4 , 14 , 
AMERICAN AGRICULTURIST. 
[November, 
Walks and Talks on the Farm—No. 131. 
Yesterday I got a letter from a gentleman in 
New South Wales. He said he was a reader of 
the American Agriculturist and wanted to 
know if I could send him some pigs. “ I im¬ 
agine,” he said, “ that I could get some pigs by 
mail!”—I noticed sometime ago that a scien¬ 
tific gentleman proposed to put pigs to sleep in 
the fall and let them lie dormant during the 
winter, waking up in the spring in time to go 
out to fresh grass in the pastures. Perhaps 
this Australian gentleman has a similar idea. 
We could take a young pig, weighing say 30 
lbs., put him to sleep, pack him carefully in a 
neat box, put the necessary postage stamps on 
it, and in a few minutes he would be on his 
way to San Francisco. The Post Office 
Department carry live bulbs to any part of the 
United States for 8 cents per lb.—Why not live 
pigs? [“ Why not,” to be sure—not the least 
objection in the world, only it is just possible 
that your Australian friend might object to 
having even an Essex in 4-lb. junks, as that is 
the greatest amount the law allows to go in 
one parcel.— Ed.] 
It is hard for a plain, slow-going farmer like 
me to realize what an age we live in, I can re¬ 
collect taking my first journey on a stage 
coach thirty miles from home. I thought I 
was a great traveler. Some time ago I was go¬ 
ing from Rochester to Utica. There was a 
little girl going about the car and evidently 
well acquainted with several of the passengers. 
I spoke to her as she passed. “ Have you come 
far on the cars ?” I asked. “ Oh, no, sir,” she 
replied. “ I have not come far on the cars. I 
only came from San Francisco on the cars. I 
came from Yokohama on the steamer.” 
When Charles Collings wished to show what 
improvements he had made in Durham cattle, 
he fattened an ox which was then put on a 
carriage and drawn from town to town for ex¬ 
hibition. He is spoken of in Short-horn an¬ 
nals as the “ Durham ox that traveled.” 
What would a Texan steer say to his preten¬ 
sions as a traveler? 
If in these days a farmer makes any real im¬ 
provement in seeds, vegetables, or animals, the 
fact is mentioned in the agricultural papers, 
and it is soon known throughout the world. 
Young men are apt to think that all the great 
discoveries have been made, that there is now 
no chance for further invention or improve¬ 
ment. It is a great mistake. There never was, 
at any rate in agriculture, so many opportuni¬ 
ties for acquiring reputation, honor, and remu¬ 
neration, as at the present time. Let young 
men bestir themselves. 
The severe drouth has seriously checked the 
growth of the mangels—and I am trying to 
console myself with the reflection that small, 
well-matured roots, are more nutritious than 
large, over-grown immature ones. I sowed 
the field at different times, for two reasons. 
First, because it was a good deal of work to get 
the land in proper condition, and I thought 
that the earlier I could sow the better, and 
that if I waited till the whole field was well 
prepared, it would be getting late ; and, second, 
I thought it would be better not to sow all at 
one time, and thus give me a dozen or more 
acres that would all want hoeiug at once. I 
drilled in my oats and peas, April 22 ; barley, 
April 30, and the first mangels May 2. The 
last sowing was two weeks later. The earlier 
sowings came up far thicker and the plants 
were stronger and grew better. And, further¬ 
more, the weeds were not so numerous, and it 
was far less work hoeing. Everything seemed 
strongly favorable to early sowing. But during 
the severe drouth in August, the late sown be¬ 
gan to catch up, and by the middle of Septem¬ 
ber, the drouth still continuing, the roots were 
decidedly larger and the leaves more luxur¬ 
iant. I know of no reason for this except that 
the land that was sown late got an extra plow¬ 
ing. At first the late crop was so full of weeds 
that I thought that it would cost more to 
clean it than it was worth. 
During the drouth, those farmers who had a 
good patch of corn fodder got full pay for then’ 
labor. In five cases out of six, however, farm¬ 
ers in this neighborhood sow their fodder corn 
broadcast, and in a dry season, when the green 
fodder would be of most value, the crop is 
burnt up. There is no fact more clearly 
proved, I think, than that corn for fodder 
should be drilled in rows, and the land kept 
clean and mellow by the frequent use of the 
cultivator. 
