664 
The  RURAL  NEW-YORKER 
April  28,  1923 
Farm  Woman’s  Notes 
Shall  It  Be  Horse  or  Tractor? 
It  was  a  hot  day  in  the  latter  part  of 
April.  The  change  in  weather  had  been 
abrupt ;  for  the  last  three  weeks  the  land 
had  been  held  dormant  by  a  succession 
of  near-zero  freezes.  Hardy  bulbs  that 
bad  set  up  inquiring  yellow  shoots  before 
Easter  hesitated  on  the  momentum  of 
further  growth.  Grass  crops  waited,  shiv¬ 
ering  in  the  pale,  fitful  sunshine,  for  that 
first  day  of  miraculous  heat  to  turn  the 
countryside  green.  The  birds  had  arrived 
from  the  South  late ;  they  were  obliged 
to  live  in  the  woods  to  escape  the  icy 
gales  that  swept  the  country  in  fierce 
tempests  that  lasted  for  days.  Robins 
were  said  to  be  starving.  Men  with  plow¬ 
ing  yet  to  do  were  anxious  ;  they  found 
nothing  to  do  but  wait.  There  appeared 
in  the  newspaper  headlines  a  weather 
prophet’s  assertion  that  this  year  there 
would  be  no  Summer ;  a  precedent  existed, 
the  year  1816. 
The  change,  on  account  of  its  delay, 
brought  quick  results.  A  white  irost. 
followed  by  increasing  warmth  in  the 
sun’s  rays,  showed  that  the  cold  was 
broken  at  last,  and  men  hurried  to  get 
out  their  plows.  Laboring  teams  sil¬ 
houetted  against  the  distant  landscape, 
crawling  like  cold  flies  over  warm 
clapboards,  slowly,  baiting  at  intervals. 
By  10  o’clock  in  the  forenoon  it  was 
warm  ;  at  12  men  mopped  their  brows  and 
said  that  here  was  a  growing  day  at  last. 
Nature,  who  was  as  much  behind  in  her 
work  as  any,  opened  un  the  buds  of  wil¬ 
low',  Hepatica,  dandelion  and  Crocus 
without  observing  the  customary  laws  of 
sequence.  The  birds  imprisoned  in  the 
woods  came  back  to  the  hedges,  reiterat¬ 
ing  their  joy  and  relief  in  soft,  clear 
music,  which  was  presently  drowned  in 
the  businesslike  hum  of  farm  tractors. 
The  air  was  fragrant  with  damp,  de¬ 
licious  smells  of  fresh-turned  earth  and 
starting  grass.  Spring  at  last ! 
The  young  potato-grower  had  been 
among  those  first  in  the  field.  The  ground 
was  loose  and  light  from  much  freezing, 
and  the  double-disk  cutaway  harrow  sank 
to  its  axles  as  the  tractor  forged  on 
toward  the  opposite  fence  line.  The 
ground  had  been  plowed  by  team  in  the 
late  Fall ;  after  the  harrowing  it  would 
be  fertilized,  plowed  again  and  refertilized. 
Across  the  hedge  in  the  next  field  three 
sturdy,  sweating  horses  accomplished  the 
same  operation  with  much  lighter  tools. 
Now'  their  driver  stopped  for  the  quarter- 
hour  rest  that  was  part  of  the  day’s  pro¬ 
gram.  Hearing  the  advancing  tractor, 
he  glanced  eagerly,  almost  enviously, 
through  a  gap  in  the  hedge  as  his  neigh¬ 
bor  pulled  up  close  to  the  edge  and  sprang 
off  to  adjust  the  carburetor  until  the 
sharp,  gasping  cackle  of  the  motor  be¬ 
came  the  desired  steady  thrum.  Then  he 
saw  his  neighbor  friend  look  up  and  spy 
him  watching.  Too  often  farming  is  a 
lonely  struggle;  too  seldom  do  men  out 
of  earshot  swing  their  hats  to  each  other 
in  acknowledgment  of  a  kindred  spirit. 
They  hesitate  and  are  silent.  The  jewel 
of  companionship  may  be  dulled  by  too 
frequent  use  unless  the  wearer  learns  to 
respect  _  his  neighbor’s  opinion  as  if  it 
were  his  own ;  to  recognize  a  common 
brotherhood.  These  men  seldom  visited 
each  other’s  houses ;  their  meetings  w'ere 
a  matter  of  chance,  their  theories  on 
farming  practice  as  opposite  "as  the  han¬ 
dles  on  a  bushel  basket.  Yet  they  found 
pleasure  in  arguing  over  knotty  problems. 
