THE NEXT SIX MONTHS.
It was not my intention when I commenced this little work to do more
than give our first six months' experience in farming our four acres
of land; but as perhaps the reader may think that time hardly
sufficient to form a correct opinion of the advantages to be derived
from a residence in the country, I think it as well to add some
particulars relating to the following six months.
In the spring came a new source of profit and amusement. We commenced
our labors in the poultry-yard in February, by setting a hen on
thirteen eggs, which, early in March, produced the same number of
chickens: these were all ready for the table in the middle of May. At
that time we could not have purchased them under $1 50 the couple.
The cost of thirty-eight chickens till ready to kill was $4 37. We
always knew exactly the expense attending the poultry, because we had
a separate book from the miller, in which every article was entered as
it came into the house; and as the chickens were kept distinct from
the other fowls, I could tell the exact sum they had cost us when they
made their appearance at table.
The first thing that was given them to eat was egg, boiled quite hard,
chopped very fine, and mixed with bread-crumbs. After that they had
groats. I find they consumed:
Three quarts of whole groats . . . . . $ 37
Two bushels of barley . . . . . . . . 2 25
One bushel of middlings . . . . . . . 1 12
Twenty-five lbs. of chicken-rice . . . 63
Making altogether . . . . $4 37
The reader must be told that those thirty-eight chickens had other
things to eat than those I have put down; they had nearly all the
scraps from the house, consisting of cold potatoes, bits of meat,
pudding, &c., and any pieces of bread which were left at table were
soaked in skim-milk; and the rice was also boiled in it. O course, in
a smaller family there would not have been so many "scraps" for them;
but, however strict you may be with children, you cannot prevent their
leaving remnants on their plates, all of which would have been wasted
had it not been for the chickens and pig-tub.
We were not so fortunate with the ducks. We did not keep any through
the winter, consequently we had to purchase the eggs, which were
placed under hens; for those eggs we paid four cents each, and out of
thirteen, which was the number given to each hen, we never reared more
than eight ducks.
Thus, in the first instance, they cost us six cents each; and they
were likewise more expensive to feed than the chickens. They were
never fit for the table till they had cost us sixty-three cents the
couple. One reason of this was, that as the chickens had all the waste
bids, they had nothing but what was bought for them; but then they
were such ducks as could not have been purchased at the poulterers'.
We never killed one unless it weighed four pounds; they used to be
brought in at night, and placed in the scale: if it was the weight I
have mentioned it was killed, if not it was respited till it did so.
At first we tried cooping them to fatten, but found it did not answer,
as they moped and refused to eat by themselves; so we abandoned that
plan, and were content to let them run in the meadows till fit to
kill, which was not till they were three months old. They were never
"fat," but very meaty, and fine flavored,--not in the least like those
which are bought, which, however fat they may appear before they are
cooked, come to table half the size they were when put down to the
fire.
I remember being rather puzzled once when resident in London. I
wanted a particularly fine couple of ducks for a "company dinner," and
went myself to the shop where I dealt to order them.
"Now, Mrs. Todd," said I, "the ducks I require are not fat ducks, but
meaty ones; the last I had from you had nothing on them when they came
to table, though they looked so plump when you sent them."
"Oh, yes, ma'am," was the rejoinder. "I know just what you want; but
they are very difficult to get: you want _running_ ducks."
I was obliged to ask what she meant by the term _running_, and was
then informed that the ducks for the London market were put up to
fatten, and as they were crammed with grease to hasten the process,
the fat all went into the dripping-pan. Now a _running_ duck was one
well fed, and allowed to roam or _run_ till it was killed. I am now
able from experience to say, that they are incomparably superior to
their fattened brethren.
The novice in poultry-rearing must be told that it is almost useless
to set a hen in very hot weather. As we had more eggs than were
required, we did so during part of June, July, and August, but had
very bad fortune with them; the hen seldom hatching more than three or
four, and those puny little creatures.
There is an old Kentish proverb which says,
"Between the sickle and the scythe,
Whatever's born will never thrive;"
and as it was just between the hay and corn-harvest that we tried to
rear our ducks and chickens, I am induced to believe that, like many
other old saws, it was founded on experience. They may be reared in
September, though they require great care, and must not be allowed to
run on the grass, which at that season is seldom dry.
