[Illustration: _Your friend and brother Sportsman Rob B Roosevelt_]
FIVE ACRES TOO MUCH.
A TRUTHFUL ELUCIDATION
OF
The Attractions of the Country,
AND
A CAREFUL CONSIDERATION OF THE
_Question of Profit and Loss as involved in
Amateur Farming_,
WITH MUCH
VALUABLE ADVICE AND INSTRUCTION TO THOSE ABOUT
PURCHASING LARGE OR SMALL PLACES
IN THE RURAL DISTRICTS.
_NEW AND ENLARGED EDITION._
BY
ROBERT BARNWELL ROOSEVELT,
AUTHOR OF “GAME FISH OF NORTH AMERICA,” “SUPERIOR FISHING,”
“FLORIDA AND THE GAME WATER BIRDS,” “PROGRESSIVE PETTICOATS,”
“FISH HATCHING AND FISH CATCHING,” ETC.
NEW YORK:
O. JUDD CO. DAVID W. JUDD, PRES.
751 BROADWAY.
1885.
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1885, by the
O. JUDD COMPANY,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.
TO
THE WRITERS OF BOOKS
ON
FARMING, GARDENING, HORTICULTURE, AGRICULTURE,
AND FLORICULTURE,
_THIS WORK IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED_,
AS AN EVIDENCE
OF WHAT CAN BE DONE AND WHAT WONDERFUL RESULTS
CAN BE PRODUCED BY A CAREFUL STUDY OF
THEIR DIRECTIONS AND STRICT OBEDIENCE
TO THEIR RULES;
AND
AS A SLIGHT TESTIMONIAL TO THE ACCURACY, LUCIDITY,
AND PRACTICABILITY OF THE ADVICE WHICH THEY
GIVE AND THE EXPERIENCES THEY DESCRIBE;
IN THE SINCERE HOPE
THAT THEY WILL NEVER WEARY OF COMPOSING BOOKS
EQUALLY TRUTHFUL, TRUSTWORTHY,
AND INTERESTING.
THE AUTHOR.
CONTENTS.
INTRODUCTION.
Apotheosis of the Country, especially of such Portions of the Country
as the Author has for sale.--Many Attractions and still more Lots
at Flushing.--Simplicity of Farming, and Lucidity of Agricultural
Books.--Profits and Pleasures of Rural Life.....Page ix
CHAPTER I.
A COW.
Special Points about the Bovine Race.--Directions in
Feeding.--Preparations to receive the Animal.--Her Arrival.--An
awful Pause.--The Fray about to begin.--Intelligence of Cows and
Biddies.--Victory.--A Calm.--Cow Complainings.--Approaching Storm.--A
Tempest in a back Yard.--Soothing Effects of “Mash.”--Immense
Profits and glorious Prospects for the Future.--Peculiarities and
Eccentricities of the Race as exhibited in a confined Space.--She is
sent to the Country for the benefit of her Health.....19
CHAPTER II.
A HOUSE, PLANS, AND SPECIFICATIONS.
Wonderful architectural Genius of the Author.--He admires himself
and consults his Friends.--Difficulties in obtaining “just the
Thing.”--Want of Time.--Free Trade in Houses advocated as superior
to Home Production.--The imported Article falls into the Hands of a
Philistine named Barney.--A fresh Arrival.--The House comes, but the
Builder does not.--The Charge of the Light Brigade, and Flight of the
Housekeeper.....37
CHAPTER III.
MORE LIVE-STOCK--A HORSE AND A PIG. WHICH IS THE NOBLER ANIMAL?
Beauties of the Pig.--Defects of the Horse.--The dearest Pig and the
dearest Horse, each in their way.--A haunted House, and the Effect
of Ghosts on Horses.--The Ghost Story precisely as it occurred.--Are
Ghosts liable to Damages when they frighten Horses into fits of
running away?--Equine Eccentricities.--Practical Playfulness.....61
CHAPTER IV.
THE COUNTRY, AND HOW TO GET THERE.