“Hello,”  shouted  the  man  on  the  ma¬ 
chine,  turning  a  switch  that  stopped  the 
motor.  Great  weather,  isn’t  it?” 
_  “Yes,”  grumbled  the  other.  “It’s  high 
time,  too.  Here  it  is  the  first  of  May, 
or  will  be  before  I  get  these  oats  sowed. 
It  isn’t  as  if  I  could  fit  a  piece  of  land 
in  two  or  three  hours  like  you  can.  I’ll 
be  two  days  doing  what  you  w-ould  finish 
in  a  half  a  day,  and  then  the  ground 
won’t  be  in  as  good  shape.  Horse  tools 
are  too  light.  They  only  scratch  the  top 
of  the  ground.  That  double-disk  harrow 
is  a  fine  tool.  I’ve  been  watching  how  it 
seems  to  reach  right  down  to  the  bottom 
of  the  furrow  and  throw  up  the  soil. 
Seems  as  though  I  can’t  even  ride  on  this 
harrow'  of  mine  without  overloading  my 
horses.  With  a  late  Spring  like  this  is. 
time  counts  a  lot.  I  guess  probably  I'll 
have  to  buy  a  tractor  sooner  or  later.” 
The  young  potato-grower,  pleased 
though  he  was  with  the  praise  of  his 
work,  began  to  rub  the  top  of  the  cutting 
disks  in  a  troubled  way. 
“Y'ou  can’t  always  tell.”  he  said  slowly. 
“The  year  after  I  bought  this  tractor  I 
heard  something  that,  set  me  thinking. 
A  Western  man  was  here  visiting,  and 
one  day,  talking  about  tractors,  I  asked 
him  what  they  were  using  now  out  West. 
He  said  the  tractors  they  bought  during 
the  wmr  were  worn  out.  on  the  scrap 
heap.  Five  years  is  the  limit  in  the  life 
of  a  tractor,  you  know',  but  these  had 
been  used  steadily  for  every  kind  of  work, 
and  they  didn’t  last  but  three.  The  fel- 
lows  who  owned  ’em  thought  it  over. 
The  price  of  w'heat  was  high  then,  and 
some  of  them  put  part  of  their  profits 
back  into  a  high-grade  tractor.  But  the 
wisest  of  them  bought  horses  again  ;  they 
said  you  could  feed  horses  with  cheap 
grain,  and  you  could  grow  more  horses 
with  grain.  But  you  have  to  buy  gas  to 
feed  a  tractor,  and  can  only  grow'  another 
tractor  by  feeding  dollars.  That’s  the 
way  they  answered  the  agents  who  tried 
to  sell  them  more  machines.” 
“Then  you  think  a  farmer  can’t  afford 
to  buy  a  tractor!”  exclaimied  the  man 
across  the  ’  fence  in  a  surprised  tone. 
“But  there’s  some  of  them  that  don’t 
cost  but  the  price  of  three  good  horses. 
I  don’t  raise  my  own  horses,”  he  added, 
apologetically. 
“It  seems  to  depend  on  what  you  are 
doing,”  said  the  young  potato-grower 
earnestly.  “If  the  money  you  expect  to 
get  for  your  crop  is  in  proportion  to  the 
time  you  can  get  it  in  the  ground,  the 
tractor  will  pay  for  itself.  But  with 
some  crops,  like  grain,  orchard  work  and 
even  late  potatoes,  you  can  get  the  same 
results  with  a  good  team.  The  cheap 
tractors  work  all  right  on  some  kinds  of 
soil,  but  if  you  have  any  sandy  spots 
in  your  field  a  w'heel  tractor  is  not  for 
you.  The  caterpillars  that  will  draw- 
two  plows  easily  cost  above  $1,000.  This 
one  I  have  cost  $1,385.  But  you  will 
notice  that  I  use  it  altogether  for  har¬ 
rowing  and  potato-digging.  If  you  can’t 
be  in  on  the  early  market  with  these  po¬ 
tatoes  you  might  better  not  be  there  at 
all.  If  I’m  lucky,  I  may  make  it  last 
10  years  instead  of  five,  but  I  will  only 
use  it  when  time  is  money.” 
The  older  man  was  convinced,  but  not 
satisfied.  “It’s  in  the  luxury  class,” 
he  sighed.  “You  look  pretty  comfortable 
riding  along  over  there — it  runs  like  a 
boat  on  the  w'ater.” 
His  neighbor  lauged  grimly  and  picked 
up  life  crank.  “I  wish  you  could  ride 
with  me  for  a  day.  After  a  few'  hours  I 
get  about  deaf  sitting  behind  the  exhaust. 
And  you  can’«t  imagine  the  dirt ;  you  have 
to  see  it.  You  talk  about  riding  easy ! 
