202 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
sod flat over on the sod by the side of it, wheel 
short round, and turn another furrow iu the 
same way, thus laying the outer edges of each 
turned furrow parallel and close together. Then 
drop the seed between the two. Once or twice 
hoeing is all the subsequent cultivation the po¬ 
tatoes receive. The sod decomposes rapidly, 
and forms an excellent pabulum for the growing 
crop. Manure is scarcely ever used in this 
method. The variety of potato thus raised is 
called the Peach Blow. We had the pleasure 
of eating some of these at his own table, in De¬ 
cember last, and he recently sent us some for 
distribution among our friends. We shall be 
happy to present the Post some of them for its 
own planting and experiments. 
To conclude, we are much obliged to the Post 
for its courteous manner of conducting this dis¬ 
cussion ; and all we have to ask now is, that it 
should take back its charge of “ exaggeration” 
as applied to this paper. We think it wholly 
unmerited. The editors of the Agriculturist are 
all practical —not theoretical men; and they 
make no assertions which they cannot prove 
capable of being performed, under favorable cir¬ 
cumstances, by every intelligent farmer of the 
country. 
From the Evening Post. 
TWO HUNDRED BARRELS OF POTATOES TO THE 
ACRE. 
We copy from the American Agriculturist 
the reply of that respectable journal to our com¬ 
ments, made several weeks since, upon its state¬ 
ment, that potatoes, “intelligently cultivated, 
yield from seventy-five to two hundred barrels 
per acre.” 
Our neighbor has gratified our curiosity to 
see how large an army could be mustered un¬ 
der a summons to those who have raised two 
hundred barrels of potatoes per acre. 
Going over a period of fifteen years, muster¬ 
ing recruits wherever they can be found, in this 
country and in Europe, including one whose 
area of cultivation covered only one rod of 
ground, and calculating the possible product 
per acre from that, the august array, all told, 
numbers just nine! Nine from amongst mil¬ 
lions ! 
Considering the industry with which our con¬ 
temporary has evidently searched the record, 
we wonder at the paucity of the result. We 
should have expected him to find twice as many. 
The circumstance strongly confirms the correct¬ 
ness of our views. 
We had supposed that in several instances, a 
number of years ago, when potatoes generally 
did much better than they do now, eight or 
nine hundred bushels to the acre had been pro¬ 
duced. In one instance in half a million, 200 
barrels may be raised now. But as the darkey 
said about waking up some morning and find¬ 
ing himself dead, “ such a thing might be—but 
very rare.” 
As we said before, the chance of being struck 
by lightning is nearly the same; nay more, we 
think it is better. 
For during the very time occupied by our 
neighbor in looking up these nine cases—look¬ 
ing over the whole known world for a period of 
fifteen years to find them—we think a larger 
number of persons have been struck by light¬ 
ning within a few hundred miles of this city. 
And we should not have to go back a great way 
to find the record of twice as many cases of hy¬ 
drophobia. 
We insist that the statement of seventy-five 
to two hundred barrels of potatoes to the acre, 
as the yield, with intelligent cultivation, is an 
exaggeration; that it would be entirely unsafe, 
as a rule, to calculate on any such product. 
At the same time, it is no less an act of plea¬ 
sure than of justice to say, that the Agricul¬ 
turist is not a journal which, with malice pre¬ 
pense, misleads its readers, or intentionally pub¬ 
lishes fiction for fact. The fault of exaggeration 
in estimating crops has been almost universal 
with writers on agriculture. 
Written for the American Agriculturist. 
WHAT I SEE HERE AND THERE. 
BY MINNIE MYRTLE. 
Oh, is it not pleasant to leave behind the “ city 
with its busy hum,” the rattle and clang, and 
clatter and dust, and find yourself among green 
fields and sparkling waters, to look far off upon 
the mountain, and near by through the valley, 
to listen to the songs of birds, and the hum of 
insects, to see the flowers springing up at your 
feet, and the vine clambering above your head, 
to be soothed by a thousand rural sounds, and 
feel at rest ? 
To one whose home is the country, the city 
can never become a pleasant abiding-place. Its 
giddy whirl amuses for a while, but it is like 
medicine to the sick, endured for a time, for its 
special advantages—for the good we expect to 
derive from it, but on no account to be suffered 
for a year, or a life-time. 
These are certainly my feelings, as I bid it fare¬ 
well ; but I suppose my readers would think the 
place to which I have come in no way deserving 
the name of country, and the yard and garden 
by which I am surrounded, a very contemptible 
substitute for a “fifty acre lot,” and its many 
appendages. 
