74 
AMERICAN agriculturist. 
write to the cook to give him a small plate of 
takes, lest his body should grow too fast. 
We advise him to go to college by all means, 
if his father will let him. The writer of this 
did not get a chance to go till he was more than 
twenty-one years old, but he is now very glad 
he did go. We can till a farm better now than 
we could if we had not been through college; 
for we learned to think a great deal better; and 
now we can think better how to cultivate the 
land, and how to take care of our crops, and 
cattle, &c. Sometime we may tell you how we 
became editor. We will now say that we be¬ 
gan to learn when we were no older than “A 
Boy from Down East.” On page 323 of volume 
Eleven of the Agriculturist , we told the boys a 
little about the way we learned to write at first, 
by keeping farm accounts. 
And now, boys, we will close this chapter by 
saying that we should like to have you write for 
the Agriculturist. AYe will have a Boys’ Cor¬ 
ner, whenever you will have something to put 
into it Read over the directions to correspond¬ 
ents in our paper, and also remember to write 
only on one side of the paper, when you write 
for a printer. 
llmdlintum 
For the American Agriculturist. 
RECOLLECTIONS OF OUR FIRST EXPERIENCE 
IN FARMING. 
BY LUCY GLENDON. 
I have read with pleasure and profit the ar¬ 
ticles of your fair correspondent, Minnie Myrtle, 
and have often wondered that more of the 
American ladies do not relate their various ex¬ 
periences through the columns of the Agricul¬ 
turist. Next to wondering at the vacuum in 
this necessary department, came conjectures as 
to my own fitness for the task of filling it, and I 
finally arrived at the conclusion of at least mak¬ 
ing the trial. This idea was partly suggested 
by turning over the pages of an old diary, kept 
during a residence in one of the very fairest of 
all the sunny Southern States, which vividly 
brought back to memory the pleasant little 
chances and mischances that attended our first 
experiment in farming. 
Yes! it was our first experiment and our last. 
Twelve years had we spent in a large city, con¬ 
fining our amateur agriculture to a garden. 
Small as it was, considered in square feet and 
inches, I believe no garden ever yet displayed 
such a multiplicity of talent. Melons, sweet 
corn, fruit trees, roses, dahlias, pinks—all the 
inhabitants of the vegetable world, were ad¬ 
mitted, and so successfully did we wage war 
against insects, frosts, and all the ills that gar¬ 
den-flesh is heir to, that it inspired no small 
triumph, together with a certainty that we were 
born to figure in a larger area of ground. 
Of course, all our dreams of a farm were com¬ 
posed of lowing herds, nightingales, strawber¬ 
ries and cream, and “neat-handed Phillises,” 
and the lovely aspect of the Southern woods 
and fields, as they first met our eyes, clad in 
their gorgeous autumnal robes of gold and crim¬ 
son, contributed to heighten this agreeable de¬ 
lusion. 
Our first and last farm, consisted of a hundred 
goodly acres, only about two and a half of which 
were ever cultivated. The house itself was sit¬ 
uated in one of the most perfect groves ever 
planned by the fertile brain of Nature. A noble 
old chestnut, that had probably waved for half 
a century, formed the apex, from which sloped 
down oaks, evergreens, and sturdy forest trees, 
in irreproachable symmetry. 
Shall I ever forget the ludicrous misadven¬ 
tures that attended these two years. My father, 
the very beau-ideal of a ioolc-farmer, (as the 
veteran farmers of the neighborhood, entirely 
guiltless of all modern innovations, regarded 
him,) piled his book-shelves with bound vol¬ 
umes of the Agriculturist , Cultivator , &c., and 
with these guides entered on a life of practical 
agriculture. Heaven help us! for all he knew 
about it! Request of him the derivation of a 
knotty Greek verb, or the translation of a pas¬ 
sage in Virgil or Euripides—question him re¬ 
garding the geological formation of a country, 
or seek an explanation of the metaphysical sub¬ 
tleties of Aristotle or Kant, and he was in his 
element. None could converse more clearly, or 
sustain an argument with more ability on these 
points, than he. But as to sowing and reaping, 
the veriest farm-boy in New-England, had the 
advantage of him. So out he went every morn¬ 
ing and hoed a row or two of corn, and then re¬ 
turned to the shady verandah to read Words¬ 
worth, or pore over the enchanted pages of Col¬ 
eridge, while Cesar, the stout negro man, sowed 
potatoes, and told a long story to the children 
of the household, between every hill. Of course, 
this was all very pleasant, so far as the present 
was concerned; but the days and weeks rolled 
by, and the corn and potatoes did’nt seem to 
thrive in spite of our scientific experiments. 
