AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST, 
FOR THE 
Farm, Garden, and. Idonse 1 1 oId. 
“ AGRICULTURE IS TIIE MOST HEALTHFUL, MOST USEFUL, AND MOST NOBLE EMPLOYMENT OF MAN.»-W 1 B ai» aTOX « 
4 > 
ORANGE JUDD, A.M., | TST A'RT TSJTTTi IN 1 RAO j $ 1.00 per annum, in advance. 
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. I J-KJ ± A1H lOli. j SINGLE HUMBER, 10 CENTS. 
; VOLUME XX—No. 7. NEW- YORK, JULY, 1861. NEW SERIES-No. 174 
Office at 41 Park-SSow, (Times Buildings). 
OP Contents, Terms, &c., on pp. 219-24. 
Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1861, 
by Orange Judb, in the Clerk’s Office of the District 
Court of the United States for the Southern District of 
New-York. tyN. B.—Every Journal is invited freely 
to copy any desirable articles, if each article or illustration 
copied, be duly accredited to the American Agriculturist. 
Slmcricau SCgctcuItunft tit ©ccmait. 
The AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST is published in 
both the English and German Languages. Both Editions 
are of tire same size, and contain, as nearly as possible, 
the same Articles and Illustrations. The German Edition 
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cluhs. A club may be part English, and part German. 
July. 
“ And soon the jocund dale and echoing hill 
Resound with merriment. The simple jest, 
The village tale of scandal, and the taunts 
Of rude unpolished wit, raise sudden bursts 
Of laughter from beneath the spreading oak, 
Where, thrown at ease, and sheltered from the sun, 
The plain repast and wholesome beverage cheer 
Their spirits. Light as air they spring, renewed, 
To social labor : soon the ponderous wain 
Moves slowly onward with its fragrant load, 
And swells the barn capacious ; or, to crown 
Their toil, large tapering pyramids they build, 
The magazines of plenty, to insure 
From winter’s want the flocks and lowing herds.” 
We are again at the zenith of the year, when 
the glory and blossoming of Summer begin to 
pass into fruit. Already we are gathering the 
small fruits, and dishes piled with berries, and 
garnished with sugar and cream, grace the farm¬ 
er’s repast. The cherries, in those sections of 
the country where they have not been winter 
killed, stand thick among the green leaves, and 
the apples and pears are rapidly pushing on 
toward maturity. The meadow is now in its 
glory, and all the varieties of grasses are shaking 
then dewy plumes in the morning breeze. Much 
of the interest of the northern farm at this sea¬ 
son, clusters around the hay field. It has its 
poetry as well as its philosophy, its sentiment, 
as well as its dull realities. 
There is hardly a more beautiful sight among 
all the peaceful scenes of rural life, than the 
meadow at mowing time. Grass is at all times 
grateful to the eye, and the smooth shaven lawn, 
with nothing hut evenness and monotonous 
green to commend it, is a perpetual feast. We 
can find contrasts enough in other things. But 
the verdure of the meadow has a thousand vary¬ 
ing shades, as the grasses come into bloom in 
mid-summer. Not only are there many varie¬ 
ties of grasses, but each variety gives a succes¬ 
sion of hues, as it passes from the blade into the 
season of ripeness. We have different shades of 
green, and then as the tassels and plumes come 
out, different shades of purple, blue, pink, and 
crimson, blending with the ground work of ver¬ 
dure beneath. Then, to vary the scene, we have 
these colors modified by the dew and the rain, 
by cloud and sunshine, by wind and calm. A 
gentle breeze sweeping over the tall grass, gives 
one the impression of the waves of the sea. We 
never thrust a scythe into a full grown meadow, 
without a sigh that so much of beauty has to be 
sacrificed to the necessities of man and beast. 
But the hay field is pleasing to the looker on, 
if not to the hay maker, after all its nodding 
plumes and flowers have gone down before the 
scythe. We love to see the boys tossing the 
withered herbage, the rakers gathering up the 
long windrows, the hay in cocks and covered 
with snowy caps, looking in the distance like a 
tented field, the hay cart with its enormous bulk 
drawn into the barn, the stacks suggestive of 
barns running over full with fodder, the farm¬ 
er’s nooning—the whole laboring group reclined 
upon the fragrant hay, the mirthful boys, full of 
dinner and practical jokes. 