I wish the butchers and drovers in New 
York or Chicago would get up a Fat Cattle 
Show to be held every year in December. I do 
not see why it could not be made as interesting 
and useful as the great Smithfield Club Cattle 
Show in London. The meat supply of New 
York and New England comes largely from 
Illinois and States west of the Mississippi. Be¬ 
tween New York and Chicago there are mil¬ 
lions of acres of land under cultivation that are 
not producing more than half a crop. Depend 
upon it, this land is not going to be abandoned 
I think the agriculture of this section is steadily 
improving. We are cultivating our land more 
thoroughly. Many of our farmers are using 
artificial manures, and not a few are endeavor¬ 
ing to enrich their land by keeping more stock 
and buying more or less food, and thus making 
more manure. To keep more stock for beef, 
mutton, and pork, is at present a cheaper 
method of enriching our land than to buy arti¬ 
ficial manures. We must, however, raise bet¬ 
ter stock and furnish meat of extra quality, or 
we cannot compete with the cheap corn-grow¬ 
ing sections of the West. Our markets are 
flooded with cheap beef and mutton. It is 
wretched stuff - —unprofitable to the producers, 
and still more unprofitable to consumers. Let 
the butchers of New York tell us what they 
want. Let us have a good show of animals 
ready for the shambles, and let the judges de¬ 
cide what breeds or grades are best, and we 
shall know where we stand. If New York is 
willing to pay for good meat—and it is—we 
should soon learn how to produce precisely 
what is wanted. Let us have a good show. 
Let the prizes be awarded and the animals be 
sold to the butchers, and let consumers and 
producers meet together and study the facts 
which will in this way be brought to light. 
“ What did you see at the State Fair?” asks 
the Deacon. “ I saw a good many old friends, 
and this to me is one of the pleasantest and 
most profitable feature of these annual gather¬ 
ings.”—More than a dozen people asked me 
“ How’s the Deacon ?”—And one day I went 
into the General Superintendent’s office. I 
saw no one there who knew me, as I supposed, 
and I told the young man in charge that I was 
an exhibitor and wanted a couple of tickets for 
my men. “ Here they are,” he replied prompt¬ 
ly and politely, “and if you will bring the 
Deacon along 1 will give 3 t ou one ror him.” 
I could not persuade the old gentleman to 
come. But he was none the less interest¬ 
ed in talking over all that occurred. “I 
see you got some prizes for your sheep- 
and pigs,” he remarked, “ but I hear there 
was not much competition.”—“ I got the 
first prize for white winter wheat,” I replied, 
“ with the Diehl in competition with the Claw¬ 
son—aDd this pleased me. I also got the first 
prize for six-rowed barley and the first for 
mangel-wurzel.”—I had twenty-four entries and. 
took twenty-three prizes. I got $208 in prizes 
at the State Fair, and $64 at the Western New 
York, which was held at the same time. I got 
the first prize for everything I showed at the 
Western New York Fair. I mention this in 
no boastful feeling. I am simply tired of hear¬ 
ing farmers (who don’t take an agricultural 
paper) sneer at editors and writers. We are 
not the humbugs and ignoramuses these men 
imagine us to be. I can always tell in talking 
to a farmer whether he takes the Agriculturist 
or not. If he does he has some suggestion to 
make that is often of use to me, or he asks an 
intelligent question. The other man seems to 
think I “ farm on paper,” that I was born with 
a silver spoon in my mouth and no brains in 
my head ; that I discard barn-yard manure and 
depend on guano; that I feed my pigs on plum, 
cake and wash them with rose water. And 
when he finds that I plow, and sow, and har¬ 
row, and cultivate as other farmers do, he 
thinks I am certainly a humbug—because I am 
not what he expected me to be. 
I got one new idea at the Fair from Carl 
Heyne. He asked me to come and see his 
Silesian Merino lambs. They were splendid— 
large, well-formed, and completely covered 
with long, thick, fine wool. “ But,, Carl,” I 
said, “ these can’t be lambs. They are almost 
as heavy as my Cotswold lambs. They must 
be yearlings.”—“ No,” he said, shaking his 
head and smiling. “Lambs.”—“They must 
have come very early,” I replied. He smiled 
and nodded his head. “ February ?” I queried. 
Another smile. “January?” Another smile. 
“December?” Another smile. I have smiled 
to myself several times since as I thought over 
the matter. If I had said “ November,” I pre¬ 
sume he would have smiled assent, and I am 
not sure if I should not have got the same re¬ 
sponse if I had said “ October” or “ September.” 
I suppose a lamb is a “ lamb ” till it is sheared, 
then it becomes a “ shearling.” “ Is it well,” I 
asked, “ to have lambs come so early? ”—“ Bet¬ 
ter,” he replied. “ We have plenty of hay and 
roots and can feed the ewes well in winter. In 
the spring the weather is wet and the grass 
watery and poor, and young lambs do not 
thrive on it. If the lambs come early they can 
be well fed and cared for all winter and spring, 
and by the time the grass is rich and abundant 
they are ready for it.” 
All this, at first sight, seems quite unnatural. 
But few of the processes of agriculture are nat¬ 
ural. It is not natural to milk a cow or shear 
a sheep, or make hay, or provide shelter and 
supply the wants and look to the comforts of 
our stock. We find no objection to have cows 
calve in September. Wby may it not be quite 
as well to have our lambs come in the fall? 
“ I have always found lambs that come acci¬ 
dentally in the winter,” said the Deacon, “ a 
nuisance.”—“Yes,” said the Squire, “ it is best 
to knock them on the head at once and have 
done with it. It is all well enough for you 
amateurs who keep a few pet sheep and like to 
