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A JVew Grain Fori: — The Furmer^s Harvest Song. Vol. IX. 



and first principles ! still we know enough 

 with reverence to admire. 



" We know nothing of the vital principle 

 — it may be a fiat — partaking of the nature 

 of the breath of life ; — it may be sentient, 

 conferring on a plant, however low in its 

 degree, some trace of feeling and volition ; 

 or it may be electro-magnetic, acting alto- 

 gether through the instrumentality of at- 

 traction and conduction. We lean to this 

 last opinion, because we perceive in every 

 act of nutrition, some phenomena of chemi- 

 cal decomposition ; but setting aside these 

 considerations, it is quite certain, and will 

 be self-evident to the philosopher who in- 

 quires aright, that every part of a tree or 

 plant, and all its productions, ivhen deprived 

 of life, are subject to chemical laws, and 

 can "be explained by them, and them alone. 



" By the application of proper tests, we 

 discover the elements into which all vegeta- 

 ble matters, organic and inorganic, can be 

 resolved. We learn that by analysis of the 

 insoluble ashes, left after the combustion of 

 plants of all kinds, we may arrive at a toler- 

 ably correct knowledge of the proper ma- 

 nure which any individual plant demands 

 for its peculiar aliment. 



" The science of manuring, we admit, is 

 in its infancy; yet its dawning has become 

 manifest, researches have commenced, and 

 the mind of man has begun to appreciate 

 the powers with which it is gifted." 



It has been remarked that " Literature 

 has its curiosities, and Art its museums of 

 singular antique productions ;" — but, let me 

 ask, can the artist, or scholar, find among 

 his treasures an ampler field for the employ- 

 ment of his highest powers, than the farmer 

 who quietly walks forth among the simplest 

 specimens of vegetable lifel S. S. 



Delaware co., Pa. 



A New Grain Fork. 



At a farm near Buffalo, we saw a new 

 grain- fork, the best adapted for pitching 

 sheaves of grain, of anything of the kind 

 we ever before noticed. 



Its construction is perfectly simple, and it 

 can be made by any skilful blacksmith ac- 

 customed to forge pitchforks. It consists of 

 two tines, nine inches long, which are spread 

 two inches at the shmk, and two and a half 

 at the ends. The shank has a sudden curve 

 at the end, of aboiit two inches, so as to 

 bring the points of the fork nearly in a line 

 with the direction of the handle and shank. 

 The naked part of the shank is eight inches 

 long, one inch wide, by one-third of an inch 

 thick, and enters the handle, which has a 



lerule on the end of five inches, secured to 

 tlie shank by a strong rivet. The tines and 

 shank are made of the best of German steel, 

 and possess great elasticity, which very much 

 lessens the labour of pitching. The handle 

 may be of any desired length, but should 

 possess as much elasticity as possible. Mr. 

 A. Raynor informed us, he could easily 

 throw a sheaf of wheat over his barn from 

 the load, and that he never pitched so easily 

 with any instrument as this. The sheaf 

 leaves the tines with an elastic spring, and 

 the fork at the same time utters a musical 

 sound, like the tuning fork, when struck by 

 a music master. — American Agriculturist. 



From the British American Cultivator. 

 The Farmer's Harvest Song. 



Ho! rouse ye lads — the morning breeze 



Has swept the mist from the stream, 

 And afar on the hills the towering trees 



Are tipt with the day's first beam ; 

 The stars are gone — the night has sped, 



And the lark has hailed the day; 

 Arouse ye, then, while the morn is red — 



Away to the field, away! 



To us no music sounds more sweet 



Than the sharpening clank of the scythe; 

 And echoing hills with gladness greet 



The song of the reaper blythe. 

 How pleasant to follow, with rake in hand. 



The mower's devious way. 

 And scatter abroad with lightsome wand, 



The green and perfumed hay. 



Let the soldier exult in the pomp of war, 



The king in his serf-thronged hall; 

 The free-born farmer is happier far 



Than kings, and lords, and all. 

 His are no fields with carnage red. 



And drenched with the blood of the slain ; 

 But hills and vales o'er which is spread 



A harvest of waving grain. 



The sununer sun, e'er valley and plain, 



Has shed his genial ray, 

 'Till smiling acres of golden grain 



Await the harvest day; 

 And into their borders we will not fail 



To carry the war to the knife. 

 And eager, too, are the cradle and flail 



To be wielded in bloodless strife. 



Then up and away, while the diamond dew 



Bespangles the bending corn; 

 And gayly we labour, the while we woo 



The bracing breath of morn. 

 And under the shade of the beeches green 



We'll rest at noon of day ; 

 Hurrah! for the sickle and scythe so keen! 



Away to the field— away ! 



