1852. 
THE CULTIVATOR. 
223 
Feeding Poultry. 
Mr. Salmon Cook, in your May number, wants to be 
informed in regard to feeding poultry. As I have had 
three years experience, with some twelve different breeds, 
I will give him my views in this matter. It depends up¬ 
on the breeds, I think, as to the manner of feeding. All 
of the Asiatic breeds, I feed in this wise: I make three 
boxes that will hold half a peck of corn each. I fill one 
with corn, another with oats, another with buckwheat, 
and set them all before them at once, and am careful not 
to let either get empty. I feed all of the large breeds 
in this way. Once a week in winter, put in to the coop 
a cabbage or two, to six or eight fowls. 
My smaller breeds I feed in winter, only on one kind 
of grain, but keep it before them, such as the golden and 
silver pheasant and bantams, as these will not lay in the 
coldest months, at any rate as far as my experience goes, 
even if fed upon all sorts of grain. All fowls should be 
placed so as to have the sun, and come to the ground; 
also should have a box of ashes set so as the sun will 
shine upon it, as they will wallow in it more freely. If 
they have plenty of gravel, they will not become too fat, 
or oyster shells,or burnt bones pounded fine. I am satisfied 
that this is the cheapest way of keeping all of these 
breeds. Geese do not require to be kept in this way, as 
they will be more healthy if not fed so high. M. F. M. 
Chicopee, May 5, 1852. 
-- 
Habits of the Curculio. 
In answer to the inquiries of our friend A. C., of Ot¬ 
sego county, we give the following from Thomas’ Ameri¬ 
can Fruit Cult prist: 
The curculio , is a small insect not more than a quarter 
of an inch long, of a dark brown color, the sheaths cover¬ 
ing the wings slightly variegated with lighter colors, the 
body resembling in size and appearance a ripe hemp seed. 
It is distinguished by an elongation of the head, resem¬ 
bling a conspicuous rostrum or beak projecting from the 
front part of its thorax. 
About the time the young fruit attains the size of a 
in pea, the curculio begins its work of de¬ 
struction. It makes a small crescent¬ 
shaped incision in the young fruit, and 
lays its egg in the opening. Tne pre¬ 
sence of the egg may be easily detected 
by these incisions upon the surface; the 
annexed figure, (244,) represents one 
of these magnified twice in diameter. 
The egg soon hatches into a small white 
larva, which enters the body of the fruit and feeds upon 
it, causing, usually, its premature fall to the ground. 
The period at which the young fruit falls, after being 
punctured, varies with its age at the time of the injury. 
The earlier portions drop in aboui two weeks; but if the 
stone is hard when the egg is laid the fruit remains till 
near the usual period of ripening, sometimes presenting 
a fair and smooth exterior, but spoiled by the worm 
within. 
The insect, soon after the fall of the fruit, makes its 
way into the earth, where it is supposed to remain till 
the following spring, when it is transformed into 
the perfect insect or beetle, to lay its eggs and perpetuate 
its race. Instances, however, have occurred, Avhere the 
transformation has taken place within twenty days of the 
fall of the fruit. 
The curculio travels by flying, but only during quite 
warm weather, or at the heat of the day. The insects 
mostly confine themselves to certain trees, or to the same 
orchard. But the fact that newly bearing and isolated 
orchards are soon attacked, clearly shows that in occa¬ 
sional instances they must travel considerable distances. 
Indeed, they have been known to be wafted on the wind 
for a half mile or more, the windward side of orchards 
being most infested, immediately after strong winds from 
a thickly planted plum neighborhood. In the cool of 
the morning, they are nearly torpid, and can scarcely 
fly, and crawl but slowly; hence, at this time of the day 
they are most easily destroyed. 
Their flight appears to be never more than a few feet 
from the ground, and successful attempts have been 
made to shut them out of fruit gardens by means of a 
tight board fence, nine or ten feet high, entered by a 
tight gate. 
[for the cultivator.} 
The Old Mill. 
* Beneath a hill, beside a wood, 
Remote from haunts of men, 
In modest guise the old mill stood, 
Down in a willow glen; 
A narrow path led to the door. 
And then turned back again. 
I knew it in my early days, 
For it was nigh my home; 
It was the scene of boyish plays, 
For hither I would come 
In idle hours, released from school, 
At id free about it roam. 
Its glassy pond was my delight, 
While yet a truant boy; 
I never wearied at the sight, 
Its pleasures could not cloy, 
For every season in its change 
Brought with it some new joy. 
In early spring, with pole in hand, 
And line with barbed hook, 
Upon its margin I would stand, 
And deep into it look ; 
Oh, I had been a learned man 
If thus I’d conned my book. 
I’ve had few prizes for my share, 
Since manhood I’ve attained, 
And those I find with constant care 
Have still to be maintained; 
But the first fish I drew to land 
Was pleasure all unfeigned. 
Far in its waters I would glide 
When summer suns were high, 
Or on its polished surface slide 
When winter swept the sky— 
Those days are past;—yet oft I think 
How happy then was I. 
The miller’s whitewashed cottage too, 
That stood behind the mill; 
The barn, the shed of greyish blue, 
I think I see them still; 
A little garden smiled in front, 
’Twas watered by a rill. 
The miller was a sturdy man, 
And jovial too was he, 
And white amidst his flour and bran 
Would sing a merry glee, 
Or with the farmers pass a joke, 
For “many a joke had he.” 
The miller’s wife, the miller’s child, 
They made his heart so light; 
She was a matron kind and mild, 
And she a maiden bright; 
I loved to see them walk to church, 
It was a pleasant sight. 
Those times again may never be! 
The miller he is dead, 
And where the old mill stood, you see 
A factory instead ; 
A thousand spindles now fly round, 
Where only one wheel sped. 
The pleasant wood that grew around, 
And each sequestered spot, 
Have since been levelled with the ground, 
To make a village lot; 
And where to find my early haunts 
I now have quite forgot. 
I do not care these scenes to view, 
Or gaze this landscape o’er, 
For it does quiet thoughts renew 
AVhere quiet reigns no more; 
I see a thriving village rise, 
And yet my heart is sore. C. F. L. F: 
Milwaukie co., Wisconsin. 