Easy Accessibility of Flushing.--An improving Railroad.--Education by
Steam.--True Principles of Travel.....77
CHAPTER V.
A WELL.
A Well, considered classically and otherwise.--A Cat in search of
the Truth.--A Catastrophe.--Pumps and Vanities of Life.--A poor
Sucker.--Hydraulic Pressure.....86
CHAPTER VI.
A KITCHEN GARDEN.
Advantages thereof.--Things to have.--You wish you may get
them.--Ornamental as opposed to practical Views.--A dissolving
View.--Bad Beginnings do not always make a good Ending.--Daniel
O’Rourke’s as a grazing Crop.--The new-mown Hay.--Its Flavor and
Flower.--Remarkable Results of Gardening for Profit.....97
CHAPTER VII.
THE FLOWER GARDEN.
Architectural Skill set at defiance by practical Difficulties.--Result
of too much Greenness.--A Disappointment.....111
CHAPTER VIII.
POULTRY.
Strange Attack of Somnolency.--Dogs and Peppers as awakeners.--The
right Thing in the wrong Place.--A Hen lays herself out.--Twenty pair
of Chickens raise the Hair of one Mink.....124
CHAPTER IX.
FALL WORK.
A Fortune in Strawberries.--How to get it out.--Debility
developed.--Science to the Rescue.--The wonderful Effects of a Liquid
Fertilizer.--No Farmer should fail to have such a Thing in the
House.....136
CHAPTER X.
PROFIT AND LOSS.
Immense pecuniary Advantages of high old Farming.--Exactitude
the Foundation of Success in Life.--A plain Statement.--General
Reflections.--An amateur Butcher.--Boiled salt Pork.....148
CHAPTER XI.
THE FLUSHING SKATING-POND--A DIGRESSION.
A nice Man as an Ice-man.....161
CHAPTER XII.
THE SECOND YEAR.
A new Start, with no Drawbacks.--Immense Results, but not precisely
what was wanted.--The great Pea turns out small.--Wonderful obstinacy
of Plants.....169
CHAPTER XIII.
SCIENCE.
Knowledge is Power.--The new Flower.--A Thing of Beauty.--Appearance
contrasted with Perfume.--The Fox is the Finder.....179
CHAPTER XIV.
A SECOND DIGRESSION--FAIRY TALES FOR LITTLE FOLKS.
Retributive Justice.--Don’t be such a Goose.....189
CHAPTER XV.
NUISANCES, INHUMAN AND HUMAN. PETS--THE CHARM OF COUNTRY LIFE.
With a few Reservations.--Flies on the Rampage.--Wonderful
Discovery.--Dogs on Seedlings.--A Hop-toad Hunt.....203
CHAPTER XVI.
BUTTER-MAKING. SEEDS AND THE DEVIL.
Butter-making in all its Attractions.--The Cream unequal to the
Emergency.--Some Things can’t be Done as well as Others.--Electrical
Phenomena.--Gathering Seed.--Incidental Reference to Satan and his
Works.--not his agricultural ones.....216
CHAPTER XVII.
SUCCESS OF THE YEAR.
A second Year’s Balance-sheet.--Still greater Promises.--Success
assured.--Every Man should be his own Market Gardener.--No dearth of
Onions.--Transported at the Result.--The last of the family Horse.--He
closes his Career by a wonderful Feat in drawing Teeth Page......233
CHAPTER XVIII.
PREPARATIONS FOR REMOVAL.
The Window Garden.--Warm Work.--Immense Resources of Science.--Mind
against Matter.--What can the Matter be?--The new Flower......253
CHAPTER XIX.
A GREAT RUNNER.
A perfect Jonah.--Very fine, only don’t do it again.--A Gourd runs
away with its Master.--A changeable Crimson.--A new Specimen of Flax,
Red one Year and Yellow the next......266
CHAPTER XX.
A BEAUTIFUL NEW COACH.
