1866. J 
AMEKICAN AGRICUETURIST. 
231 
Tim Bunker on the Cotton Fever and 
Emigration Down South. 
Mr. Editor, —Your notice in the May num¬ 
ber took me considerable by surprise. The fact 
is, I have been so awful busy with my own af¬ 
fairs, and Hookertown matters, that I had pret¬ 
ty much forgotten the world outside.—Court 
business of course I bad to attend to. And then 
I never bad so much advice to give in cases out 
of court, since I have been Justice of Peace. I 
have pretty much come to the conclusion that 
I am worth more to keep folks out of lawsuits 
than to settle cases after- they come into court. 
You see Hookertown has been in a great stew 
all winter, about going down South and raising 
cotton, and betwixt the meetings and the pri¬ 
vate talks around to the houses, there has not 
been much else done or thought on. You know 
our son John went to the war, and a lot more 
of the Hookertown boys, and they came home 
full of the matter, and they have kept the pot 
a boilin’ ever since. To hear them talk about 
the Cotton States you would think there was 
never such a land lying out a’doors any where. 
—Canaan want a touch to it.—If it didn’t flow 
with milk and honey, it did with cotton bales, 
which was enough sight better.—Their heads 
w'ere completely turned wdth the tall timber—the 
smooth rich land—the magnolia blossoms, the 
cypresses, and the live oaks, and would you be¬ 
lieve it—the pretty girls.—Every one of ’em 
seems to have come home as uneasy as a flsh 
out of water. It is mighty dull work squatting 
down in the land of steady habits after one has 
been tearing through the cotton States with 
Billy Sherman and his troopers. John, for the 
first few days, said it seemed as if he should suf¬ 
focate in Hookertown—there was nothing doing, 
or going to be done. 
I talked with the boys in general, and my boy 
in particular, and argued agin the emigration 
seherae, and the more I argued the more sot 
they were in their way of thinking; and that 
wan’t the worst of it, for they seemed to infect 
every body with the Southern fever, and one 
while, I thought they’d carry off Hookertown 
bodily—Mrs. Bunker and the grandchildren, 
and there wouldn’t be any body left but Mr. 
Spooner, myself, and a few other old fogies. 
As it is, Hookertown has lost some of its best 
citizens, as well as some others that we could 
comfortabler spare. 
I felt very bad when John stated the case 
pretty soon after he got home. “ Now,” says I, 
“ my son, what is the use of your going down 
to Mississippi, to flvrm it, when you have got 
three hundred acres of as handsome land as lies 
in the Valley of the Connecticut, or as lies out 
doors anywhere, as to that matter. We old folks 
have been thinking, when you got back from the 
wars you would settle down on the old farm, 
aud hand down the Bunker mansion and name 
to your children. It is kind o’ weak in us, but 
we thought we should have somebody to lean 
on, when W'e got a little older. I can’t always 
hold the plow,and mother’s eyes will get past flne- 
sewing and clear starching, one of these days.” 
There was a tear in John’s eye as he got a 
glimpse of the picture we had been looking at 
during his long absence, and he said:— 
“ I expect to do jest as you say father. I have 
always been brought up to mind, and I expect 
to mind you now;. You and mother felt very 
bad about my going to the war, but on the 
whole, thought it was best; and when you come 
to look at this emigration down South on all its 
sides, you may think it is just about as necessa¬ 
ry for me to go down there now as it was three 
years ago. I spose I shall feel worse about 
leaving Hookertown than you will, for you will 
have the*dear old sod under your feet, and all 
the associations of your lives around you, the 
old home, the o^ church, and old friends, while 
I shall go mostly among strangers. You have 
taught me not to follow my feelings always, but 
to do my duty, and the precept and example 
have struck in pretty deep. Mr. Spooner has 
preached that way, and I have come to believe 
it. I didn’t join the regiment because I had any 
appetite for flghting or seeing sights; I thought 
Hookertown was a part of my country, and the 
rebs were to be kept out of it. If I didn’t go 
and meet them on Southern soil, they might 
come up here, and be watering their horses in 
the Connecticut, which would not be so pleas¬ 
ant. We who went down there to fight have 
given you a life lease of your peaceful homes, 
and we feel as if we had a right to go and carve 
out homes for ourselves, in the land we have won 
by the sword. The boys talked it all over be¬ 
fore they were mustered out, and we mean to 
go back, unless it is clear that Providence is 
against the movement. 
“You who are on the stage have had your 
chance, and help’d make Hookertown what it 
is. You have cultivated and improved your 
farms, built jmur houses, aud established your 
schools and churches, and got every thing go¬ 
ing in good shape. The land is all occupied, 
and there isn’t room here for more farmers. 
The farms are too small already. Your popu¬ 
lation will only grow in the cities and villages.” 
“ But who is going to have my farm when 
I’m through with it ?” I asked. 
