106 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
[April, 
fcion that they shall not he used upon thorough 
bred cows, and charge proportionately higher 
prices for the choicer calves of the herd, breed¬ 
ers would find it greatly to their advantage. In 
some such way the public must be brought to 
appreciate the value of blood. 
Tim Bunker on Family Horses. 
“ In faith, she’s dead as a herring, sir,” said 
Patrick, as he came from milking, yesterday. 
“ Poor old crature! is she gone indade ?” asked 
Bridget, the maid, as she lifted the corner of her 
apron, and wiped genuine tears from her eyes. 
This was sad news, though I had been expect¬ 
ing it for several mornings, and not a very good 
preparation for breakfast which was already 
upon the table. I saw it was all over with the 
old mare, the mother of John’s Blackliawk colts, 
and the faithful family beast of twenty-five 
years standing. She had been ailing for a fort¬ 
night, a little stiff in the joints at first, but noth¬ 
ing alarming considering her years. She had 
been serviceable up to that time, and though 
neither so strong nor so swift as in her younger 
years, was just as good for my purposes as a 
dozen years ago. When she began to refuse 
food, I resorted to the usual remedies, but soon 
saw that it was of no use. She died in her stall, 
on the fourth day after refusing food, full of 
years, and full of honors. I own that I set more 
store by her than any thing else that goes upon 
four legs. I had raised her, and ridden behind 
her to mill and to meeting, for over twenty 
years. Her disposition was a great deal more 
human than that of the common run of man¬ 
kind. She knew her place and her business 
better. She was so completely under the con¬ 
trol of my voice, that I never had occasion to 
strike her a blow. John lived upon her back al-. 
most, when he was a boy, and the women could 
drive her any where. She was the first horse 
John and Sally ever learned to drive, and she 
was associated in my mind with their childhood. 
It Avill go hard with John when he hears the 
news, down on the Potomac, for old Rose was 
the companion of all his boyish pleasures, until 
he was big enough to break colts. There is not 
a fish pond, or trout stream, within a dozen 
miles of home whither she has not carried him. 
He can hardly think of a pleasant spot, or a 
happy day in his childhood, a ’berrying with-his 
school mates, or a ’visiting with his cousins, 
without recalling the nimble feet of old Rose. 
It so happened that Sally and her husband 
were at home on a little visit yesterday, and it 
seemed to lighten the load a little, that we had 
children and children’s children in the nouse, 
when there was so dark a shadow upon the 
bam. But it was rather a sad breakfast, even 
with these alleviations. 
“She was just Sally’s age, and—” remarked 
Mrs. Bunker, as she passed my cup of coffee, 
without being able to finish the sentence. 
“ What’s the matter, grandma,” asked little 
Timothy, who did not exactly understand the 
trembling lip, and the tears, that, the spectacles 
did not hide. 
“ One of the earliest things I can remember,” 
said Sally, “ was a ride to mill, after old Rose, 
with you, father, and John. I couldn’t have been 
more than four years old. I know John got to 
sleep before we got home, and you left him un¬ 
der the shed to take his nap out. You must not 
laugh at us, Josiali,” directing her remarks, by 
way of apology, to her husband, “ for our tears 
for old Rose. She was the mother of our 'Char¬ 
ley, you kno^' 
“A very remarkable beast, I have no doubt, 
from the impression she seems to have made 
upon those who knew her best,” said Mr. Slo¬ 
cum, trying to enter into his wife’s sympathies. 
“I have always thought horses approached near¬ 
er to man than any other domestic animal. The 
name of the horse recalls little Rose, in the 
Shady Side, who seems to have been so much 
afflicted at the sale of her father’s horse, Pom- 
pey, as you are at the death of the family mare.” 
“Oh yes,” said Sally, “I remember the passage, 
and it is one of the best in the book, where Mr. 
Vernon, the clergyman, had to sell his favorite 
horse out of sheer poverty.—‘ The children got 
bravely through the dinner; but afterwards, 
seeing her father look sadly out toward the 
empty stable, little Rose climbed his knee, and 
whispered, ‘Never mind, dear papa, we shall 
see Pompey again—in heaven,’ she was about 
to say,—but suddenly recollecting, she added, 
‘Oh no! he has no soul, has he? poor dear 
Pompey!’ and the tears rained fast through her 
chubby fingers, with which she tried to hide 
them from papa.’ ” ; ' ■ 
“ I do not altogether sympathize with the the¬ 
ology that takes it for granted that there is no 
hereafter for brutes,” said Mr. Slocum. 
“I should like to think so,” said Sally, “ now 
that old Rose is dead, but I can not see what 
place there is for animals in a spiritual w r orld.” 
“ I believe the Bible has not much to say on 
that point,” said Mrs. Bunker hopefully. 
“ Very true,” said Mr. Slocum; “and it is wor¬ 
thy of notice, that the most pointed thing it 
does say against their immortality, Solomon 
puts into the mouth of an infidel arguing that 
‘ man hath no pre-eminence above a beast, for 
all is vanity.’ They fill their places so much 
better, than multitudes of men, and seem to an¬ 
swer the Divine purpose in their creation so 
much better, that it seems very sad To think 
there is no hereafter for them.” 
