AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST, 
FOR THE 
IT arm, OrarcLen, and. Idonseliold. 
“AGKICULTUKE IS THE MOST HEALTHFUL, MOST USEFUL, AND MOST NOBLE EMPLOYMENT OF MAN.”—Wamototok. 
ORAHTCIE JUDD, A.30., 
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. 
ESTABLISHED IN 1842. 
I $1.00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. 
1 SINGLE NUMBER, 10 CENTS. 
VOLUME XX-No. 11 . NEW-YORK, NOVEMBER, 1861. 
NEW SERIES—No. 178. 
J^= Office at 41 Parit-Kow, (Times Buildings) 
ilC^ 5 *Contents, Terms, Ac., on pp. 350-52 
Entered according to act of Congress in the year 1801, 
'by Orange Judd, in tire Clerk’s Office of the District 
Court of the United States for the Southern District of 
New-York. jgp’N. IS.—Every Journal is invited freely 
ito copy any desirable articles, ?/each article or illustration 
■copied, be duly accredited to the American Agriculturist. 
Mmttican Slgriculfuvift in @etman. 
The AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST is published in 
both the English and German Languages. Both Editions 
■are of the same size, and contain, as nearly as possible, 
the same Articles and Illustrations. The German Edition 
is furnished at the same rates as the English, singly or in 
clubs. A club may be part English, and part German. 
“ In thin dry mist that morn the sun rose broad and red ; 
At first a rayless disk of fire, it brightened as it sped. 
Yet even its noontide glory fell chastened and subdued 
On corn fields and on orchards and softly pictured wood. 
And all that quiet afternoon, slow sloping to the night. 
It wove with golden shuttle the haze with yellow light; 
Slanting through the painted beeches, it glorified the hill. 
And beneatli it pond and meadow lay brighter, greener, 
still.” Whittier’s Huskers. 
No sooner lias the first frost fallen, though it 
be on the first clay of Autumn, than people be¬ 
gin to talk of the Indian Summer, as if that pe¬ 
riod were as well settled and as easily discerned 
as the regular seasons. Having recently con¬ 
sulted the clerk of the weather, we propose to 
post our readers upon this most charming period 
of the year. Whittier with a true poetic instinct 
has given us a complete picture of one of these 
Indian Summer days. We see the seeming 
mist which is no mist at all, for the morning is 
as dry as a July morning in drouth. A soft 
haze hangs over field and forest, subduing the 
radiance of the sun, even at midday. It is this 
unusual diminished light that throws such a 
charm over the landscape. The clear outline of 
objects, so noticeable in a brilliant Summer day, 
is no longer visible, and the imagination is called 
into play, to fill up the defective vision. The 
islands that lie slumbering on the distant sea, or 
lake, are elevated, and so seem to have come 
nearer to us, as if they had changed their places 
in the night. The trees look taller, and the 
hills grow higher, the rocks are magnified, and 
the distant plain has a wider expanse. The 
deep luxuriant green of Summer has gone, but 
the landscape looks far more beautiful than in 
its richest dress. We have the “dim religions 
light” under the open sky, and every object 
seems glorified. The feelings very naturally 
take the hue of surrounding objects, and we 
look forth upon nature with a sober quiet en¬ 
joyment, a perfect contrast to the rapture with 
which we hail the bright skies, and the opening 
flowers of Spring. 
Every one must be conscious at this season, 
of the stirring of some more powerful principle 
within him than mere animal life. The spirit¬ 
ual nature is quickened, and there is a longing 
after something higher and better than earth 
can give. The stillness that reigns every where, 
the sober lutes of the landscape, the falling 
leaves, and the hare fields, are powerful aids to 
reflection, and the mind, released from the pres¬ 
sing cares of Summer, now falls into genial 
musing. This is one reason, probably, why 
these days are so enjoyable. Faculties that 
with multitudes are partially suspended under 
the pressure of business, are now called into 
the highest activity. 
These Indian Summer days are too beautiful 
to come all together, or to last long. They be¬ 
gin earliest at the far north, and follow the re¬ 
tiring Summer to the far South. The best au¬ 
thorities put them immediately after Squaw 
Winter, which is the first cold snap that destroys 
tender vegetation. This is often accompanied 
by flurries of snow and the freezing of the ground 
as if the real Winter had commenced. This 
rarely comes before October even in Ncw-Eng- 
land. The true Indian Summer then begins, 
and according to the calendar we must have 
twelve of these days before the real Winter 
commences. We have the most of them in 
November, rarely, however, coming more than 
one day at a time at this late season. 
They are found in greatest perfection along 
the Atlantic coast, where the influence of the 
Gulf stream is felt. A breeze from the South 
or Southwest brings the atmosphere of the trop¬ 
ics, and the most enjoyable weather of the 
year. When the Governor guesses right, and 
Thanksgiving week falls upon Indian Summer, 
the cup of blessing runs over, and there is noth¬ 
ing more to be desired. The old homestead is 
certain then to be crowded, and the last grand¬ 
child to he brought to the family gathering. 
The warm sunshine of the heart finds its fitting 
response in the outer world, and the chill 
blood of age is quickened with a Summer 
glow again. Old age, surrounded with children 
and children’s children, is much like the Indian 
Summer. It lies between the active duties of 
life and the Winter, which we call Death, hut 
which is really no Winter but Spring time, it 
life have been well spent. It is sober but genial, 
all the activities are subdued, the passions soft¬ 
ened, making it the ripest, best period of Sum¬ 
mer life. 
This is the month ii* which we usually pay 
our respects to “ the old folks at home,” and as 
we have talked abundantly of planting and lioe- 
haying and harvesting, for the edification of 
our young and middle aged friends, we propose 
now to say a word for that less numerous, but 
not less honored class, who only read these 
pages through the aid of glasses. It is said, with 
how much of truth we can not tell", that the 
custom of returning to the old homestead to 
keep the only festival in the Puritan year, is 
not so generally observed as in the last genera¬ 
tion, before the advent of steamers and rail¬ 
roads, which would seem to make the trip much 
more safe and pleasant. It is certainly! true that 
the day is more widely observed, nearly all the 
States taking public notice of it, the churches 
gathering for worship, aud families doing ample 
justice to the roast turkey and the chicken pie. 
But the charge is, that the sou, who left the farm 
early in life, and who has been prospered in the 
city, finds it more agreeable to spend the day 
around his own mahogany, and inside his own 
marble front, than to make a pilgrimage to the 
humble dwelling that sheltered his childhood and 
there keep the feast in plainer style with father 
and mother. He has lost his relish, not only for 
country life, but for the simple manners and 
frugal fare of the good old people that gave him 
being, nourished liis helpless infancy, and trained 
him to habits of virtue and industry. He has 
forgotten the plain granite rock whence he was 
hewn, and affects marble. This may he putting 
the case rather strong, for business cares rather 
than pride, we would gladly believe, wean sons 
and daughters from the old homestead. But it 
is paying too high a price for worldly success, 
however great, when it blunts filial affection, 
and weans us from the assiduities that are al¬ 
ways due to parents. 
The annual pilgrimage at any reasonable 
sacrifice, will make better sons and daughters, 
and give happiness that gold can not pur¬ 
chase. The old folks are often lonely at the 
eventide of life, having sent out all their children 
to new and distant homes. This year, the war 
has taken the last son from some of these homes, 
and the Benjamin of the family on whom they 
had leaned for support will spend this festival in 
the tented field. Those who can, should go to 
cheer these bereaved hearts, now saddened by 
a double grief, their country’s and their own. 
