468 



NEW ENGLAND FARMER. 



Oct. 



gradually percolating towards lower places, and 

 bursting out on hill-sides and near swamps in 

 springs. Wells in sandy places are usually mere 

 holes where the rain water stands clear and pure, 

 if it is not corrupted in its passage down from 

 the surface. In soils not homogeneous, such as 

 exists in stony districts, the rain water is collect- 

 ed by fissures and seams, and various obstruc- 

 tions, into little streams or veins, which we strike 

 in digging, or which are drawn aside from their 

 course by our excavation. This water is usually 

 cold and clear, though often hard, from some 

 quality acquired on its underground passage, 

 "But the bad water does not come from those 

 deep springs ?" Certainly not, but as it comes 

 from somewhere, let us inquire further. About 

 forty-two inches of water annually falls on every 

 foot of your farm. What becomes of it ? It falls 

 in your barn-yard, and you are too good a farmer 

 to let it run off the surface, and so of your garden 

 full of manure, and your fields. 



Your sink drain carries somewhere a constant 

 stream of filth, usually received into some mere 

 excavation, and so of the vaults for matters still 

 more off"ensive. Sometimes those receptacles are 

 water-tight, of brick and cement, but on farms 

 this is the exception. The vast quantity of rain 

 water, with all the impurities acquired in all those 

 ways, passes downward, and where does it go ? 

 It seeks the lowest level and outlet. We should 

 expect a four-foot drain in ordinary cases to 

 draw, as it is called, some twenty to thirty feet, 

 and to take off the water down to nearly the level 

 of its bottom, in forty-eight hours. A deep pit 

 from which you should pump out the water would 

 drain much further. You would expect such a 

 pit to drain everything within many rods of it. 

 All the drainage water would gradually find vent 

 in that pit. Just such a pit is your well. It is 

 the lowest opening for all the water that descends 

 from the surface into the earth for a certain area. 

 But the water is good a part of the year, and only 

 very bad in summer. It is hardly civil to say 

 that your broth is thinner when much diluted. 

 We will therefore suggest that so large a quanti- 

 ty of pure water flows into and out of wells 

 supplied by veins of water in the wet season, 

 that the small proportion of surface water is not 

 appreciable ; or we may suggest that when the 

 well is comparatively full, the surface water runs 

 off at the surface, because it finds little or no de- 

 scent toward the well. It is evident that no wa- 

 ter can run into a well already full, and that the 

 depth of the well for drainage, is its depth to the 

 surface of the water. 



We have been consulted many times on this 

 subject, and often have suggested what has proved 

 to be the true source in the particular case. The 

 list of causes may not have a poetical savor, but 



what makes the water bad in most cases, is, first, 

 some dead animal, as a dog or cat, toads or frogs, 

 and in sandy soil, angle-worms, which often crawl 

 down for moisture and die. It is surprising how 

 small a decoction of these dead creatures will give 

 an "ancient and fish-like smell" to a whole well 

 of water. Secondly, the drainage from stables 

 and barns. Thirdly, and generally, the drainage 

 from sinks and vaults, which, after a shorter or 

 longer time, so saturate the earth that it cannot 

 longer filter out the impurities, and they pass 

 downward with the surface water. 



Our article is already too long, and if the sub- 

 ject seems worth pursuing, we may speak of the 

 remedies for existing troubles of this kind in the 

 future. 



For tlie New England Farmer. 

 THE OLD BARKT. 



Dear Sir: — The following, to me, at least,) 

 beautiful fragment of poetry I chanced to read 

 some time ago, as it was floating along on the 

 public press, I know not whether you have seen 

 it before, and even if you have, I think it will bu 

 new to most of your numerous readers, I there- 

 fore send it to you for insertion in the Farmer, if 

 you think it worthy to occupy a place in your val- 

 uable journal, I know not the author, but its 

 perusal will cause many a heart to travel back to 

 to the scenes of boyhood, while memory, ever 

 faithful, will point to the Old Barn, situated on 

 the old homestead, so aptly portrayed in the fol- 

 lowing verses — the scene of many a frolic and 

 pastime in days long since gone by. 



Boston, Aug., 1860. John F. Tilton. 



Rickety, old, and crazy, 

 Shingleless, lacking some doors — 

 Bad in the upper story, 

 Wanting in boards in tlie floors ; 

 Beams strung thick with cobwebs, 

 Ridgepole yellow and gray, 

 Hanging in helpless impotence, 

 Over tho mows of hay. 



How the winds turn around it ! — 

 Winds of a stormy day — 

 Scattering the fragrant hay -seeds, 

 Whisking the straws away — 

 Streaming in at the crevices, 

 Spreading the clover smell, 

 Changing the dark old granary 

 Into a flowery dell ! 



0, how I loved the shadows 

 That clung to the silent roof — 

 Day-dreams wovl with the quiet 

 Many a glittering woof. 

 I climbed to the highest rafter, 

 Watched the swallows at play, 

 Admired the knots in the boarding, 

 And rolled in billows of hay ! 



Root Culture, — This subject was under con- 

 sideration at a late meeting of the "Harvest 

 Club" of Springfield, Mass. Seven members of 

 the club had raised last year, an aggregate of 

 15,000 bushels — a single individual 4000. One 



