "coUards," as a laborer calls them. 

 "No space lost here," says my conductor. "These 

 little plants, which perhaps you might take for 

 weeds, growing in this narrow strip of ground, 

 between the gooseberry bushes and the path, are 

 broccoli. While they are so young they can find 

 nourishment enough here — thick as they are. 

 They will be thinned and planted out in the fields, 

 very soon. Here is a patch of ground, you see, 

 already planted with them." 



"I suppose these weeds among them do no 

 harm while the plant is so young." 



"May be weeds there wouldn't hurt them now ; 

 for there is more nourishment in the ground 

 than they want, planted at that distance apart. 

 But if weeds wouldn't hurt them, we say some- 

 thing more useful wouldn't hurt them. This is 

 not a weed ; it is celery. They can grow very 

 well together, till the broccoli gets bigger, and 

 wants all the strength of the soil to itself ; then 

 we shall remove the celery." 



"You take advantage of everything." 



"Must do so, in these Free-trade days," says 

 my companion, sitting down upon a hand-bar- 

 row, and rubbing the perspiration from his fore- 

 head Avith a pocket-handkerchief. "If M'e couldn't 

 beat our neighbors in a fair trial, we wouldn't be 

 so shabby as to ask the Government to help us ; 

 that's how I look at it. But Free-trade puts us 

 all upon our mettle ; Belgium and the South of 

 France have sent some first-rate things to our 

 markets this year. What do I care ? I set about 

 it and grow as good." Mr. Trench paused. "It 

 don't do," he added, thoughtfully, "to waste as 

 much as a leaf or a root that would go into the 

 manure heap, I assure you. There is my neigh- 

 bor, Mr. Kutch, who has been in the East Indies. 

 He is a man of property, and it is his whim to 

 turn market-gardener. He makes up his books 

 every year and finds himself just a hundred 

 pounds out of pocket. And why P Because he's 

 not on the ground himself, as we are, from morn- 

 ing till night ; and doesn't take such care to pre- 

 vent waste." 



"This thin green down, with patches of white, 

 here and there, as if some workmen from the 

 lime-kilns had been trespassing in it, is onions, I 

 suppose ?" 



"One kind of onions. A very different sort 

 from those with the great seed-pods at the top. 

 It is of no use my troubling you with the various 

 names of our things. Some have no end of va- 

 rieties, chiefly named after the gardeners who 

 have imported or produced them. Fruit-trees, 

 as you know, change their very nature by culti- 

 vation — as for instance, the peach, whose fruit in 

 a wild state is poisonous. So plants by cultiva- 

 tion change in quality, form, and color." 



"Though never their primary structure," I in- 

 terrupt. 



"Quite right. Now, in the rivalry going on 

 among market-gardeners and nursery-men, con- 

 stantly experimenting too as they are, infinite va- 