A friend once told me she reared a brood of seventeen chickens, which
were hatched the last week in September; they were placed in an empty
greenhouse, and were consequently kept warm and dry. March is _the_
month for poultry; the hatches are better, and they grow much more
rapidly than at any other time.
I am quite sure that a poultry-yard may be made very profitable to any
one who will bestow a little trouble on it. Great care must be taken
with the young chickens at night; the hen should be securely cooped
with them: for want of this precaution we in one night lost eight,
when they were a few days old, being, as we supposed, carried off by
the cats.
The best food for ducks when first hatched is bread and milk; in a few
days barley-meal, wetted with water into balls about as big as peas,
should be given to them. It is usual, as soon as both ducks and
chickens come out of the shell, to put a pepper-corn down their
throats. I don't know that it is really of service to them, but it is
a time-honored custom, and so perhaps it is as well to follow it.
As for our butter-making, it continued to prosper; we had some little
trouble with it in the spring, when the weather set in suddenly very
hot. It was certainly much more difficult to reduce the temperature of
the cream to 55' than it was to raise it to that degree.
I often thought with vain longing of the shop in the Strand, where we
used to purchase Wenham Lake Ice: how firm would the butter have come,
could we have had a few lumps to put in the churn half and hour before
we required to use it!
Farmers' wives tell us, that to get firm butter in very hot weather
they get up at three o'clock in the morning, in order that it may be
made before the sun becomes powerful. Now this is a thing that would
not have suited H. or myself at all, and therefore we never mustered
up courage to attempt it.
One day in March--and this is the last disaster I have to record
concerning our butter--we were particularly anxious to have it good,
as we expected visitors, to whom we had frequently boasted of our
skill as dairywomen: the day was very warm, and the cream appeared
much thicker than usual; we churned for more than an hour without its
appearing to undergo any change; we frequently removed the lid to see
if there was any sign of butter coming, but each time we were
disheartened when we discovered it looked just the same as when placed
in the churn. At last the handle went round as easily as if no cream
were in it, and presently it began to run over the top of the churn.
When we looked in a curious sight presented itself: the cream had
risen to the top, just as milk does when it boils! We were greatly
astonished. In nine months' butter-making we had seen nothing like it.
Tom, who milked the cows was supposed to know something of the art of
churning; he was, therefore, called into the dairy: as soon as he saw
the state of the matter he exclaimed, "Why, the cream's gone to
sleep!"
"The cream gone to sleep!" What in the world could that mean? Such a
propensity we had never discovered in cream before; we could gain no
solution of the mystery from Tom; all he said was, that we must go on
churning till it "waked up."
H. and myself had been hard at work for two hours, so willingly
yielded to his request that he might be allowed to rouse the cream
from its slumber. He, the cook, and housemaid, churned away by turns
till seven in the evening, but the sleep of the cream remained
unbroken, and as it was then considered a hopeless affair, the
slothful fluid was consigned to the pig-tub.
Now we have never felt quite sure of our butter since. Every time we
churn there is a lurking fear that the cream may choose to take a nap;
however, it is as yet the first and last time in our experience.
I can give no advice to my readers on the subject, because I am wholly
ignorant on the subject, though I have consulted every farmer's wife
in the neighborhood on the matter. They all say that cream will go to
sleep sometimes, though it usually wakes up after a few hours.* [I
have since been told by an old woman conversant with sleepy cream,
that a quart of milk nearly boiling hot will wake it up.] Perhaps,
after all, we were too impatient, and should not have given in after
_only_ nine hours' churning. With this solitary exception our
butter-making progressed as favorably as we could desire.
I do not quite know how to believe the stories I am told of wonderful
cows which my friends are fortunate enough to possess. One gentleman
has informed me that he has one which gives fifteen pounds of butter
weekly. Now we have had several, but never made more on the average
than eight pounds per week. I believe that a great deal depends on the
manner in which they are milked, and once in the hands of a beginner
in that art the cows decreased in milk so rapidly, that we did not get
more than a gallon daily from both animals; after they had been three
weeks under his management we changed the milker, but did not get
anything like the proper quantity again till after they had calved.