A Rockaway stricken with Palsy.--Sudden Recovery.--Honesty of country
Mechanics their best Recommendation.--A Roof over one’s Head.--Its
Necessity, as well as Beauty.--A Fellow-feeling makes us willing to
lend Shingles.--The latter End......283
CHAPTER XXI.
THREE HUNDRED ACRES NOT ENOUGH.
New Farms.--More Land.--No Rooms for Mushrooms.--Many Sects of
Insects.--The Squash.--Unexpected Fungi.--The Triumph that Grazed
Defeat.--The Joys of Memory......297
INTRODUCTION.
It was in consequence of reading a little volume called “Ten Acres
Enough”--a practical and statistical, as well as, in certain points, a
poetical production--that I came to prepare this volume. In that work a
charming and interesting account is given of the successful attempt of a
Philadelphia mechanic to redeem a strip of exhausted land of ten acres
in extent. In the course of it, a vast deal of advice and most valuable
directions are given on the subject of planting and sowing, draining and
reaping, manuring and pruning; berries and fruits, vines and vegetables,
are duly considered; and the question of outlay and income, expenses and
receipts, losses and profits, is forever ding-donged into one’s ears. So
useful is the instruction it contains, that no one should think of
buying a farm, experimenting in rural life, or even reading this book,
without first perusing that one. To be sure, the author forgets
occasionally some minor matters--such as clothing, food, and the like,
leaving his family naked and unfed for several years--but that is
doubtless due to his poetical temperament and intense love of nature. In
the same spirit, therefore, no matter how frequently I may refer to
money matters in the course of the following pages, even if I should
occasionally condescend to speak of food and raiment--those commonplace
necessities--it must be understood to be with no sordid view; and if I
keep these matters before the reader’s attention, it will be for the
sole purpose of benefiting and enlightening him, and pointing out
clearly the financial consequence of investing in rural residences.
The country--how beautiful it is! To a man wearied with the cares of
city life; who has pursued an exhausting profession for several years
with vigorous energy; who has taken a hand in politics, attended
caucuses and Conventions, and helped to “run the machine;” who has a
philanthropic turn of mind, and gone on committees and made public
collections; and who, moreover, has abundant means--this, though last,
is by no means least--the country, with its green leaves, its lovely
flowers, its waving grass, its early vegetables, and its luscious
fruits, is most attractive; and where a residence can be obtained which
combines all these luxuries with pure air, and no chills and fever, and
which is not too remote from city life and its attractions, it is as
near to Paradise as this world permits.
There are many such places near New York. Gorgeous villas dot the banks
of the Hudson, and congregate together thickly on Staten Island; there
are beautiful spots along the coves of Westchester County, and persons
who do not mind expatriating themselves go to Jersey; but there is one
locality that far surpasses all others. The steep banks of the Hudson,
cut off as they are from the westerly winds by the Palisades and higher
hills beyond them, are uncomfortably hot; Staten Island is overrun by
sourkrout-eating, lager-beer-drinking, and small-bird-shooting Germans,
who trespass with Teutonic determination wherever their notions of
sportsmanship or the influence of lager leads them; Westchester County,
like some of our famous _prima donnas_, is fair to look upon, but great
on shakes--too much so for perfect repose; and Jersey will be a pleasant
place to live in when the inhabitants, individually and as a government,
cease to live off strangers.
The locality referred to--the chosen spot of this earth--the Eden of a
country village--has none of these drawbacks. An invigorating breeze
blows over pure salt marshes; Germans do not trespass nor make one
afraid; no man residing there has ever had a case of chills and fever,
no matter what may have happened to his neighbor, where the boys are
forever out o’ nights and exposed to the dew; and the inhabitants are
always ready to kindly take a stranger in.
It is a village, and yet country houses stand embosomed in majestic
trees; cows pasture in the vacant lots and bellow in the streets;
nurseries for the propagation of trees and shrubs give a condensed
edition of miniature forests, and furnish in one rod the flowers that
Nature, if left alone to her parsimonious way, would scatter over an
acre; gas is in the residences, pigs root in the public roads, and early
peas are combined with plank side-walks. This unequaled concentration of
attractions can be reached in thirty minutes from either the upper or
lower part of the city--of course New York city is meant, as no one need
leave Philadelphia or Boston to get into the country--and by a most
delightful route, partly on water and partly by railroad. The trains run
every hour all through the day, and the line is the safest in the world.
