Jeaigtui* f0 impn&e all '&lum htimsitb in S>oi I (Mtm. 
AGRICULTURE IS THE MOST HEALTHFUL, THE MOST USEFUL, AND THE MOST NOBLE EMPLOYMENT OF MAN -Washington. 
OBAICH lilffl®, A. M., 
EDITOR AND PROPRIETOR. 
( $1.00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. 
1 SINGLE NUMBERS 10 CENTS. 
vol. xvr. —No. ii] NEW-YOKK, NOVEMBER, 1857. [NEW series— No. iso. 
EiPBiisiness Office at No. 189 Watcr-st. 
fesTFor Contents, Terms, &c.see i>ag-e272. 
C^^Notcs to Correspondents, pages 2G7. 
I'ijT’JFor Advertisements, seepages 270=1. 
The entrance to the office of the Amer¬ 
ican Agriculturist is moved one door south, 
that is from No. 191 to No, 189 Water-st., 
{between Fulton and John streets—nearly op¬ 
posite the United States Hotel). We are here 
bitting up a new Editorial Room, where we 
shall be happy to meet any of our subscribers 
and friends visiting the City. Letters to be 
addressed, hereafter, to 189 Water street. 
Please refer to the “ Baker’s 
Dozen” Offer on page 2 69 , 
WORK FOR THE MONTH. 
“ But here the Autumn melancholy dwells, 
And sighs her beautiful spells 
Amongst the sunless shadows of the plain. 
Alone, alone, 
Upon a mossy stone 
She sits and reckons up the dead and gone, 
With the last leaves for a love rosary, 
Whilst all the withered world looks drearily, 
Like a dim picture of the drowned past, 
In the hushed mind’s mysterious far away, 
Doubtful what ghostly thing will steal the last 
Into that distance, gray upon the gray.” 
Hood’s picture of the Autumn is, in the 
main, truthful, though the poets all have a 
way of overdoing things, throwing a beauti¬ 
ful mist about all things earthly, and making 
.hem look more shadowy and grand than they 
appear in the sunlight. The fact is, that the 
changes of the dying year come on so grad¬ 
ually, that the mind of the healthful observ¬ 
er, receives no rude shock, and never sees 
the sepulchral form of old Autumn sitting 
on a mossy stone, and reckoning up her los¬ 
ses with sombre visage. All that melan¬ 
choly business is left to poets, languishing 
maidens, and other idle people. There is 
indeed, a change, but we hardly note it from 
day to day. * 
The leaves upon the maple and ash in the 
forest begin to bronze, even before the frost 
■.ouches them, so that the glorious drapery 
of Summer loses some of its freshness be¬ 
fore Autumn comes. The song of birds is 
broken, and many a voice is missing from 
the forest choir, before the full Autumn song 
of the insects fills our ears. The first frost is 
upon the lowlands and in the valleys, and 
our eyes grow familiar with the russet corn 
leaves, and the withered flowers, long before 
the verdure upon the plains and hills begins to 
fail. The golden rod and asters, purple and 
white, maintain their freshness and bloom, 
even after the frosts. The morning air is, 
indeed, chill, but the middle of the day has 
still a Summer glow, so that we hardly rea¬ 
lize the Summer has gone. The purple and 
yellow hues steal softly over the forest 
landscape, growing more brilliant day by 
day, but so silently that we wonder when 
the change was made, even in the greatest 
blazonry of the gorgeous scene. We miss 
the songs and flowers of Summer, but are 
hardly conscious that Autumn is at all som¬ 
bre or womanish. The season rather seems 
lo us as a hale, well-conditioned fellow, a 
little old indeed, but hearty, and dispensing 
favors with a freedom and fullness that indi¬ 
cates a joyous heart and sound health. 
The farmer has certainly no occasion to 
brood over the dispensations that come to 
him in November. His fowls have brooded 
to so good purpose that he will find it up 
hill business to wear a long face if he tries. 
