134, 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
[April, 
raster that is dead game, he would raise some 
chickens next season that would have the grit in 
’em, and he would bet on the White Oaks agin the 
hull state of Connecticut. I knew you kept blood¬ 
ed fowls, and I didn’t know but you might have 
some of that kind.” 
“ No, I don’t keep that kind. Why don’t you use 
printer’s ink ?” 
“ Printer’s ink !” exclaimed Jake, “I should like 
to know what that has got to'do with it. I’ve 
heerd of printer’s ink for canker-worms, but I 
never heerd of it for rasters—how d’ye apply it?” 
“Just put it in the Hookertown Gazette under 
head of Wants—like this, “ Wanted to buy a year¬ 
ling cock, warranted dead game, Jacob Frink, 
Hookertown, Ct.” 
“ Never did sich a thing in my life. Taint no 
use. I never read advertisements, and guess no¬ 
body else don’t. They’re pretty much all doctor 
stuff. Might be some use in it ef I was a Steam 
Doctor.” 
“ Just try it,” said I, “ and if you don’t hear of 
i - oosters in less than a week, I’ll pay the bill.” 
I didn’t much think Jake would advertise, but 
the notion seemed to work, especially my paying 
the bill, and I guess the thought of getting that on 
to me had more to do with it than his faith in prin¬ 
ter’s ink. He made a straight wake for the Gazette 
Office, and told the printer to advertise for a Game 
Booster as above, and send the bill to me. The 
Hookertown Gazette is printed on Thursday, and 
distributed to town subscribers by carrier, and the 
rest sent off by mail. Jake got his paper the same 
evening, and for the first time began to look at the 
advertisements. It was quite a while before he 
could find his rooster, and when he did it only oc¬ 
cupied the space of two lines, and seemed so ridic¬ 
ulously small, that nobody could notice it. He cer¬ 
tainly would not have seen it, if he had not known 
it was there and been looking for it. He thought 
he had stuck Timothy Bunker this time, and would 
get square on the Horse-pond lot trade. Next 
morning Jake was waked just after daybreak by a 
loud knock on his door. Jake poked his head out of 
the chamber window, and shouted “ who’s there ?” 
Billy Peckham’s voice answered from below, “I 
saw your advertisement in the paper last evening, 
Mr. Frink, and 1 thought I’d catch my rooster this 
morning before he got off the roost. He has licked 
in six fights, and will kill any rooster in town. He 
was a year old last spring, and cost me ten dollars. 
But if you want him for Kier you can have him for 
five dollars. If the White Oaks are goin’ in to this 
business, I guess I’ll sell out.” 
“ Couldn’t think of giving that,” Jake answered, 
and shut the window in disgust. He put on his 
clothes, and while he was kindling his fire in the 
stove, another rap at the door. Ben Porter had 
brought up his rooster in a covered basket, said he 
saw the notice in the paper, and thought he would 
bring up his black-breasted red game, that he would 
warrant to stand steel, and lick all the roosters in 
town. The bird cost him fifteen dollars, and he had 
made a hundred on him, knowing just how to bet. 
He could have him for twenty dollars. Didn’t care 
a cent whether he took him or not. Two men were 
after the bird, and he only offered him as a matter 
of neighborly accommodation. 
“Twenty dollars,” exclaimed Jake, “ that’s all a 
feller can git for a two-year-old steer. I ain’t a fool 
quite.” 