This spot, so desirable, so infinitely superior to all others, is
Flushing, Long Island.
I have some property at Flushing which I should like to sell in lots to
suit purchasers; in fact, it is five acres of such lots--the five acres
that this book is all about. I owned this superior investment when “Ten
Acres Enough” led me to thinking that if the author could make such a
delicious thing of a plot of sand in New Jersey, as much could probably
be done with half the area in the fine soil of Flushing. Unfortunately,
my land had no improvements, but then it was a magnificent level square,
precisely like a block in the city, and admirably adapted to building.
Otherwise my five acres were full as good as the half of his ten acres;
the grass seemed to be abundant, for the cows of the entire neighborhood
had grazed on it from time immemorial; a previous owner had been once
known to plant cabbages, and the tradition is that they grew and came
out cabbages, and did not, as they usually do, spread themselves and
become very fine but rather loose leaves. The soil was deep, a well
having been sunk on the adjoining property without descending beyond it,
or reaching any water worth speaking of; and the exposure was as sunny
as could be desired--there being only six trees, and one of those in
doubtful health, on the entire five acres. Teachers generally say, on
receiving a new pupil from another master, that there is more trouble to
unlearn than to learn; here there was nothing to be undone--everything
was to be done. It was not exactly a virgin soil, but, like a lovely
widow, it had lain fallow--a friendly farmer made use of that word--so
long, that it would be grateful for the touch of a rake or a hoe. There
was no garden, no fence, no orchard, and no fruit-trees of any kind
except one apple-tree, but then the nurseries and a little labor would
make this right.
An unpleasant suspicion crossed my mind that perhaps it would have been
better if some of these things had been done to my hand, and that
possibly I was not exactly the man to do them in the best way; but a
second perusal of “Ten Acres Enough” was enough for me, and these absurd
doubts were banished forever. If an uneducated mechanic could leave
Philadelphia, rescue a decaying farm, and make it splendidly
remunerative, why could not an educated lawyer from New York convert an
uninjured farm into the eighth or ninth--we Americans have added a few
to them--wonder of the world?
The affair was as simple as could be. With a class-book of botany, a
recipe from Professor Mapes, a few cuttings of some wonderful new
berry--of which, doubtless, there were plenty, and Bridgman’s
“Gardener’s Assistant,” the result was certain. It was merely a question
of seeds, weeds, and manure--the first and last to be encouraged, and
the other to be eradicated.
After all, what is the wonderful science in farming? You put a seed in
the ground, and it comes up--that is, if it does come up--either a pea
or a bean, a carrot or a turnip, and, with your best skill and greatest
learning, you can not plant a pea and induce it to come up a bean, or
convert a carrot into a turnip. As for planting, any fool can do that,
and as for making it grow, the wisest man in the land can not effect it.
These and a few other similar arguments were entirely conclusive, and
soon visions of the accomplished fact engrossed my mind.
I should have a neat, modest, small, but cosy little house; square, for
economy’s sake, but surrounded on all sides by a deep piazza; the garden
should be filled with delicious vegetables, fruits, and berries, the
earliest and best of their kinds; there should be a magnificent bed of
asparagus--that king of the kitchen garden--a dozen long rows of
strawberries, with fruit as luscious as a young girl’s lips; Bartlett
pears, early peas, peaches and cream--the latter only indirectly
vegetable--cauliflowers, tomatoes, mushrooms, lettuce--every thing, in
fact, that a gentleman eats when he can get it, and nothing that he
eschews when he can do no better. The residue of the farm was to be
partly orchard and partly market garden, and this was to supply the
family during the winter and pay the expenses of the household.