“Well, father, there is Timothy Bunker Slo- 
fltm, a smart boy in his first pair of boots, and 
big enough to ride a horse and go to mill al¬ 
ready. Sally thinks she’s going to send him to 
college and make a minister of him, but unless 
I’m a good deal mistaken the Lord has made a 
farmer of him from the start, and if Sally un¬ 
dertakes to turn him off of that track, she’ll 
find she’s having a sharp fight with the Al¬ 
mighty and give it up. These things run in the 
blood, aud the Bunker’s have always stuck to 
the soil and haven’t amounted to much in any 
other calling. Little Tim takes to a horse as 
naturally as a young Arab, and his voice has 
just the right coop for driving oxen. He is your 
own flesh and blood, and you ought not to feel 
very bad if a grandson takes care of the Bunker 
mansion when you have done with it. 
“ As I was saying, you have had your chance 
to make a home and build up society here. We 
want to take our chance down South where 
there is plenty of room. The South wants peo¬ 
ple, New England people, and brains especially, 
more than anything else. It is almost a wilder¬ 
ness, with only a few little clearings and scratch¬ 
es upon its surfivce. Its worn out and aban¬ 
doned fields are only worn out upon the sur¬ 
face. The riches of the soil are hardly touched 
yet. The forests are magnificent, and the cli¬ 
mate probably quite as healthful as the Valley 
of the Connecticut, when it was first settled. 
It seems a pity that it should lie waste any 
longer. We want to start a new Hookertown 
down there, aud are willing to take our chances 
of soil and climate. What is the use of con¬ 
quering Canaan unless the people go over Jor¬ 
dan and possess the land ?” 
John said this, and a good deal more in the 
same vein, and, as Mr. Spooner would say, there 
was in it a considerable food for reflection. 
The more I argued the warmer he grew. It 
was just like trying to put out a volcano with 
a squirt gun. “ Ah,” said Mrs. Bunker, with a 
sigh after John had gone out, “He_ isn’t a boy 
any longer, Timothy. It is of no use talking. 
The fire burns in him, and who knows but the 
Lord has kindled it.” 
I couldn’t answer that. It was pretty clear 
that fire was there, and burning strong, and it 
seems to be spreading all through this region. 
It is a big subject, and of a good deal of import¬ 
ance to your readers, and with your permission 
I shall have to load and fire agin on it. 
Hookertown, ) Yours to command, 
April 15 lk , J866. ( Timothy Bunker, Esq. 
■ « »-«.- 
Sweet Herb Culture. 
BY PETER HENDERSON, JERSEY CITY. 
The cultivation of Sweet Herbs for market 
purposes, is but little known in this country, ex¬ 
cept in the vegetable gardens in the vicinity of 
New York; there it is practised to an extent of 
perhaps 60 or 70 acres, a fair average product of 
which would be about $500 per acre. Like the 
crops of celery, spinach, or horseradish, it is 
grown only as a second crop, that is, it is plant¬ 
ed in July, after an early crop of peas, cabbages, 
beets, or onions, has been sold off. The varie¬ 
ties used are Thyme, Sage, Summer Savory, and 
Sweet Marjoram, the former two being grown 
in the ratio of ten acres to one of the latter. 
The seed is sown in April in rich mellow soil, 
carefully kept clean from weeds until the plants 
are fit to plant out, which maybe done any time 
that the ground is ready from middle of June 
until end of July. As the plants are usually small 
and delicate, it is necessary that the ground be 
well fined down by harrowing and raking be¬ 
fore planting. The distance apart for all the 
varieties is about the same, namely, 12 inches 
between the rows, and 8 or 10 inches between 
the plants; the lines are marked out b}^ what is 
termed a “ marker,” which is simply a mam¬ 
moth wooden rake, with the teeth 12 inches 
from centres, and having 6 or 8 teeth, this num¬ 
ber of lines is marked at once. (This “ mark¬ 
er ” is used for many other purposes; in the 
lining out the rows of early cabbages, for in¬ 
stance, every alternate line is planted, thus leav¬ 
ing them 2 feet apart, their proper distance.) In 
8 or 10 days after the herb crop has been plant¬ 
ed, the ground is “hoed” lightly over by a 
steel rake, which disturbs the surface sufficiently 
to destroy the crop of weeds that are just be¬ 
ginning to germinate; it is done in one-third of 
the time that it could be done by a hoe, and an¬ 
swers the purpose quite as well, as deep hoeing 
at this early stage of planting is perfectly use¬ 
less. In 10 or 12 days more, the same opera¬ 
tion is repeated with the steel rake, which usu¬ 
ally effectually destroys all w'eeds the seeds of 
which are near enough to the surface to germi¬ 
nate. We use the steel rake in lieu of a hoe on 
all our crops immediately after planting, for, as 
before said, deep hoeing on plants of any kind 
when newly planted, is quite unnecessary, and 
by the steady application of the ralje, weeds are 
easily kept down, and it is great economy of 
labor never to allow them to get estaUiehed. The 
herb crop usually covers the ground completely 
by the middle of September. Then, every al¬ 
ternate line is cut out, each plant making about 
2 “bunches.” The object in cutting out the 
lines alternately is, to give room for the re¬ 
maining lines to grow; in this way nearly 
double the weight of crop is taken off the 
ground than if every line had been cut, and it 
frequently happens, on partieularly rich soils, 
that at a second cutting every alternate line is 