“ It is almost as sad to think that some men 
can never die,” Sally replied very soberly. 
“ Still I think we shall have to give up old Rose 
and all our other dumb pets, when we become 
like the angels. You remember, Josiah, that 
passage in one of the ‘ Essays of a Country Par¬ 
son,’ where the writer represents himself to be 
seated upon a manger, writing upon the flat 
place between his horse’s eyes, while the docile 
animal’s nose is between his knees. The book 
is here upon mother’s table, I will read it: 
‘ For you, my poor fellow creature, I think with 
sorrow as I. write here upon your head, there 
remains no such immortality, as remains for me. 
What a difference between us! You to your 
sixteen or eighteen years here, and then oblivion! 
I to my three score and ten, and then eternity 1 
Yes, the difference is immense; and it touches 
me to think of your life and mine, of your doom 
and mine. I know a house where at morning 
and evening prayer, when the household assem¬ 
bles, among the servants there always walks in 
a shaggy little dog, who listens with the deep¬ 
est attention, and the most solemn gravity, to all 
that is said, and then when prayers are over, 
goes out again with his friends. I can not wit¬ 
ness that silent procedure, without being much 
moved by the sight. All! my fellow creature, 
this is something in which you have -no part! 
Made by the same hand, breathing the same 
air, and sustained like us by food and. drink, 
you are witnessing an act of ours which re¬ 
lates to interests that do not concern you, 
and of which you have no idea. , A"nd so here 
we are, you standing at the manger, old boy, 
and I sitting upon it; the mortal and the 
immortal close together; your nose on my knee, 
my paper on your head; yet with something 
between us, broader than the broad Atlantic.’ ” 
“That is charmingly expressed, my dear,” 
said Josiah, “and it satisfies the reason very 
well, but still the heart pleads for its accustomed 
companionship in a better life. It is a point not 
definitely settled by revelation, and as the be¬ 
lief tends to make men humane in their treat¬ 
ment of animals, I am inclined to think that 
there may be another life for them.” 
Sally and Josiah had a good deal of discus¬ 
sion in this vein, all very well in its place, but I 
could not take any part in it. Sally, I guess, 
had the best of the argument, but that did not 
make me feel the loss of old Rose any the less. 
The tears fiom under the old spectacles at the 
other end of the table, were a little too much for 
me, and I had to keep silence or join the com¬ 
pany of mourners outside. Twenty five years, 
you know, make a great hole in the life of man, 
and when we are touchingly reminded that they 
have gone, even though it be by the death of a 
brute, it is very natural to think of the end. 
These domestic animals, especially the most in¬ 
telligent of them all, the horse, have much to 
do with our moral training. The affection for 
them, which seems almost as natural and as 
strong as for our own species, tends to repress 
cruelty, and the abuse of the power we have 
over them. The civil law properly recognizes 
cruelty to brutes as a moral offence. Their kind¬ 
ly treatment is a virtue that makes better citizens, 
and honors the State.—As old Rose was so near 
to the family, we honored her with a decent bu¬ 
rial. She lies under an old oak in the pasture 
where she used to graze. Peace to her ashes. 
Hookertown, \ Yours to command, 
Mar. 15 th, 1862. j Timothy Bunker, Esq. 
Abortion, or “Slinking” in Cows Produced 
by Smut on Corn. 
The Belgian Annals of Veterinary Medicine, 
publishes a statement that the Ustilago Madis, or 
parasitic mushroom which occurs' on maize or 
Indian corn as ergot does on rye, produces abor¬ 
tion in cows fed with it. The article says that 
in a stable where cows were given maize infest¬ 
ed with this parasite, eleven abortions occurred 
within eight days, when, the cause being sus¬ 
pected and the food changed, no further case 
happened. The author of the discovery then, 
to assure himself of the supposed fact, dried and 
pulverised some of the fungi, and administered 
six drachms of the powder to two bitch dogs 
heavy with pup, and abortion was produced in 
each. This statement should be studied and 
carefully investigated by stock keepers in the 
United States, and more attention be bestowed 
by them upon the feed of breeding animals, as 
it is very possible that many otherwise unac¬ 
countable cases of slunk calves can be attributed 
to diseased corn. Whether the ripeness of the 
fungus, or its occurrence on green or dry fodder 
makes any difference, are points to be settled. 
How Much Help Shall we Hire ? 
It is time to be making arrangements for the 
next season. The supply of labor, at least in 
the older States will be,we think, nearly as abund¬ 
ant as usual, notwithstanding the war. If six 
hundred thousand soldiers have been raised 
among twenty millions of people, it is only one 
in thirty three of the population. But at least 
three-fourths of this number have come from 
the cities and villages and from other callings 
than agriculture. A multitude have entered the 
army who were never very productive laborers, 
in any calling. They are now earning more for 
themselves and theft families, than they ever 
were before. In the derangement of business 