It is an immense satisfaction, of a hot evening in summer, even in the
prematurely scorching days of June, to leave the city, after a long day
of labor and trouble, and, rushing away with railroad speed into the
country, to enjoy the delicious air and cool breeze, to sit beneath the
outspreading trees, to wander through the woods, to bathe in the brook,
to doze or smoke in the shade. The scent of the blossoms or the hay, or
no smell at all, is such an exquisite relief from the customary odors of
New York streets. The sun seems to lose half and the air to gain double
its ordinary power. The pleasures are so innocent, the matters of
interest so pure, the mind is braced but not wearied. The garden,
whether kitchen or flower garden--those delightful adjuncts of a country
place--is such an infinite source of health, improvement, and delight.
Man, confined to the city by dire necessity of money-making, recognizing
the country as the natural sphere of his existence, dreams of a neat,
quiet, retired country place, and books such as “Ten Acres Enough”
persuade him to convert these dreams into realities.
I had always been troubled with similar visions, although by a strange
fatality my education in country matters had been wofully neglected, for
I could hardly distinguish tomato-vines from egg-plants, and had not the
remotest notion of modes or seasons of planting; but, now that there was
a possibility that these imaginings might be realized, I was so charmed,
that I resolved to record my experiences for the guidance and
instruction of others. Thus it came about that this work was written;
and if it is occasionally defective in style and irregular in plan, it
is probably not more so than was my farming.
In looking over this introduction with a view to getting up a revised
and enlarged edition of “Five Acres too Much” some fifteen years after
the original was written, I find little to add and less to change in it.
Finding my farm of five acres so remarkably improving, productive, and
remunerative, I purchased one of twenty-five, afterwards another of a
hundred and twenty, and now I own, have, hold, possess, till, and enjoy
three hundred and fifty broad acres of health and fertility. To-day I am
the “past grand” of farmers, for I have raised the giant squash which
admits to the innermost circles of the initiated. My readers will be
glad to learn that Patrick is still with me. My farming and my writings
on farm-life would have been a failure without his efficient aid, and
he still possesses that versatility of resources which in the original
pages of this work almost elevated him to the rank of genius. I have
added some of our modern experiences, and believe the patient reader
will find them fully equal to anything I had previously chronicled. When
my dear old friend and instructor Mr. Horace Greeley first read my
humble contribution to the literature of plough and spade, he pronounced
the unpleasant criticism that “the man who wrote that book ought to be
kicked.” But I felt that he was in error, or that possibly jealousy
rather than public spirit dictated his cynical words, because “What I
knew about Farming” differed in some essentials from what he knew,
although we had in the main reached the same results. An additional
chapter gives my subsequent operations, which were as gloriously
successful as the previous ones, and prove beyond dispute the delight,
benefit, and profit of rural occupations when they are intelligently
conducted by a citizen of liberal education, scientific attainments, and
vigorous back.
THE AUTHOR.
May, 1885.
FIVE ACRES TOO MUCH.
CHAPTER I.
A COW.
It was early in winter when I made up my mind finally to erect a country
house on the Flushing five acres. Plans, and size, and arrangements were
in the vague and misty future; for months the ground could not be broken
to build the foundations, and little could be done besides preparing for
the next year. The first thing that seemed of vital importance was the
stock. Pigs and chickens could be obtained at any time; horses had to be
had, of course, but need not bother one till the last moment; but a cow
was a creature that must be taken when a good one offered. Moreover, I
have a weakness for cows: it is a purely theoretical interest, for my
knowledge is less than moderate, not even extending to the mode of
milking them; but their big eyes, and gentle manners, and unnecessary
horns, and split feet, have always filled my heart with love and
wonder. Horses are miserable creatures, invariably doing precisely what
they ought not to do, kicking when they ought to go, going when they
ought to stand still, balking when their owner is in the most frantic
haste; forever sick, or lame, or requiring to be shod--a pest, a
nuisance, and a bore. But cows do not balk, or run, or go lame, or need
shoeing; and although they occasionally kick over the milk-pail, it is
probably with good reason or with the best of intentions. They have nice
long coats that keep them from catching cold in winter, and have an odd
way of perspiring through their noses that is as curious as it is
interesting. A cow is a model--without referring to this last
peculiarity--for a wife; she is gentle, good, and beautiful, and never
makes a fuss. The first point, therefore, was to buy a cow.
