AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST 
275 
An experiment with guano: 
“ Shall we begin the ridging up for the Swedes 
to-morrow ?” quoth the bailiff. 
“Yes, one-half of it; the other half will be 
manured with guano.’* 
“ With what, sir!” 
I will spare the reader the little scene of utter 
mystification which followed this announcement; 
the subject would be antiquated now ; though 
many an amusing tale might doubtless be told of 
the first introduction of that “ magic compound” 
upon the rural mind. In spite of smiles, winks, 
murmurings, shakes of the foreboding head, and 
Other demonstrations, jocular and serious, the 
guano was at last duly sown, on the flat, a ton 
to five acres, and ridged in ; the other five re¬ 
ceiving a hundred cartloads of “the good old 
stuff," hauled, nearly half a mile, from the farm¬ 
yard, forked into the ridges, and covered in by 
a second ridging, as usual. 
“A hundred to one upon the farm-yard ma¬ 
nure!” of course, or any other amount of odds: 
all bidders, and only one moonstruck, misguided 
taker. It proved a miserable year for turnips 
generally. Every where “the fly” was omnipo¬ 
tent and omnivorant; the odds fell a little when 
the highly backed “ farm-yard” ridges had to be 
sown a second time; but a crop came at last— 
about the size of apples. 
And what on the guano? 
From twenty to twenty-four tons, by weight, 
per acre. Not “the best,” but “the only” crop 
to be seen in the neighborhood, 
If people sometimes get less credit than then- 
due in this world, they must not forget to balance 
the account with that which they get without 
deserving. The penguin of the vast Pacific was 
the wizard that had made this crop, not I; yet 
had the wise Chief Justice Hale been living, not 
all the waters of the Pacific would have saved 
me from roasting alive. 
To learn the good effects of draining clay soils, 
what book-farming really is, and something of 
the kind, broad human heart of our author, read 
the following: 
“Oh sir! It’s a fine thing, is this here drain¬ 
ing,” said an old laborer, lifting up one heavy 
foot on the ledge of his spade, and composing 
himself with his elbow resting on the handle, to 
say a few words, before he put his jacket on and 
parted for the night. 
“ It’s a fine thing, is this here draining; what 
a crop o’ turnips ’ll be here next autumn, I’ll be 
bound (o say!” 
Of all things I like to catch the toiler in his 
spare but hearty moment of contemplation. The 
utterance of an abstract thought or reflection is 
never so precious as when it struggles for a mo¬ 
ment from one whose frame is almost bent dou¬ 
ble with the hard practicality of daily labor. I 
prize it beyond words. 
“It is a glorious thing,” replied I; “the more I 
see of its effects, the more I like it, and the more 
I wonder how the land was ever worked before 
without it.” 
“Ah ! well sir, ’twas a different sort of a thing 
you see, ’twas like a different traade. Lor’ 
blesh you, 1 remember the time when after 
wheat-sowing was done, (and sometimes there 
was many fields, so as it could n’t be got in at 
all, w-hen it came a wet season,) the farmer’s 
work was over like, for the year. There was 
nothing to be done but sit at home and go to 
sleep till the frost came, and the dung-cart would 
be got a-field. It was bad work, sir, for the 
laborer, bad work, when he was turned off for 
the winter, and had to look out for a bit o’ 
hedging or ditching somewhere else, miles off 
perhaps, to get a bit o’ bread by.” 
“Well, we’ve changed that however; I think 
I may truly say that every year, to me, winter 
has been a busy time.” 
“And it will he too! There ’ll be no standing 
still for winter work again on this here farm, as 
long as it ever lies out o’ doors, let who will 
farm it! for all so many hedges are grubbed up. 
How the turnips have growwd, to be sure, on 
that piece as we drained last year! I never saw 
ship [sheep] look better ; and I remember when 
there was n’t a ship on the farm, or a turnip 
on the ground to Led ’em with.” 
“D’ ye think that piece will stand the treading 
of the sheep?” 
“Bear it! Lor’ blesh you, it’ll come up as mel¬ 
low as a garden, I’ll war’ll’ it, in the spring; it 
treads a little leathery in some places in the 
middle o’ the lands, but that’ll all come right 
after another crop ; it don't always come at once 
after draining; every year tells on it.” 
“You think that really is the case?” 
“Think! I Tcnowws it, sir. I likes it every 
year the better arter the draining; but I do 
think, (you’ll excuse me,) that you goes a little 
too dip with the tiles; it is no use going so dip 
into the clay." 
“What three feet ! Why they laugh at me 
for draining so shallow! If you were to see what 
they say in those papers, [meaning the Agricul¬ 
tural periodicals,] I bring into the field some¬ 
times in a morning, you wouldn’t call this 
deep.” 
“ Oh never you listen to what them there pa¬ 
pers says, they know nothing in the ’varsal 
world about it. They beent practical farmers 
as writes that stuff; none o’ them as writes 
knows any thing about farming.” 
“D’ye think not? Well, but suppose I were 
to write about the fields we have drained, and 
send it to some of those editor men to print and 
put in the paper, would n’t it do for somebody 
else to read ; would n’t be as true after it was in 
print as it was before, when we were doing it?” 
“ Oh that’s a different thing, that is; ’cause of 
course they’d believe what you say.-” 
“Well now, suppose I were to put it as a sort 
of history of this farm, as it was, and as it is, a 
sort of chronicle, call it the * Chronicle of a Clay 
Farm’—?” 