I am not out of sight of the city, but I am 
far away from its heated walls and hurrying 
throng, where the morning breeze comes laden 
with the rich fragrance of spring blossoms, and 
all around on the sloping hills are the fields and 
gardens, with the dark mold contrasting with 
the green sod, giving such pleasant tokens of 
good things to come in the summer-time. 
What a blessing and a comfort is just a little 
patch of land, if it will produce nothing more 
than the beets, and onions, and peas, and beans, 
and celery, for the daily wants of a little family. 
And then the garden, with its circles and semi¬ 
circles—its tasseled mounds and tufted borders— 
what pleasure so sweet as covering the little 
seedlings in the brown earth, and watching them 
peep up their heads, and spread forth leaves, and 
buds, and blossoms, to crown the parterre with 
beauty. 
“Oh dear,” exclaims a lady, “ what a relief it 
is to be where one may go out in morning dress 
and sun-bonnet—may move with freedom, and 
breathe with no fear of contamination.” How 
many thousand times I have thought, “Why is 
it that the same people meeting each other every 
day in the crowded street or the saloons of 
fashion, must be dressed in silks, and satins, and 
furbelows, and the same people meeting in a 
country village—in rural lanes and garden 
walks, think not the less of each other if clad 
in the sober garb of comfort and economy. 
Why must the city necessarily minister to lux¬ 
ury, extravagance, and vice ? If they build a 
church, it must be magnificent, and shut out all 
who cannot dress magnificently. If they build 
houses, it must be in a way to banish all com¬ 
fort—the eating and drinking must be done af¬ 
ter the same fashion; and all for what ? Nobody 
knows. They go where they are permitted to 
lay aside state, and parade, and pomp, and say, 
“ Oh, how delightful,” and then voluntarily re¬ 
turn to chains and galling servitude again. 
And are there none who have independence 
enough to abjure folly because they are in the 
midst of it, and live in freedom because those 
around them prefer slavery ? Yes, there are a 
few untrammeled by fashion’s rules, however 
imperious may be her sway. I have seen a few 
who lived as cozily, and comfortably, and unos- 
tentiously in the city as in the country—who 
did not stop to ask, “ is it genteel?” or “what 
will people think ?” but studied their real com¬ 
fort, and the true welfare of their children. 
But I meant to forget the city people a little 
while now that I had left them, and enjoy this 
quiet country place. 
The first sight that meets my eye in the 
morning, is the pretty garden, and a gentleman 
in his broad-brimmed hat and working frock, 
hoeing, or spading, or pruning, and by his side 
a little boy, scarce four years old, in his working 
dress too, at least one that neither dirt nor work 
will spoil, trotting around or digging in the sand 
with his hands, and looking as rosy as the roses 
themselves. Dancing on the green sward and 
among the'flowers is a little girl, acquiring hardi¬ 
hood by the same means, and neither of them 
in danger of acquiring any thing worse from evil 
companions, for they seem quite content with 
their miniature plows and harrows, and very 
earnest in their miniature toil. 
How fresh and bright they come down to 
the breakfast-table, and here I wish I could 
transfer this very breakfast-table to every home, 
on every hill, and jn every valley. There is 
never a great talk about eating and drinking, 
and never a fuss about cooking or cleaning, 
but there is such a perfect system in the man¬ 
agement of the whole household, that every 
thing is cleaned and every thing cooked to per¬ 
fection. 
The table has been set with the same dishes, 
knives, and forks, and spoons for ten years, and 
nobody would think of guessing they had been 
used a week. No important article has been 
broken in all that time, or visibly defaced. 
Some house-keepers, who are obliged to get 
new tea-cups almost every year, and some new 
dish almost every month, will call this a great 
story , but it is true nevertheless, and also true 
that Irish help has washed the dishes and done 
the cleaning. “ Oh dear,” t exclaimed a dozen 
ladies, “ how is it possible to teach an Irish girl 
to be careful, neat, or expert ?” It has never be¬ 
came my duty to undertake the task, so I can¬ 
not so well explain the process, and I have 
never kept house, and am not at all sure that I 
could to my satisfaction or the satisfaction of 
others, but I know very well when I see good 
house-keeping, and good help. 
The food is the simplest and the plainest that 
can be cooked, and yet it has the relish which 
nothing but skill in cookery can give ; a nice, 
wholesome taste, which the most costly viands 
can never have even when well compounded. 
I often wonder how it is that the same things 
can be made to taste so differently, and have al¬ 
most come to the conclusion that cooking is a 
gift, as truly as speaking with tongues, and 
surely it is almost as rare. 
The setting a table and washing the dishes 
seem very simple performances, and usually de¬ 
volve upon the younger portion of the family, 
or upon the ignorant, but there is nothing which 