I had a friend living at Flushing named Augustus Weeville, who had been
there several years, and who had acquired great knowledge of the
intricacies of rural performances, and, among other things, was learned
in cows. In fact, he was learned in most farming matters, and, being
naturally proud of his adopted village, and interested in my success in
emigrating thither, gave me throughout his valuable advice and
assistance.
Of course, his aid was called in on the cow question, and equally, of
course, he knew an Irishman--by-the-by, what can be the reason that
Irishmen are the only people that have cows to sell? Is it because they
love cows, or hate them? The whole world knows their “strong weakness”
for pigs, but do they collect rare specimens of cows out of pure
affection, to dispose of to curiosity-seekers having good homes? Or is
it that they love pigs too well to endure the presence of a rival, and
dispose of the bovine race as fast as they obtain them? However that may
be, if you ever want a cow, an Irishman will want to sell you one; and
this particular Irishman had a particularly fine animal--just the thing
for the occasion.
Before purchasing, I made a few elementary inquiries--as to what cows
eat, how much exercise they needed, in what manner they were to be
stabled, and how many quarts of oats they would require daily. My friend
replied that they preferred a warm mash, to be given three times a day;
and when he saw from my countenance that my mind was a blank on the
subject of warm mashes, he explained that hot water was poured upon bran
and meal mixed, and that the mixture was then usually called a mash,
although why and wherefore he could not distinctly say. Then, carried
away by the extent of his knowledge, and rousing to the subject, he went
into the habits of cows in general; that he thought ship-stuff was an
excellent change of diet; that they liked hay, turnips, carrots,
potato-peelings, bread, slops of all kinds that were not greasy; that
they were not fed oats, and required no exercise and no care, in the
stable, but stood in the sun all day long, winking and blinking with
contentment, and put themselves to bed at night; that the one he
referred to was not young, but gentle and a good milker; and mentioned
incidentally that he hardly knew where I would keep her in the city, as
no cow would ever go down the area steps and through a narrow hall-way
into a back yard.
Now I knew nothing of bran, and meal, and ship-stuff, and only listened
with an attempt at an intelligent smile, satisfied that the articles
could be purchased by name, and without explaining their nature; but I
was well aware that the yard was the only place in which to keep the
cow, and that the road to it was down the steps and through the lower
hall; at least, if there was any other way thither, I had not yet
discovered it, and I had owned my house then some twenty years. So this
casual objection was quite a serious one, and we were compelled to
discuss the feasibility of leading the animal up the front steps--a
proceeding, however, which would have required her to go down the back
ones--or hoisting her over the fence. As these measures did not seem
practicable, and a cow must be had, my friend mildly suggested that
several Irishmen with a stout rope might drag her through the
passage-way; and as my faith in the nature of cows was illimitable, it
was determined to make the purchase on the chance. The weight of a cow
was to me an utterly unknown quantity, and the floor she was to pass
over having once, on a previous occasion, and without any great strain,
given way, a carpenter had to be called in to strengthen it. He, in his
enthusiasm, and being probably as ignorant as myself, used so many
supports that it would have been strong enough to carry an elephant,
while four able-bodied men were engaged from a neighboring stable, and
provided with a good-sized rope, so that we were fully prepared for any
emergency.
In order that there may be no mistake in the debit and credit of this
transaction, it must be known that the cow cost $100, to be delivered at
the door free of charge. So this sum must be charged to principal as so
much invested in stock, whether it ever entered my back yard or not; and
the interest on it will hereafter be one of the current expenses,
amounting, at seven per cent., to exactly $7 a year. It is essential
that these matters should be watched; “look after the pennies, and the
pounds will take care of themselves;” and the point would be whether the
cow’s milk and so forth would hereafter pay $7 annually net profit.