Jake started to milk his farrow cow, and on his 
way to the yard, he met a boy with a game Bantam 
cock under his arm, in earnest to sell. He admitted 
the cock was small, but he was true as steel, and 
had whipt Deacon Smith’s Buff Cochin, five times 
his weight, in a pitched battle. He hated to part 
with him, but would sell for three dollars cash on 
the nail. When Jake had done milking, he found 
at the barn-yard bars two more boys waiting for 
him, one with a cock in a bag, and the other with 
a bird under his arm. They were only common 
roosters, and Jake declined to buy. As he came 
out from breakfast, and was going to yoke the cat¬ 
tle, Mike Flaharty met him with a dressed fowl in 
a basket—“ and sure it was a dead-game rooster 
that ye were wantin’, and I thought Mistress Frink 
might be having company to dine, and I brought | 
him up airly.” Jake thought there was a differ¬ 
ence between a dead-game cock and a cock dead, 
but failed to make Mike see it, and he went off in 
a pet. He now started on his sled for the wood-lot, 
and was hailed seven times on Hookertown street 
about that “dead game raster.” It seemed as if 
every man had rooster on the brain, and the boys 
rooster on the tongue. He began to think Hook¬ 
ertown had done nothing else but breed game birds 
for the last few years. Saturday he went down to 
the Grocery Store, where they keep the Post Office, 
for a jug of molasses, and Colonel Sizer, the post¬ 
master, told him he had some letters, which was a 
very rare thing. He thought at once that some of 
his wife’s folks must be sick or dead, especially as 
the letters were all post-marked Shadtown. He 
was thinking of a funeral when he opened the first 
letter, but there was nothing dead but that “ game 
raster.” Every letter offered game birds varying 
in price from one dollar to twenty. As he opened 
the eleventh and last letter, and caught sight of 
that game bird, he dropped his spectacles, and 
made for the door. He did not stop until he 
reached the Gazette Office—where he offered the 
following advertisement for next week : “ No more 
Game Rusters wanted, Jacob Frink.” 
Jake is converted to a firm faith in printer’s ink, 
and there is not the least danger of his falling from 
grace. I wish we had more of these conversions. 
Not one farmer in ten pays out a dollar a year for 
advertising—either for what he wants or what he 
has to sell. He does not read the advertisements 
in his agricultural paper if he takes one—and if he 
ever ventures upon fine stock of any kind, he 
grudges a few dollars for printer’s ink, and sells 
them to some middle-man who advertises and 
doubles his money. He thinks fine stock don’t 
pay. Printer’s ink would make it pay, and every 
thing else worth raising upon the farm. 
Eookertoivn , Ct., I Yours to command, 
Feb. 14 th, 1876. ( Timothy Bunker, Hsq. 
[The Squire’s articles always have a “ pint ” to 
them, and this hits - more directly than he thinks. 
Of late we have published illustrations of fowls of 
various kinds, and have been actually overwhelmed 
with letters asking where such birds can be had. 
Now we have no time to hunt up the names of the 
dealers and reply to these letters, many of which 
come each day. If poultry raisers wish to sell their 
stock they should follow Tim Bunker’s advice and 
“ try printer’s ink.” If only a small portion of the 
letters about poultry received by us within the last 
two or three months, resulted in purchases, several 
poultry yards would be exhausted. When we have 
described and figured a breed, there our part ends 
—we wish to state once more that we have no fowls 
nor eggs to sell, and do not expect to have.— Ed.] 
- -» - 
Among the Farmers—No. 3. 
BY ONE OP THEM. 
A few weeks ago business took me among the 
farmers of the Valley of the Farmington, in Con¬ 
necticut, and especially among those of the old 
town of Farmington itself. One may go far to find 
a better specimen of a New England country vil¬ 
lage. It lies on the western slope of the Talcott 
Mountains, near the southern end of the range. 
“ Pinnacle Mountain,” a hill higher than the rest, 
raises its picturesque cone directly in the rear of 
the village, while the swift-flowing river winds 
through the meadows, its waters sweeping in whirl¬ 
pools, dancing in eddies, and laughing in ripples as 
if glad to escape the ponderous over-shots, and the 
din of the trip hammers of Collinsville, and the rat¬ 
tle and noise of the Unionville factories. 