The pigs (Cesar’s special proteges) escaped from 
their confinement, and galloped wildly around, 
to the manifest detriment of vegetation. So 
Cesar was told to fasten them up again, and in 
this visionary attempt every child in the house, 
scoured from pillar to post, until their delin¬ 
quent pigships were safely ensconced within 
their proper dominions. Cesar tied up the re¬ 
fractory rails with a piece of string, (his never- 
failing expedient,) and went his way until the 
next onslaughters upon the young vegetables, 
called the children’s hunting propensities, and 
Cesar’s piece of string, again into requisition. 
And now to relate our first experiment in 
butter-making. This article had become very 
expensive, and our cows yielding many quarts 
daily of rich milk, we saw no earthly reason 
why we, practical agriculturists that we were, 
should not manufacture our own butter. To be 
sure we had no churn, but necessity is the 
parent of invention, and our dear mother, whose 
command of expedients was truly surprising 
pressed a shallow earthen jar into the service. 
It was filled with cream, and Susan, the maid, 
was armed with a stout iron spoon, wherewith 
to agitate it briskly. 
After about two hours’ toil, Susan reported 
the cream as still obstinate. “ Oh, you haven’t 
sMrred it enough,” said my mother, and one of 
the juveniles was set to work at the rate of a 
penny an hour. I will not relate the exact or¬ 
der in which the whole domestic force succeeded 
one another. Suffice it to say, that the shades 
of night surprised us, but not—the lutter. 
At length our dear impracticable father, with 
a bright idea, no doubt borrowed from the 
“ Philosophy of Human Life,” (the book then 
in hand,) suggested Salt ! Oh, dawn of light 
on the darkness of our despair? To be sure! 
Was not butter always salt? and how were we, 
in our ignorance, to know at what stage of the 
operation it was applied ? A table-spoonful of 
salt was incorporated with the nondescript mass 
under the hands of Susan, and we waited with 
breathless impatience to see the golden island 
emerge from the sea of buttermilk. All, how¬ 
ever, was in vain. More salt—hot water—cold 
water, were applied in quick succession—the 
mass was whirled round with renewed vigor, 
but no butter made its appearance. 
Just then, in walked a friend and neighbor, 
whose whole life had been spent under the sha¬ 
dow of a farm-house, and before her we laid all 
these troubles. I will not repeat the bursts of 
laughter with which our various schemes were 
greeted, nor the good-natured witticisms she in¬ 
dulged in at our expense, but I will say, for our 
own credit, that before we left that Southern 
home, we could make as good butter as any in 
the country—Latin and metaphysics to the con¬ 
trary, notwithstanding. 
All these little mishaps were certainly su¬ 
premely ridiculous, and very vexatious at the 
time; but nevertheless, many were the happy 
hours we spent within the precincts of that 
farm. Petting the chickens and peacocks, and 
stroking the last new calves for the children— 
roaming through solemn pine avenues to the 
song of summer birds, book in hand, to the dear 
father; transplanting roses and shrubbery to 
our flower-loving mother, and the happy sun¬ 
sets where we all sat together in the verandah, 
surrounded by beloved guests, who came from 
time to time to view our new domains—these 
made our lives pleasant. I shall never forget 
those summer twilights, with the heavy odor of 
blossoming, locusts floating on the air—the sol¬ 
emn stars ascending their thrones of light one 
by one, and the whip-poor-will chanting her 
melancholy refrain in the distant wood—sand as 
long as memory continues to weave her bright 
shadows amid the soft tints of the past, these 
reminiscences of our sweet Southern home, will 
hold a beloved place in the sanctuary of the 
heart. 
The Quaker’s Scruples. —A Quaker said to 
a gunner, “ Friend, I counsel no bloodshed; but 
if it be thy design to hit the little man in the 
blue jacket, point thine engine three inches 
lower.” 
The above reminds us of an anecdote we have 
heard or read somewhere, of an occurrence on 
board an American merchant vessel, which was 
attacked by a British privateer during the last 
war. A Friend on board had refused to assist 
in defending the vessel, as it was entirely against 
his peace principles to shed blood even in self- 
defence. The privateer’s men had taken to their 
boats, and were attempting to board the vessel. 
The Friend stood looking calmly over the bul¬ 
warks as one of the attacking crew sprung from 
the boat and seizing a rope that chanced to hang 
down, commenced climbing up the ship’s side. 
The Friend took up a hatchet lying near, and 
addressing the man, who was now suspended 
over the water, said: “ Friend, if thee wants that 
rope, thee can have it;” and suiting the action 
to the word, he severed it just above his hands 