The day appointed to receive my new pet arrived, and with it the animal,
while four brawny, red-handed Irishmen, strong enough to pick her up and
carry her if she resisted, were at the door. They at once became
excited, and prepared for action, and the cow looked wild and
threatening as they closed in around her. Her owner, who was leading her
with a cord, called out “soo-so-o-o” in a deprecatory manner, that
evidently produced no effect; he, however, got her head to the first
step, where she hesitated, and began to sniff suspiciously. The moment
of action had evidently come, and I was about to shout to my supporters,
who had been carefully instructed as to their duties, “Up, guards, and
at her,” when the lower door opened, and an intelligent Irish female
appeared, holding a turnip in her hand. The effect was magical; the
creature’s countenance changed instantly; turnips evidently had been
scarce with her, or her owner, not thinking it worth while to waste
food that would not be paid for, had left her hungry; she advanced her
nose expectantly, and, as the tempting viand was skillfully withdrawn,
followed it and the “retiring maid” down the steps, through the hall,
and into the yard.
[Illustration]
Four natives of the “Gem of the Sea” were sadly disappointed; they came
for an “illegant bit of a scrimmage,” and determined to make that cow do
what she did not want to do, as well as increase their reward by
extraordinary violence; and they would have liked to follow her, and, as
they could not make her go in, make her come out against her will, and
without the allurement of turnips. Of this satisfaction her
incomprehensible behavior had deprived them, and they went away sad and
disappointed men. This incident only placed the character of cows on a
still more exalted pedestal, and fully justified my confidence.
My friend Weeville had given me specific directions in writing how to
feed that cow; exactly how much bran--of which, after some trouble, and
a vain attempt to buy a few pounds of it, I had obtained a bag--was to
be mixed with a certain proportion of meal; and how often daily this
mess, which is probably English for mash, covered with warm water, was
to be fed; and about how much hay would fill up the intervals. These
instructions were carefully transmitted to the servant who had charge of
the dairy, with particular injunctions to carry them out to the letter,
and not to deviate from them in the smallest particular.
For several days my new purchase demeaned herself unexceptionably, being
quiet and well-behaved; but at the end of about a week she began to
bellow, and kept on increasing her complaints daily until they became
unendurable. Neighbors put their heads out of windows, evidently
meditating dire resolves unless “something were done, and that
shortly,” whenever I went into the yard to appease her.
What to do was not very clear. When my dog howls I go out and whip him,
and he appears to think that is the right thing to do, and stops; but a
cow is such a big thing to whip, and she did not seem to be in the least
mollified by a few strokes of a stick that I tried. Gratitude for my
good opinion should have induced that cow to take a hint from her equine
friends and put a “bridle on her tongue,” but, instead of doing so, she
gave free vent to her feelings, and, in spite of petting or flogging,
abusing or praising, made “the air musical.” My exalted admiration for
her race diminished as sleep fled from my pillow, and murderous thoughts
possessed my soul. I seemed to see a dagger “with its handle to my
hand,” which looked much like a butcher’s knife, and there was an
estrangement springing up between us that might have terminated fatally
had not the Celtic heroine of the turnip adventure reappeared. With the
energy peculiar to that sympathetic race, the lady of the kitchen
announced, “It was starving, the poor baste was; and if the master would
let her feed the crayture all she wanted, there would be no more noise
at all, at all.” That consent was not long withheld; one more roar
removed all scruples of dignity, superior intelligence, and the like,
and Biddy fled to the meal-tub. She returned in ten minutes with the
biggest tub of mash the cow or myself had ever seen. The former--not
Biddy, but the cow--plunged her nose into it nearly to the eyes, and
devoured it without once pausing, and then did the like with a
replenished dish. My opinion of the intelligence of cows and Biddies was
elevated, and I concluded cow-feeding was not my specialty. With those
two feeds, or more properly gluts, of mash, comfort returned to my
household.