I believe the usual average is one pound of butter from every ten
quarts of milk. Ours used to give us thirteen or fourteen quarts each
daily, and yet we never made more than eight pounds. We used about two
quarts of new milk, so that if ten quarts will give a pound of butter,
we did not get so much as we ought. Still we were very well satisfied
with the produce we received.
There requires management with two cows, in order that one may always
be in full milk when the other calves. If you rear a calf for the
butcher, it will require the whole of the milk for six or seven weeks,
which is about the age they are killed for fine veal. We once--it was
in the winter--received $26 for one. With two cows this may usually be
done, and its is more profitable than making butter. Where only one is
kept, it is better to part with the calf when a few days old, and then
the price is $5.
If a lady wishes her dairy to be very nicely finished, she should have
all the articles she requires of glass, instead of wood and
earthenware. Everything for the diary of that material can be
purchased in Leicester Square, and certainly, if expense had been no
object to us, we should much have preferred a glass churn, pans, &c.
They have the great advantage of being kept beautifully clean with
very little labor; but they are so liable to be broken, that they
should never be used unless servants are very careful. A marble table
is, however, in every respect better than a board to make the butter
upon. It is expensive at first, but will, with ordinary care, last
several generations of butter-makers.
Whilst on the subject of the dairy, I must say a few words respecting
the great care required in washing the articles used in it. As soon as
the butter was taken from the churn I was in the habit of half filling
it with boiling water, into which I had put some lumps of soda, and
then turning the handle a few times, in order that it might be well
washed round. It was then left till it was convenient for "cook" to
cleanse all the utensils we had used.
From some cause or other I neglected for two or three weeks to do
this, and one day, when the freshmade butter was brought to table,
there were complaints that it was _cheesy_; it certainly had a
peculiar and very unpleasant taste, for which we could not account.
The next time it was made it had the same fault; and it then occurred
to me that it might be the churn. I accordingly returned to my old
mode of washing it, and never after was there a complaint of any
unpleasant flavor in the butter.
I mention this to show the amateur dairywoman how very essential is
cleanliness in every article she uses. A regular dairymaid would have
known this, but a town-servant thinks that if she washes a thing it is
sufficient: but more than mere washing is required; every article must
be _scrubbed_ with soap, wood-ashes, and soda, and then placed for
hours in the open air.
Now glass is much easier kept sweet and clean, and for that reason is
greatly to be preferred; but I am writing for those who may wish to
reap profit from their "farm of four acres," and I fear little would
be gained if nothing but glass were used in the dairy.
Our land turned out better the second summer than the first. We made
nearly two tons and a half of hay from each acre. We were enabled to
mow the whole three acres, as we had "common rights" in our
neighborhood, where the cows could pasture during the spring. Had we
been without this privilege we could have mown only two acres, and as
hay was $21 the load, the additional acre was worth $50 to us, with
the exception of $3 75 for making it. We were advised to have an
after-crop, but did not; it would have made the land very poor for the
next year, so that what we gained in hay we must have expended in
manure.
We were well satisfied with the profit we derived from our pigs during
this second six months. All the summer we kept four, at an expense of
fifty-eight cents weekly, which was expended for two bushels of fine
pollard (bran and meal).
We had such an abundance of vegetables from the garden and orchard,
that we must have wasted cartloads, if we had not kept pigs to consume
them. As soon as the hay was carried they were turned into the
meadows, and suffered to remain there till they were put up to fatten;
a process which pigs must go through, though ducks can dispense with
it. I have already stated the expense of fattening them, and we never
found it vary more than a shilling or two in a pig.
We always found for our family that a bacon pig of sixteen stone (244
pounds) was the best size, and for porkers about eight (112 pounds).
Our fruit was as plentiful as our vegetables,--indeed we might have
sold the surplus for many dollars; but we soon found that to do so was
to lose _caste_ in the neighborhood. One piece of extravagance we were
guilty of the first winter and spring we passed at A. The gardener had
a little fire in the grapery during the severe weather, because he had
placed some plants in it. We were told we could continue it till the
grapes ripened for a "mere nothing." Now "mere nothings" mount up to a
"considerable something." The coal and coke consumed before they were
ripe cost $20. It is true we had them in July instead of September,
but we should have liked them quite as well in that month.