The  jolting  you  get  is  one  of  the  wmrst 
things  you  have  to  take.  I'd  a  lot  rather 
wmlk.  Sometimes  when  the  w'ind1  is  cold 
I  get  so  stiff  I  can  hardly  straighten  up.” 
He  applied  the  crank  and  the  motor 
roared  into  action,  adjusted  by  expert 
fingers.  The  man  across  the  fence  picked 
up  his  lines  and  watched  him  thought¬ 
fully  as  he  started  on.  After  all,  when 
a  man  is  not  a  natural  mechanic  a  tractor 
might  be  a  pretty  good  thing  to  let  alone. 
There  might  be  money  in  raising  horses 
yet.  The  splendid,  willing  blacks  snatched 
him  along  as  if  to  prove  their  side  of  the 
question.  mrs,  f.  h.  unger. 
Shade  Trees  for  the  North 
Sorry  I  _did  not  see  till  now  the  query 
on  page  251  about  shade  trees,  for  that 
is  a  hobby  of  mine.  Besides,  this  is  the 
planting  time  again,  when  we  hustle  the 
trees  into  favorite  spots  and  wait  for 
developments.  Of  course  anything  in 
poplar,  that  is,  the  true  Populus.  and 
not  the  tulip  tree,  which  is  the  poplar 
of  the  lumberman,  will  not  answer  except 
in  peculiar  circumstances.  Yet  a  friend 
of  mine  has  lately  brought  from  the  South 
what  he  calls  a  quick-growing  poplar 
which  he  says  will  grow'  into  lumber 
faster  than  any  other  tree.  But  this  is 
of  the  class  known  to  the  trade  as  cotton¬ 
wood,  which  this  section  does  not  use. 
We  are  after  shade  trees. 
About  10  years  ago  I  tried  an  experi¬ 
ment  in  trees  for  lawn  shade  by  setting 
out  an  elm,  a  hard  maple,  two  soft 
maples,  a  _  basswood  and  a  Catalpa, 
all  found  in  the  woods  but  the  last. 
One  soft  maple  died  end  two  more  of  the 
same  sort  have  since  died  in  the  same 
place.  But  for  that  there  would  have 
been  two  beautiful  trees  instead  of  one 
beside  the  front  door.  The  others  seemed 
to  vie  with  one  another  in  an  effort  to 
grow  attractive.  Instead  of  presenting 
various  shades  of  green  in  a  sort  of  war¬ 
like  fashion,  they  are  growing  in  har¬ 
mony.  An  oak  would  have  completed  the 
list  in  a  fine  way  of  elegant,  homy  trees. 
They  dig  up  hard  unless  very  small. 
.  As  a  rule  I  would  not  set  out  an  elm 
for  nearby  shade.  It  drops  small  dead 
twigs  constantly.  Its  stately,  graceful 
beauty  comes  out  at  best  at  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  or  more  distant.  I  love  the  Ailan- 
thus.  though  a  good  many  “pooh-pooh”  it. 
for  they,  have  read  in  some  paper  that  it 
has  an  ill  smell.  I  have  raised  the  tree 
40  years  or  so  ancf  never  got  a  whiff.  It 
is  the  nearest  approach  to  tropical  lux¬ 
uriance  I  have  ever  seen  north,  and  is 
very  effective,  though  no  great  shade  tree. 
The  stag-horn  sumac  follows  it  closely  on. 
and  if  rightly  cared  for  grows  into  a  fair¬ 
sized  tree.  It  comes  up  badly  from  seed, 
and  I  have  some  now  that  must  be  dis¬ 
carded,  for  there  is  no  place  for  them. 
The  grow'tli  is  very  fast  and  the  gorgeous 
Autumn  colors  are  desirable.  Thev  pre¬ 
fer  thickets,  and  I  think  that  accounts  for 
their  somewhat  ungainly  appearance. 
.  I  wish  The  R.  N.-Y.  would  open  a  per¬ 
sistent  and  far-reaching  tree  department. 
The  farmer  needs  it  as  much  as  anything, 
not  only  for  the  handling  of  his  woodlot, 
but  for  covering  up  and  making  attrac¬ 
tive  and  more  liveable  (and  loveable)  the 
farmhouse,  that  so  often  stands  staring 
out  from  the  side  of  the  road,  with  small 
excuse  for  being,  further  than  a  place  to 
eat  and  sleep  in.  j.  w.  c. 
R.  N.-Y.— The  disagreeable  odor  of-  the 
Ailanthus  comes  from  the  staminate  flow- 
ers.  The  tree  is  dimcious,  and  this  trouble 
does  not  appear  where  the  specimen  bears 
pistillate  flowers. 
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