“Oh that’s capital! Lor’how I should like 
to see it; that ’ould be sunnnut like, that would ! 
none o’ them there long words about chemist 
and druggist and doctors’ stuff, as if farmers was 
a parcel o’ old women, like my poor old Missus 
-oh! thank you kindly sir, for what you sent 
her, it did her a sight o’ good, she was able to 
eat her vittles better arterwards than she’s done 
for many a day—” 
“But you wont believe I can doctor the field 
and give that an appetite, eh, Dobson?” 
“ Well I don’t know; I ben’t no scollard, sir; 
one thing however, you’ve tapped the dropsy on 
it, for one thing, that’s sartin !” 
“And you’ll believe the other when you have 
seen it. Well, good night, Dobson!” 
And with a hearty “good night” in return, 
trudges poor old Dobson home from his hard 
and wet day’s work, with none the heavier 
heart or less elastic tread for a few cheery words 
to enliven the dull blank of the body’s labor, 
and illuminate for a moment that hateful chasm 
that lies too broad and forbidden between em¬ 
ployer and employed, in civilized England. 
AVhen will this stain depart from our land? 
When will that moody silence and reserve that 
disconnect rank from rank, and class from class, 
and man from his brother man, cease to shut 
us up from each other’s view, like sealed pac 
quets of humanity, destined and directed “ pri 
vate and confidential” each to its own special 
clique and circle, locking up the cheap yet glad¬ 
dening benevolence of words from all “ below” it. 
If man, vain aspiring man, did but truly 
measure the resilient influences for good or ill, 
by which his own existence is surrounded; if 
he did but know the rich freight of happiness 
and of positive blessing to his poorer and hum¬ 
bler brethren, which he bears within him in the 
mere gift of language; if instead of reserving all 
his soft words for the rich, and the caressing ol 
the tongue for those who least require or value 
it, he would stoop to remark its instant effect, 
and permanent influence for good, on those wiio 
seldomest receive it, how changed would be the 
working out of that strange problem of society 
which is ever leaving the largest numbers most 
uncared for, their power and influence only felt 
when it is dangerous. 
Of all the sweeteners of human toil, of all the 
motive powers that give alacrity to the hand or 
foot, readiness to the will, intelligence to mind 
and purpose, the quickest and the most enduring 
in result is the kind word spoken in season.” 
How good is it!” exclaims the wisest of the sons 
of men. The most boorish obduracy melts at 
last under its repeated influence, though hard 
and rough at first as theunsinelted ore. Horse¬ 
power is convenient of appliance, wind and water 
power are cheap, the power of steam is great, 
the sordid power of money is greater still; but 
of all the powers that be, to rid the tiny weed, 
or fell the stubborn oak, the greatest agricultural 
power is that which can gear on mind to matter 
—the word and look of kindness. 
We should like now to quote the author’s “ pri¬ 
vate notions on cultivation,” beginning at page 
195, for we began to entertain the same views, 
in a measure, just t reive years ago the past sum¬ 
mer, and have frequently hinted at them in the 
former volumes of the Agriculturist', but hav¬ 
ing made so many extracts already from the 
“ Chronicles” before us, it would scarcely be 
just to the publishers of the work to continue 
them; we therefore forbear for the present, 
trusting that our readers will forthwith become 
the owners of a copy, and peruse it for them¬ 
selves. 
The tasteful manner in which the publishers 
have got up the little volume, the clear white 
paper they have given it, and the large type in 
which it is set, are highly commendable. It 
is sufficiently elegant to adorn the Farmer’s 
parlor center-table; and why should this not 
be the case with all agricultural works? Is 
not the farmer entited to as handsome and taste¬ 
ful things as the merchant, the lawyer, and other 
classes of society ? 
The notes which the editor has appended to 
this work, and the prize essays on draining, by 
Messrs. Johnston and Yeomans, all of whom are 
extensive practical cultivators of clay soils in the 
Western part of the State of New-York, give ad¬ 
ditional value to the book, and make it more 
useful to the American farmer. 
-- 
For the American Agriculturist. 
BRIEF NOTES ON SHORT TEXTS. 
“let the cobbler stick to his last.” 
Very true, so long as the last is worth stick¬ 
ing to. But in this wide country, where so 
many avenues are daily opening to enterprise, 
the last is quite apt to be thrown under the 
bench, and the lapstone and hammer to follow 
it, by those who fancy they can do better than 
wield them. The proverb, however homely it 
be, is most applicable to the farmer. He, of all 
others, should not be above his business. Yet 
nothing is more common than to see him, when 
tie has a little money laid by, invest it in rail¬ 
road stocks, banks, or other things foreign to 
his vocation, when, by draining his wet lands, 
giving his fields higher cultivation, improving 
his buildings, implements, or stock, his cap¬ 
ital would earn him twice the income in the 
increased production of his acres, and remain 
under his own control, instead of under the con¬ 
trol of others. Don’t you know, my good friend, 
that your labor of plowing, harrowing, sowing, 
harvesting, and threshing a crop of ten, fifteen, 
or twenty bushels per acre, is just as great as 
that of double or treble the quantity? Millions 
of acres of land in England and Scotland, and 
thousands ofacres in America, have been doubled 
in their annual crops by the aid of draining alone, 
