1857. 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



566 



For the New England Farmer. 



BUTTER PRODUCTS. 



Mr. Editor: — Being honored with the appoint- 

 ment to examine stock, at the late State Fair in 

 Boston, I endeavored to inform myself as well as I 

 might, as to the making of butter, by inquiries ofj 

 some of the best experienced managers of dairies 

 present. As in duty bound, I first inquired of the 

 venerable gentleman of Framingham, who is so 

 •well known for his Devon stock, fojir quarts of 

 their milk making a pound of butter. This he said , 

 •was so, and produced two certificates of females,] 

 averring this fact. Who can for a moment doubt 

 what ladies certify ? I mean ladies who milk cows 

 and make butter, for they may be as much of la- 

 dies who do this, as those who perambulate Beacon 

 or Park Street. 



I next applied to the eminent farmer of Prince^ 

 ton, who has taken so large a share of premiums 

 for his fine stock, and superior dairy management, 

 and learned from him and his certificates, that un- 

 der circumstances most favorable, it took at least 

 eight quarts of his milk to make a pound of butter 

 I learned the same thing from Mr. Robinson, of 

 Barre, and Mr. Sewall, of Medfield, both of whom 

 have been long known, as highly successful man 

 agers of dairies. I ask them how does it happen 

 that cows fed on the sandy plains of Middlesex, 

 will yield milk, that will produce twice as much 

 butter as the cows that feed on the fertile soil of 

 Worcester and Norfolk ? There is a mystery in 

 this matter that I cannot comprehend. If you or 

 your neighbors of the Ploughman can explain it, I 

 should be pleased to have it done. I forbear to 

 say more, having briefly stated the quere that oc- 

 curred when viewing the stock on the field. For 

 myself I have never seen milk superior to that pro- 

 duced by the cows of Mr. Brooks, Mr. Robinson 

 and Mr. Sewall, and I distinctly understood each 

 and all these gentlemen to say, under circumstan- 

 ces most favorable, it required at least two gallons 

 of their milk for a pound of butter. I am sure that 

 it requires as much as this on the best fatms in my 

 neighborhood, and from the best cows also, aye, 

 even the best of the Ayrshires and the Jerseys. 



October 24, 1857. EsSEX. 



wear out, and my idea is, that it would be better to 

 try to keep it up while it is rich, than by and by to 

 have to reclaim it or emigrate to the West. Com 

 stalks should always be plowed in where they will 

 not too much interfere with tending the next crop. 



While I am writing, I will say that the experi- 

 ment with the Chmese Sugar Cane, this year has 

 been very satisfactory here. Those who have tried 

 it, think it worth attention. One temporary crush- 

 er has been going within our hearing for a month. 

 It is believed that it will make sugar, though it is 

 often stated that it will not grain. D. Fry. 



Oskaloosa, Mahasha Co., loica, 10 mo,, 1857, 



For the New England Farmer. 



CORK STALKS AUD MAHURE m THE 

 WEST-SUGAR CANE. 



Friend Brown : — I noticed, in a late number of 

 the JVetv England Farmer, a short article written 

 from Buchanan County, by "H. W.," on this sub- 

 ject, and being somewhat surprised at the idea that 

 manure is useless to the soil, my pen is called up. 

 If friend W. has never seen manure applied to any 

 crop but wheat, and has not thought of the great 

 contrast there is between the wheat and corn crop, 

 in relation to their growth, it may not be strange 

 that he should so write, for the soil surely is as 

 rich as wheat or oats will bear, but corn, perhaps, 

 cannot be driven too hard. I have tested the use 

 of manure in Iowa, and witnessed the effect where 

 used by others for corn, and think I never saw 

 greater increase of crop by the application of ma- 

 nure in any country. While the soil here is very 

 rich and deep, still it is not inexhaustible, it will 



For the New England Farmer. 



TEMPEEAU GE AID CHEERFULNESS. 



BY WILSON FLAGO. 



Beneath a wood, within a still retreat, 



At once the muse's and the rambler's seat, 



Where healthful gales and running waters play, 



Hard by her sacred fountain, day by day, 



There sits a gentle maiden ; round her brows 



Th' unfading bloom of health and beauty glows. 



Her name is Temperance ; and when she descends. 



To fill her urn from the pure stream she tends. 



She seems the daughter of the Morning, clad 



In all those charms that make her rising glad. 



She's girded with a wreath of evergreens, 



That twine their foliage round these rustic sceneSj 



To emblem her perpetual youth. She bears 



A cup that charms away disease and cares. 



Her breath is like the fragrant breath of morn, 



■While yet the flower is fresh upon the thorn. 



The youthful maids that follow in her train 



Are like the roses seen on Sharon's plain ; 



Resembling, in their toils that never cease, 



Those who came down from heaven to publish peace. 



Close by her side are sheaves of many a sort 

 Of native simples : mint and thorough-wort, 

 Hardback, life-everlasting, winter-green, 

 And many an herb for sickness or the spleen: 

 For nature has provided herbs to cure 

 All ills the spirit and the flesh endure. 

 Full many a flower whose tints we fail to note, 

 Springs from the root of some good antidote ; 

 And many a humble leaf whereon we tread. 

 Has power to raise the sick man from his bed. 



She bears a cup, not filled with wanton cheer; 



It ne'er excites a laugh, nor draws a tear. 



It is the healthful fluid that promotes 



The growth of herbs, inspires the warbler's notes ; 



Gives hues to heaven, and blossoms to the trees, 



Freshens the earth and purifies the breeze. 



She's a true friend of mirth ; but it is still 



And tranquil, like the motions of the rill, 



That quietly meanders through the grass. 



And sings a tune where'er its waters pass. 



'Tis mirth subdued and calm, that ne'er attains 



To madness and then stupefies the brains — 



Like rapture from the inebriating bowl — 



But a perpetual sunshine of the soul. 



Serene and holy as the face of even. 



When she sits blushing in the light of Heaven. 



There is a sister angel at her side. 

 Found ever where content and peace abide ; 

 Her name is Cheerfulness : she has the power 

 To calm the heart in sorrow's darkest hour. 

 She's never seen among the rioters : 

 The haunts of frugal wisdom she prefers. 

 The reveller's mirth is vacant and unholy. 

 Attended by despair and melancholy ■ 



