8i4 
THE RURAL NEW-YORKER 
NOV. 21 
THE COWS THAT SAVED A FARM. 
BUILDING UP A BUTTER BUSINESS. 
A poor 8t art; a farm that could not he given away; big 
cows give small profits; dairy lessons that came hard; 
ensilage lessons that came harder; both paid; a 250- 
pound cow for profit; a triumph of intelligent per¬ 
severance. 
Up in Oswego County, New York, about eight miles 
south of the shore of Lake Ontario, at Richland, lives W. 
H. Gilbert, a dairy farmer who is not unknown to many 
Rural readers. It was on his farm, in a building situated 
in a teautiful grove, that the first butter school in the 
State was held. On that occasion, owiDg to the illness of 
one of the instructors, Mr. Gilbert was literally forced into 
the position of instructor—a post which he filled very 
admirably. Since then, he has officiated largely on similar 
occasions in this and other States, until his name and but¬ 
ter are alike famous in the dairy circles of the country. 
During the present season, Mr. Gilbert has been obliged 
to be away from home much of his time, by reason of his 
connection with the butter schools under the direction of 
the New York Dairymen’s Association, and also because 
he is Chairman of the Executive Committee of the Colum¬ 
bian Dairy Association of the coming World’s Fair, and is 
busily engaged in making arrangements for the elaborate 
dairy exhibit which will there be given. In consequence 
of this enforced absence, he had his farm worked “on 
shares ” this season. It is needless to say that the experi¬ 
ment was not satisfactory and that he will resume the 
active management of the place the coming season. 
An Unsalable Farm. 
Mr. Gilbert located at Richland in the fall of 1876. He 
had owned a half interest in the tract—330 aores—since 
1863, and in 1871 became its sole owner. When he removed 
to it, he at first desired to sell, but no customers appeared, 
despite his vigorous efforts. He had been engaged in mer¬ 
cantile pursuits up to that time. It was simply a tract of 
Palouse Apple. From a Photograph. Fig. 290. 
See page 815. 
land, with the timber cut off, and to prove that it had once 
been timbered, a heavy crop of unrootable pine stumps 
dotted the place. About 15 acres only were partially 
cleared. There was a nice running stream through the 
farm, and on it was a country grist mill, which he sold 
before he went there to live. A small six-roomed house 
fitted up comfortably, and a very poor barn which was 
past mending, were on the place. The land in this section 
is a sandy loam underlaid by gravel—-no hard-pan. It is 
easily tilled, and, with good cultivation, very productive. 
Old clay-land farmers would laugh at it, and some of them 
did revile Mr. Gilbert when he announced his intention of 
becoming a dairy farmer—an intention which he an¬ 
nounced only when he had found he could not sell his 
place. He offered the 830 acres, five horses, 12 cows, 12 
young cattle, utensils, etc., for $8,000, and was willing to 
take a mortgage for the entire amount, if the purchaser 
would pay a year’s interest in advance. But there were 
no takers, and a dairyman he became. 
“Experience” Was the First Year’s Profit. 
“ Was this your first experience in dairying, when you 
came to Richland in 1876 t ” asked I. 
“ It was the first in which I had the personal manage¬ 
ment,” said he. “ For many years I had indulged in 
the hope that some day I would be the owner of a gilt- 
edged butter dairy, without any very definite ideas as to 
how I should bring it about. For two or three years be¬ 
fore the date mentioned, I had been trying to establish 
such a dairy on tne place. My ideas were decidedly crude. 
I thought all I required was some cows, milk pans, a churn 
and a neat dairy woman to make the butter. At that time 
I attached do importarce to the questions of feed or breed. 
I was simply groping in the dark.” 
“ How much of a dairy did you start with ? ” 
“There were on the place three native cows which my 
man called good. I bought 10 more, very good-looking 
animals, and both the boss and hired man were of the 
opinion that a good dairy was assured. The work was put 
in charge of a man and wife, both of whom were recom¬ 
mended as being well up in the art of making butter. I 
got a lot of tin pans and a Tyler butter-working churn and 
started the season with high hopes. Several times during 
the season I went to the farm. Things looked well and in 
the cellar was a nice lot of bntter in new tubs. Of course, 
I thought it all right—didn’t even take the trouble to 
examine it. Along in December I went to the farm for the 
purpose of settling up the season’s business. I had some 
orders from a few of my city friends for a few tubs of gilt- 
edged butter and visited the cellar to make the selections. 
I had 30 tubs and out of the lot I found one that I sent at 
a venture to a friend in Buffalo. The remainder I sent to 
New York to be sold in that all-devouring receptacle, but 
for obvious reasons, 1 didn’t put my name on the tubs.” 