Nor is the eye alone pleased with the hay 
field. No flower border sends up more grateful 
odors, than the blooming meadow on a Summer 
morning. It pays for early rising, to inhale the 
fragrance, as well as to catch the sparkle of the 
first sunbeams, as they flash from the dew drops. 
And then, when all the grasses are laid low in 
death, the perfume that comes up from the 
crushed blossoms surpasses all that they ex¬ 
haled while living. “ New mown hay ” gives a 
name to one of the most exquisite products of 
the perfumer, and the Broadway belle is redo¬ 
lent of one of the most common odors of the 
farm. This fragrance is most perceptible at 
evening, as the dew begins to fall, and moon¬ 
light rides in July are particularly delightful to 
those who have the leisure to enjoy them. 
Sweet sounds are also the charm of the hay 
field, and cheer the laborer at his task. You 
will always hear the robin from the adjoining 
orchard or fence, and the Bobolink pours forth 
his ecstasy from every weed and shrub that 
overtops the surrounding grass. The meadow 
lark and the quail both build their nests among 
the grass, and their notes are the constant com¬ 
panion of the mower. Then, the murmur of 
bees among the clover heads, comes up as a 
subdued undertone, to the varied music of the 
feathered tribes. 
And who that has been bred in a northern 
home and studied the New-England. Primer, 
with its familiar illustration of old Time and his 
scythe, has not indulged in a hit of sentiment, 
as he thrust his glittering steel into the grass. 
What slaughter of living things that the sun has 
been nurturing into strength and beauty all 
Summer long! To-day a living host, glorious 
in their wealth of blossoms, and to-morrow a 
mass of withered herbage ! He thinks involun¬ 
tarily of the Great Reaper, and the human har¬ 
vest that Time is always gathering. 
To come down from the realms of poetry and 
sentiment, the hay field is a very matter of fact 
sort of place, full of sweat and hard work. The 
scythe compels one to labor in a constrained 
posture, disciplines new muscles, and is justly 
regarded as the severest labor of the farm. As a 
gymnastic exercise, mowing is excellent, and if 
not too much prolonged, it gives strength to the 
muscles of the shoulders, the loins, and hips. The 
fact that one is always lame after the first day 
of mowing, shows that unused muscles have been 
taxed. The great danger at this season is of 
attempting too much. Labor is generally from 
fifty to a hundred per cent higher than at other 
seasons, but it is very much better to employ it 
at any price, than to break down the system by 
overwork. A strained muscle will often lay a 
a man up for months. If the labor is more se¬ 
vere than usual, more time must be taken for 
rest. It is folly to work fifteen or sixteen hours 
daily, as some farmers do. We doubt if any 
tiling is gained to the employer, in the whole 
season, by more than ten hours of steady toil. 
Particular attention should be paid to food and 
drink. We want good nourishing food, plenty 
of fruits and vegetables and milk, to break up 
the monotony of salt junk and potatoes. Some 
eschew ice water in the hay field. If one is ac¬ 
customed to it from the beginning of the season, 
there is little danger in its use. While we ap¬ 
prove of good cheer, coffee, tea, syrups, ginger 
beer, and the wholesome drinks that the good 
housewife knows so well how to prepare, we 
discard all intoxicating drinks. 
Hay making is an art, and it requires a good 
deal of experience to know just when to arrest 
the process, so that the dried grass shall retain 
its virtues. It is agreed on all hands that it 
should be cut just as it is passing out of blos¬ 
som. Later than this, the gum and saccharine 
matter pass over into woody fiber, and the hay 
is not so highly relished, and is not so nutritious. 
In the beginning of the season, when the grasses 
are full of juice, there is danger of curing too 
little, so that the hay heats in the mow. In the 
latter part, there is danger of drying too much. 
The best hay is made mainly in the cock, and 
now that we have hay caps so generally distrib- 
