26 6 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
[September, 
When to Sell a Colt. 
A farmer makes quite as much money by sell¬ 
ing at the right time as by cheapness in pro¬ 
duction. Stock as well as crops are kept too, 
long for the greatest profit. A bushel of I^iffjj 
toes sold in July frequently brings a dollar; in' ! 
September, forty cents, though the cost of pro¬ 
duction is the same. A lamb sold in time for 
three dollars, often brings more net profit 
than the fat wether sold at two years old. A pig 
will frequently bring four dollars at eight weeks 
old. At eight months well fattened, he will only 
bring twenty dollars, after eating twenty dollars’ 
worth of provender. With this result it is easy 
to see the time to sell pigs in some sections. 
It is not so easy to know when to dispose of 
a young horse. As a colt he may sell at weaning 
time, say four months old, for twenty dollars, 
or fifty, if a handsome animal. It has not cost 
much to raise him, for he has lived on his moth¬ 
er’s milk, and she has paid her way by her work. 
But when he is put up for the winter, his keep¬ 
ing begins to count. He can do nothing in the 
way of self support until three years old, and it 
were better perhaps not to work him much even 
then. If well kept he can not cost much less 
than a hundred dollars before he is fit to work, 
in any region where hay is worth fifteen dollars 
a tun. He may sell for three hundred dollars or 
more, but the chances are that he Will sell for no 
more than the cost of his keeping. The farmer 
may not lose any thing, but he will only have 
made a fair market for his hay and pasture. In 
the sale of a colt during his first Summer or Fall, 
the price is nearly all profit. There is little risk 
about it, and the venture is made a certainty. 
If the sire be a blooded animal, the colt will gen¬ 
erally sell for enough more to pay for the price 
of his services, and often to pay for them many 
times over. It is most in keeping with our call¬ 
ing to make the profits sure, though small. 
Cattle-Comforts. 
Mr. Editor :—I hear and read a great deal 
about having good horses, fat cattle, and the 
like: also, a good deal about feeding them on 
this or that, but I don’t hear much about trying 
to make our stock comfortable and positively 
happy. I want my cattle and horses not only 
to live, but to enjoy life as they go along, just 
as their master does. A really good-hearted 
man will take pains to .please and gratify his do¬ 
mestic animals: he will strive to attach them to 
his person, so that they will know his voice and 
step, and always be glad to see him. Do you 
get my idea ? 
Well, this is the way I work it: In cold weath¬ 
er, I see to it that my cattle have wholesome 
food, and as much of it as they will eat up clean. 
I see to it that they have a variety, also—hay of 
various kinds, oat-straw, corn-stalks, roots and 
grain, cooked and uncooked. Milch cows, fat¬ 
ting cattle and working cattle, all thrive best 
and keep happy on a variety. 
Of course, 1 don’t neglect giving them com¬ 
fortable quarters, whenever they need shelter. 
Come out here, Sir, and see my stalls and my 
sheds, and my dry, well-littered yards, if you 
doubt. Experience shows me—and I know you 
teach the same doctrine—that stock will eat 
ali'out twice as much fodder, if they are kept out 
in the wind, and pinched with the cold. But, 
letting go the dollars and cents, I want to see 
my family, rational and irrational, happy. So I 
go in for good quarters. In addition to this, 
temperance man as I am, I believe in good drinks 
for my stock. I won’t compel them to wade a 
half mile through mud and snow to a stream of 
water, but I have got up a penstock in a clean 
corner of the yard, which pours into a large tub, 
.anifthe overflow goes into a long trough, so 
W ai t quite a number of cattle can drink at once. 
Jgjfy cattle are salted once a week regularly the 
year round. Some people keep it afore them 
all the time; and some cattle never see it. 
But this in the general. Besides this, I go 
out of my way often to please my friends at the 
barns. In the Summer, I seldom go into the 
pasture without taking along an ear or two of 
corn, or a handful of oats, to give to the first horse 
or cow I meet: and I’m sure to meet some crea¬ 
ture in double quick. They flock around me as 
soon as I come into their domain. And when I 
go out to the barn to harness a horse or to yoke 
up the cattle, I take into the stall a sweet apple, 
or something else that will please the poor crea¬ 
tures. I speak pleasantly to them, and caress 
and fondle them. Be sure I do. In this way, 
they become gentle and kind, and are plainly- 
much attached to me. Hone but a fool or a hard¬ 
hearted man will doubt that they are made hap¬ 
py by such treatment. How, when I deal so 
with my horses and oxen, they will do for me 
whatever service I ask. When they are at work, 
I giye them to understand that they must mind, 
and they always do. But I never over-work them. 
I have lived long enough to know what a fair 
load is, and I never mean to tax them beyond 
their strength, nor work them for too long a 
time. In this way, they learn to confide in me; 
they never revolt, but work cheerfully. 
A COMEORT-LOVXNO FARMER. 
Tim Bunker on Swamps Turning Indian. 