Becoming a Small Cow Convert. 
“ Well, what were the net results of your first season by 
deputy f” 
“ That season I learnt a very practical lesson. I found 
my cows had produced about 124 pounds of butter each, 
and that the net receipts from this source were less than 
$300. With my two teams and $480 expended for labor I 
had enough to winter and care for the stock, ready for 
business the next spring. To offset the pecuniary loss, I 
had acquired some experience and a pile of stable manure. 
In reviewing the situation, I came to the conclusion that 
my cows were not big enough. If I was to have a big 
yield of butter, I must have a big cow, and a big cow 
would make a big lot of beef when too old for further use in 
the dairy. So reasoning, and after talking with others 
who were supposed to know more about such matters 
than I, I made up my mind that high-grade Short-horns 
would fill the bill, so I sold the old dairy and began to 
look around. One day I met a gentleman who suggested 
the propriety and wisdom of trying a dairy of Jerseys, 
but I told him they were too small, and of no use on a 
farm. But he talked so Intelligibly on the subject that. I 
began to weaken. It ended in my deciding to try them, 
so I bought a thoroughbred Jersey bull and heifer and 
from that beginning I have raised my dairies.” 
“ Was this before you went on the farm f ” 
“ It was. In the fall of 1876 I went there and began the 
life of a practical dairyman, and I enjoyed the work in¬ 
tensely. From the beginning above alluded to 1 had 18 
head of young stock, mostly Jersey grades. I petted 
them and brushed them and took much pleasure in telling 
my neighbors what I was going to accomplish with them 
in the near future.” 
Learning: some Tough Dairy Lessons. 
“Well, did the sequel warrant your prophesies, or did 
the neighbors have the laugh on you ? ” 
“You shall hear. My heifers began to ‘come in’ in 
March, and by the middle of April I was milking 10. I 
was feeding them straw with hay and a little grain, but 
they gave me golden butter. I had purchased a set of 
large, round pans, and made myself a revolving box churn. 
All this time I had been diligently studying the subject- 
reading all I could get hold of by the best writers in books 
and in the agricultural press. I wanted to make granu¬ 
lated butter. My first trouble was with my churn. After 
a few revolutions, the cream would stick to the sides, and 
wouldn’t be churned. Then I went back to the old churn, 
but I did not get my granulated butter.” 
“I should have thought you would have become dis¬ 
couraged at so many failures,” remarked I. 
“ Well, it was not a very rosy pathway ; but I was in the 
predicament of the boy at the woodchuck hole. He had 
to catch him. The Dominie was coming to dinner, and 
there was no meat in the house. I could not sell my farm, 
I could not afford to let it lie unproductive or give it away 
—I had no alternative, I must succeed. So I plodded on. 
I tried one day, with many misgivings, the experiment of 
adding water to my cream; my neighbors said it would 
spoil it, but It didn’t, and in 15 minutes I had granulated 
butter—my first. After the plug had blown out of my 
churn several times and scattered the cream about, I 
learned that It was necessary to ventilate the cream dur¬ 
ing the churniDg process. I was learning rapidly in those 
days. I found out that it was better to wash the butter¬ 
milk out of butter than to work it out, and many other 
bits of knowledge came to me, one at a time.” 
“ But how about the net result ? ” 
“ Well, the season was profitable only In the additions I 
had made to my store of knowledge. My young cows did 
better than I had expected. The poorest one on trial gave 
eight pounds of butter In seven days; the best one, 12}£ 
pounds in the same time. The herd gave 1,820 pounds in the 
season, an average of 182 pounds each, or 58 pounds above 
the average of the old dairy. I sold some of the butter for 
15 cents, then the price went down to eight, and I held it 
until, on the first of October, I closed out the lot at 12>£ 
cents. You can easily see that I made no money.” 
Frost as a Professor of Ensilage. 
“I suppose you began about this time to be a little 
doubtful of success—did you not f” 
“ Oh no. I was satisfied that the thing was practicable 
and began studying the matter in Its side lights. My hay 
was not good—too much sorrel In it. Mv first sowed corn 
was a failure, because I did not unuerstand what was 
needed to make goo i corn fodder. About this time be¬ 
gan to look into the question of silos and ensilage. Soon 
after I met Francis Morris, an enthusiast on the subject, 
and I became a convert. At once I began to arrange for 
a complete change in my system of feeding. I planned 
for stables and silos large enough for 100 cows, convinced 
that my farm would carry that number. I built three 
silos, one 16x36 feet and 19 feet deep, and two 16x17 and 19 
feet deep. The stable was .156x40 feet and, later, I added 
along one side a lean-to, about 12 feet wide. The first 
year I planted the B. and W. Corn in drills, about 80 
Inches apart, and used about one bushel to the acre. It 
was planted June 1 and cut October 1, when most of it 
had ears large enough for roasting. It was a nervous time 
with me and my neighbors croaked of disaster until they 
almost made me weaken. But I didn’t. When I opened 
the first silo on Christmas Day, I found good, rich, and 
comparatively sweet ensilage. I watched the results of 
feeding It with special interest. There was a decided im¬ 
provement from the start in the looks of the animals and 
the butter was also improved. I found also that much 
less grain was required with ensilage than with hay. 