Look into the poultry yard. What a crow¬ 
ing of young cockerels, flush with juvenile 
courtesies to their feathered mates ! What 
a strutting and clucking of turkeys, jubilant 
and unsuspecting of the fate that awaits them 
at the approaching Thanksgiving, or the re¬ 
moter Christmas ! What cackling of geese 
and quacking of ducks, all sleek and beauti¬ 
ful, full fledged for Winter. The death of 
the insects, if he deplore them, has been a 
large gain to his feathered tribes. He can- 
cannot feel very uncomfortable at the loss 
of their songs. Look into his granaries. 
What bins of wheat and cribs of corn are 
stored away, like piles of gold. Look into 
his cellar. What heaps of roots, an ample 
supply for man and beast, for the long Win¬ 
ter months. Surely, it is not for this man to 
see in Autumn a moping old lady, shiver¬ 
ing upon the brink of the grave. Such vis¬ 
ions may do for Wall-street, and we should 
not wonder if many of the dreamers there, 
in these times of panic and falling of stocks, 
were not turning to the farm with longing 
eyes, and bewailing the day they quit the 
plow. To many of them 
“The melancholy days have come—-the saddest of Che 
year.” 
But the farmer has something to fall back 
upon besides bank stock. He has no notes 
to meet at 3 o’clock P. M., and he has no un¬ 
comfortable apprehension of moving out of 
a palace on account of his failure in busi¬ 
ness. His bank of earth is still good, and 
his shares of plow are still above par. They 
have brought in a glorious dividend this year, 
when so many other shares have proved 
failures. He has a stock of bread on hand 
for his family for a whole year, beeves in 
the stall, and fat porkers in the sty. Come 
what will, the city must buy of him. His is 
a legitimate trade, that the world cannot get 
along without. The farmers’calling cannot 
fail to rise in the world’s esteem in these 
times of revulsion and ruin. If the crash 
shall only open the eyes of men, and con¬ 
vince them that we have too many traffic- 
ers, and too few producers,—if it shall lead 
multitudes to return to the plow, and to cul¬ 
tivate the millions of untilled acres that lie 
waste upon our sea-board, the panic will be 
an infinite gain to the country. 
Farmers should be the last class to hang 
or drown themselves this month, while so 
many in the city are looking back to their 
condition, with a perfect longing for their 
leeks and onions. If they have ever had 
thoughts of quitting the farm, we advise 
them to take counsel of a city merchant, and 
revise their plans. They should settle down 
into the happy conviction that they have the 
noblest and most independent calling upon 
earth, the greatest occasion to thank God 
for their present lot, and to take courage for 
the- future. 
PERMANENT IMPROVEMENTS. 
They should turn over a new leaf this 
Fall, and begin to make their plans fora life- 
lease of the acres they now occupy. It is 
one of the greatest drawbacks to our hus¬ 
bandry, that nobody seems to be settled 
Every man upon the farm, almost, has his 
ideal of a farmer’s home away out West. 
He is not seeking to realise it in his pres¬ 
ent position. He lives, every year, as if he 
might sell out and move in the Spring. He 
does not repair the house or barn, he does 
not set out an orchard, he does not put a new 
wall or fence around the garden. He makes 
no investment that will not bring in its re¬ 
turn the present season. This course is ru¬ 
inous to the land, and to the pecuniary inter¬ 
ests of its proprietor. 
Farmers ought to work their fields, and 
build barns to save their manures, as if they 
expected to occupy them for life. They are 
quite as certain to get a fair price for their 
improvements as for the old acres unim 
proved. A purchaser will be influenced in 
his views of the value of the property by its 
present productiveness. A meadow yielding 
three tons to the acre is worth more than 
three times as much as one yielding but one 
ton to the acre. It will not cost-three times 
the present value of the land to make it 
three times as productive. A farm that 
furnishes the material to make five hundred 
loads of manure, will sell much better than 
one where but one hundred is made. The 
air of thrift that hangs about an improving 