“ So you see it’s turnin’ Injun agin,” said Dea¬ 
con Little, as he looked into the horse-pond lot 
where I was mowing with; the machine. 
“ I guess you did’nt make so much eout of me 
in that bargain as you tho’t for, Squire Bunker,” 
said Jake Frink, as he joined the Deacon at the 
fence a few days ago. 
“What evidence of Indian do you see in this 
grass ?” I inquired. 
“ Plenty on’t,” answered the Deacon. “There’s 
dock, and rushes, and brakes—I told you so. I 
never knew it to fail. A reclaimed swamp allers 
turns Injun arter a year or two.” 
“And you hain’t got more’n half the grass 
you had last year,” chimed in Jake Frink. 
“ Heow Squire, I du say, if you’re sick of your 
bargain, I’ll take that lot back agin at jest half 
the price you gin me—and that is mighty fair.” 
“ How much hay will I get here to the acre 
think you?” I inquired of Jake. 
“Wall neow, naber, it’ll be tight squeezin’ to 
git a ton and a half, and the first crop was three 
tun three year, ago.” 
... “And that tun and a half,” I replied, “will be 
worth $25. Taking out $3 for cost of harvest¬ 
ing, and four more for interest of land and cost 
of manure, it leaves $18, or the interest on $300 
an acre. Should I be a wise one to sell it for 
$10 an acre ?” 
“ But see them rushes and brakes, Squire Bun¬ 
ker,” exclaimed the Deacon, “You see the Al¬ 
mighty made that a swamp, and I guess you 
won’t make any thing else eout on’t if you keep 
tryin’ from neow till doomsday.” 
“Well, Deacon, you see nothing else grew 
here but such things, and sour grasses, four 
years ago, and since I put in the drains, and 
stocked it down, we have had less of them every 
year. There is a hundred pounds of good hay 
where there is one pound of such stuff. You 
can not expect sile that is full of old brake 
roots, and rushes, to say nothing of foul seed, 
never to show a sign of the old vegetation.” 
“Hothin’ will come of it. You never can 
make upland where the Almighty has made a 
swamp.” 
“That’s so,” responded Jake. “Better take 
$10 an acre, and trade back. It will be all moss 
another year—see if it ain’t.” 
This talk of a July morning shows pretty 
well the prejudices of some of my neighbors 
against draining. They want to find an excuse 
for doing nothing, and thus set up a standard 
for reclaimed land, that they would not think 
of applying to land that needs no draining. If 
it shows any remains of the old grasses, and 
rushes, it is of course going back again to 
swamp. If it don’t continue to bear three tuns 
of hay to the acre, they hail you with, “ I knew 
it would be so; the land is running out.” 
How I hold, that we ought not to expect any 
more of reclaimed land than we do of any good 
upland. If it performs as well as that, it is clear 
enough that draining pays. . Ho upland that I 
have ever cultivated will keep up a yield of two 
or three tuns to the acre, without manure. It is 
very good land that yields a tun and a half three 
years after laying down. I never expected the 
horse pond lot to do any better, but it has disap¬ 
pointed me in this respect, and has held out bet¬ 
ter without manure than any undrained land 
upon the farm. I should have given it a top¬ 
dressing last year, if I had not wanted to see 
how it would hold out. The yield was quite two 
tuns, though Jake Frink saw a quarter less. 
With manure I can get three tuns easier than I 
can get two upon upland. 
The rushes and sour stuff that Deacon Little 
makes such a fuss about, grow smaller every 
year, and will soon disappear entirely. There 
is, however, a need of one more drain in this 
lot, to make perfect work, and that I calculated 
on when I began the job. I did not care to be 
at the expense of putting it down unless it was 
necessary. It was just fifty feet between the 
last two drains I laid down, and I can see now 
that it needs another just half way between. It 
has always been too wet along this middle line, 
the grass has not been so heavy, and it is here 
that the brakes and rushes are found principal¬ 
ly. It is as clean as ciphering can make it, that 
there ought to be another drain there. Indeed, 
I have lost considerable money by waiting so 
long, say half a tun of hay annually for three 
years. But what I have lost in money I have 
gained in knowledge. It is worth something to 
know just when and where to drain. For such 
land as this twenty-five feet is none too near, 
and three feet is none too deep. I would drain 
three inches deeper if I could get the fall. But 
three feet makes very good work, and land so 
drained I am sure will never turn Indian. 
I never was fool enough to suppose that such 
land would keep up to three tuns to the acre 
without manure of some kind. But some men 
demand this, and because drained swales and 
swamps will not take care of themselves, they 
think draining a failure. This is unreasonable. 
Parson Spooner preached a few Sundays ago 
about “ not muzzling the ox that treads out the 
corn,” applying it, among other things, to giv¬ 
ing a good bounty to the soldiers. You see, 
Hookertown took the hint next town meeting- 
day, and voted $100 to every man that would 
enlist. I thought the truth would apply to the 
sile,'as well as to soldiers, and oxen. It is about 
the best worker man has got, and we have no 