The news soon spread and the * sink holes ’ on Gilbert’s 
place, as the neighbors had dubbed my silos, were visited 
by many anxious inquirers after knowledge. That was 
the beginning of success. For the following two years I 
planted the same way and with similar results.” 
“You do not plant so thickly to-day for an ensilage crop 
as you did then, I believe,” said I. 
“No,” said Mr. Gilbert. “The change came about as 
follows: On the third year of the silo I had a large field of 
corn that I expected to husk. It was my pet field, and I 
was sure It would turn out 150 bushels of ears to the acre. 
Just when beginning to glaze, an early frost nipped it—it 
would never ripen. With a heavy heart I cut it, and, 
with many misgivings, put it in the silo. When I opened 
it, I found it the most profitable field of corn I had ever 
grown, and thereafter I planted corn for ensilage just as I 
would If I intended to husk it. One day when storing it 
in the silo, a curious neighbor remarked: ‘ Bill, if that 
thing of yours will save that field of corn, it’s worth all 
it cost V It did save it, and it gave me a lesson worth 
many times the cost of the silo. I found that 35 pounds of 
this ensilage was a ration, whereas it required 50 pounds 
of tfie B. and W. corn sown In the old way.” 
Some Business Details. 
“ Do you raise all your own cows 1 ” 
“I do. I am called a crank on ihat subject, but I have 
always done so and still think I am right. In 1884 I had 
increased my dairy to 92 cows—all of my own raising. 
Since I have been on the place, I have raised and milked 
about 185 cows—grades and thoroughbreds.” 
“ When did you build your creamery f ” 
“ In 1881. I used, with my own and what I bought of 
my neighbors the milk of 350 cows for three years, making 
butter. When running the creamery, I looked after im- 
Palouse Apple. Half Section. Fig. 291. 
See page 815. 
proved methods of marketing. I made as much winter 
butter as possible—butter gluts always or nearly always 
occur In hot weather.” 
“ Did you accomplish much in the way of better methods 
of selling t ” 
“Not very much. Not long since I was in Chicago and 
saw a method in vogue for selling California fruits, which 
I believe could be successfully applied to the New York 
butter market. A warehouse is provided by the organiza¬ 
tion having the matter in charge. As fast as butter arrives, 
it is put in the warehouse, and at regular intervals—say 
every other day, or daily, if necessary—it is sold at auction. 
A printed slip Is furnished each buyer with a list of the 
packages with the makers’ names, and the whole lot is sold 
at once. A commission of two per cent would make a 
margin large enough to pay all expenses and the market 
would thus be cleaned up every day. It would do away 
with the commission business and put the trade in much 
better shape.” 
“ What machinery do you use in your butter factory t ” 
“I use a Cooley creamer, revolving box churn and Cun¬ 
ningham butter worker with corrugated rollers.” 
How the Butter Is Made. 
“ Will you, please, describe your methods with milk and 
butter for the benefit of Rural readers f ” 
“ When the milk is brought into the creamery in winter, 
I at once add to it about 12 per cent of water sufficiently 
warm to raise the temperature of the mass from 95 to 98 
degrees. It is at once put in the Cooley creamer and as 
rapidly as possible cooled with ice down to 40 or 45 degrees. 
It is skimmed after about 11 hours’ setting. We milk at 
6 A. M. and 6 p. M. the year round. I use the Boyd starter 
to ripen the cream. This is, as you know, made from sweet 
skim-milk. The process of ripening requires 24 hours. 
When the cream is put into the vat and the starter added, 
I warm it up to 70 degrees in winter and 65 degrees in sum¬ 
mer. I use for this purpose a cylindrical pail of tin, about 
four inches in diameter and two feet long. I fill this with 
hot water and then stir the milk with It, keeping a ther¬ 
mometer in the other hand. When the required tempera¬ 
ture is reached, it is covered air-tight and not allowed to 
go lower than 62 degrees. In winter, I churn at a tempera¬ 
ture of 68 degrees and in summer at 66 degrees. I use the 
^aihe qy l.i.pd fv for warming the cream for churniDg. When 