It was a bad grape year, too,--at least with us. I don't think we cut
more than twenty pounds weight. Hothouse grapes are not dear at $1 the
pound; but we should have had them equally good by waiting two months
later, when they would have cost us nothing.
Had we purchased the produce we received from our garden during the
year, it would have been worth two guineas weekly. Our peaches,
apricots, and nectarines, were abundant, and very fine. We had two
splendid walnut-trees, and a mulberry-tree of immense size, which was
an object of special abhorrence to "nurse," as for more than two
months in the summer the children's frocks, pinners, &c., were dyed
with the juice of the fruit. They could hardly pass near it in the
season without some of the ripe berries falling on their heads, and it
was hardly possible to prevent them escaping from her to pick them up.
Mulberry-pudding made its appearance often on the nursery-table, and
jars of mulberry-jam were provided to secure the same dainty through
the winter.
The luxury of a good garden can hardly be appreciated till you have
been in possession of one, more especially where there are many
children. The way we used to preserve currants, gooseberries, plums,
damsons, and, indeed, almost every description of fruit, was this: The
wide-mouth bottles which are sold for the purpose were filled with
fruit, six ounces of powdered loaf-sugar was shaken in among it; the
bottles were then tied down as closely as possible with bladder, and
placed up to the neck in a copper, or large saucepan, of cold water,
which was allowed to come slowly to the boil. They remained in it till
the water was quite cold, when they were taken from the water and
wiped quite dry. Before placing them in the store-room the bottle was
turned upside down, in order to see that they were perfectly
air-tight, for on this depends the fruit keeping good. The fruit will
sink down to about the middle of the bottle, and we once tried to fill
them up with some from another, but opening them admitted the air, and
the contents did not keep well. If properly done, they will be good at
the end of a year.
If any lady undertake the management of a four-acre farm, she must
expect it to occupy a great deal of her time; if she leaves it to
servants, however honest, she will lose by it. It is not that things
are stolen, but that they are wasted, unless the mistress herself
knows what quantities of barley, oats, etc., her poultry and pigs
consume; and unless she look daily into her dairy and see that the
mild is well skimmed, half the cream will be thrown into the wash-tub.
A six-months' longer experience of the country only confirmed my
sister and myself in the conviction that we had in every way made a
most desirable change when we quitted London for our small farm; but
if we had been too fine or too indolent to look after our dairy and
poultry-yard, I believe that our milk, butter, eggs, poultry, and
pork, would have cost us quite as much as we could have purchased them
for in town.
All the good things we were daily consuming in the country would have
come to us in London,
"Like angels' visits, few and far between."
I know that many of our old friends were really shocked when we told
them, laughingly, of our new pursuits, and that the butter they so
much praised, and the apricot-cheese they ate with so much gust, were
manufactured by our own hands. We were "poor-thinged" to our faces in
a very pitying manner, but we always laughed at these compassionate
people, and endeavored to convince them we spoke the truth in sober
earnest, when we assured them we found great amusement in our new
pursuits. They shook their heads and sighed in such a manner, that we
knew perfectly well that, as soon as we were out of ear-shot, they
would say, "Poor things! It is very sad, but they are quite right to
try and make the best of it." I believe some of them thought that it
was impossible we could have "souls above butter;" for a lady who
called one day, taking up one of Mudie's volumes from the table,
said,--
"It is possible you care to subscribe to Mudies's?"
"And why should we not care to do so?" replied H.
"Why," was the answer, "I do not see any connection between a love of
reading and a love of butter-making."
Now I do not think that either of us had any love of butter-making;
and if we could have afforded to give $100 a year to a dairymaid, no
doubt we should have left all to her management; but as it was we were
obliged to buy it--and very bad it was in our town--or make it
ourselves: nor do either my sister or myself regret our resolution to
do so.
At first we were quite proud of our skill, and told every one of our
success with great triumph. Now--for womanhood is weak--we are content
to hear our dairymaid praised for her beautiful butter by our
acquaintance, and Tom extolled for his care of the chickens. It is
only our friends, among whom I reckon my readers, who know that the
butter is made, and the chickens fed, by the mistresses of "the
four-acre farm."