Broad and shaded is the single notable street, 
and upon it the old houses stand near, but not ’ 
crowded ; some of them which were built during 
the revolution, show the kindly skill of French offi¬ 
cers who drew plans for them, or for the decora¬ 
tion of cornices and porches, as well as of the oak 
wainscoting within. I would be glad to know the 
history of the exquisitely beautiful ancient spire 
which surmounts the very plain old church, and is 
so conspicuous for its delicate grace as it rises out 
from among the elm tops, as seen from all parts of 
the broad valley. Its designer had the real senti¬ 
ment of heavenly aspiration in him. Among the 
modern houses are some in whose construction, 
though very simple, the highest architectural 
talent has been employed. 
A Village of Farmers. 
Going through the village one is struck with the 
fact that nearly all the villagers seem to be fanners. 
A majority of the houses have a group of great 
barns close in the rear, and some of these are of the 
most modern and approved construction. I was 
particularly struck with one which might well be 
illustrated in the American Agriculturist on account 
of its practical character, combining excellence of 
plan, materials, and workmanship, many conve¬ 
niences, and fine architectural proportions. It be¬ 
longs to Miss Sarah Porter, whose famous school 
for young ladies is at once the pride and the life of 
the village, and who conducts a large farm with 
profit as well as enjoyment. Most of the farms are 
laid down to grass, which is natural to the soil, and 
there are many meadows which have not been 
plowed for 25 to 50 years, and which still yield 
moderate crops of hay and abundant pasturage. 
This fact alone might indicate that the people 
would be large stock-raisers, which is true. Farm¬ 
ington has long been famous for its 
Fine Herds of Milch. Cows. 
As long ago as I began to take notice of such 
things, being occasionally here, the herds of cattle 
as they wound through the street morning and 
evening, made a strong impression upon me. And 
at this last visit the same was vividly renewed. 
The ancient “ native ” stock of New England, 
which had a strong dash of South Devon blood, was 
brightened up, beautified, and reddened by the high¬ 
bred North Devons, which were largely introduced 
into Connecticut in the first half of this century. 
After this there were some excellent Short-horns 
brought into the town, and those of course wrought 
a great change. The size of the calves and the 
value of the veal was increased, while the size of 
the steers and working oxen, the weight of the 
beef, and the quantity of milk, all told the effect 
of the Durham blood, and rejoiced the farmers. 
Railroads made a market for milk, and quality was 
less an object then than was quantity, so these Short¬ 
horn grades were all that could then be desired. 
After awhile the Jersey began to come in, and 
there was one famous herd, that of the late John 
T. Norton, kept within the limits of the village. 
Mr. Norton’s butter was so remarkable that he 
could get for it almost any price he chose to ask, 
and found a hungry market in Hartford and Boston. 
Tlie Farmington Creamery. 
After the dissemination of Jersey blood among 
neighboring farmers had become somewhat general, 
though not on that account, Mr. Edward Norton, 
who took the farm after his father’s death, stirred 
up his neighbors to join in erecting and sustaining 
“ The Creamery.” This is a butter factory, where, 
under Mr. Norton’s superintendence, the milk of 
over three hundred cows is brought, weighed, 
cooled, set, and skimmed. The cream is taken 
from the milk after it has stood 12 hours. There is 
a ready market for a good portion of the sweet 
cream, and during the autumn and winter, for all 
the skim-milk which is sweet, of course. The 
greater portion of the cream is made into butter, 
which commands a high average above the market 
price, and is engaged in advance of production by 
fastidious customers in the neighboring cities, who 
are served weekly. 
The creamery is situated near a fine spring which 
sends an abundant stream of water through the 
cooling tanks and troughs, and even in the hottest 
weather it maintains the milk at the most favorable 
temperature. The milk is set in deep cans, cylin¬ 
ders 8 inches wide and 20 inches deep. These stand 
in summer at the temperature of 55° to 60°, in win¬ 
ter considerably lower. In regard to the merits of 
Deep and Shallow Setting, 
Mr. Norton is of the opinion that though shallow 
pans are no doubt most profitable where butter 
only is the marketable product, yet for their ob- 