About the time that these events occurred, milkmen had concluded that
the lacteal fluid--or what they sold for such--was scarce and valuable,
and they raised the price to the rate of twelve cents a quart. Our cow,
which had been baptized with the name of Cushy, gave about eleven quarts
daily, and as the household only needed six, there was a clear opening
for profit to the extent of sixty cents a day. Pure milk is rather a
rarity--by which is intimated that it is not universal--in the milkmen’s
carts in the great city of New York, where that of a watery consistency
and cerulean hue is more common than the dull, pale opaque of the real
article. In fact, it is said by dairymen that milk just as it comes from
the cow is heating--too heating for persons confined to the narrow and
unhealthy limits of a city, and should have a little dash of fresh water
to take the fire out.
In spite of their convincing arguments, however, an individual was found
so little alive to the excellence of the dealer’s milky way as to be
ready not merely to pay the current price, but to supply his own cans
and send for the milk. This opened a magnificent vista; it was the first
of the long series of profits that were to flow in one steady stream
from the country place or its accompaniments. If one cow yielded a clear
daily income of sixty cents, that a hundred or a thousand would yield
proportionally more was merely a question in the rule of three.
There was one little matter, however, that somewhat impaired the full
measure of this success. The haymakers, or whoever they are that own
hay, had raised the price of their goods to keep pace with the price of
milk, so that hay was at the moderate rate of two dollars or two dollars
and a half a hundred pounds. Moreover, that was an uncommonly
intelligent cow, and she used her superior gifts to assure her own
comforts, regardless of my feelings or my profits. The hay was stored in
a closet under the steps that led down into the yard, and, in spite of
every care and contrivance to keep her out, Cushy would open the door,
and not only help herself to all she wanted, but throw down armfuls
under her feet, and then, like all her dainty race, she would utterly
refuse to eat whatever had become dirty. If the door was latched, she
pushed the latch up; if bars were placed across, she removed them with
her horns; if a rope was used, she broke or stretched it; and if she
could not get in otherwise, she would tear the whole away.
After trying many plans, the door was ingeniously hung from the top, so
that, as was supposed, it would effectually prevent her unauthorized
inroads; but next day it was found at the other end of the yard, having
been carried thither on her head. Besides, the amount of hay she ate
seemed to have no effect in diminishing the quantity of mash she wanted;
rather she appeared to carry into practice the deceptive proposition of
the stingy father to his hungry sons--that he who ate the most meat
should have the most pie--by demanding more bran the more hay she
consumed.
In spite of these drawbacks she was an immense convenience. Her
manufactory seemed to work better than more scientific and artificial
arrangements, and turned out a more agreeable article than the most
skillful chemical milkman. However disgraceful to human nature is the
confession, science is nowhere against a cow. To be sure, she would on
wash-days carry a few clothes off the lines, and drag them around in the
most nonchalant and unconcerned way conceivable; would even now and then
get her horns mixed up with the lines generally, and pull out half a
dozen hooks; but the moment this was done she was entirely satisfied,
and would stand perfectly quiet until she was disencumbered. She made
more dirt than was altogether sightly, and a man had to be engaged to
come daily and remove it.
[Illustration]
These various eccentricities added somewhat to her cost, and made it
difficult to compute the amount accurately; but, apart from the value
of clothes and clothes-lines, her feed cost thirty dollars a month, and
the man’s attendance six more. So long as she kept on giving twelve
quarts a day, there was a clear profit of four cents daily, besides the
thorough manuring of the yard, which with farmers is an important point,
and would have been more valuable in this instance if it had been
possible to grow any thing in it, and had it not been, unfortunately,
that, for some unknown reason, not even a spear of grass had ever been
willing to exist there.
The quantity of milk, however, soon began to diminish, until, after six
weeks, the arrangement with our neighbor had to be discontinued. This
reduced the profit, although Cushy still gave more than an abundance for
our family, and there would have been a loss had not hay and bran come
up to the occasion by coming down in price. The reader, therefore, must
call upon the author of “Ten Acres Enough” to determine, by a few
algebraical eliminations, whether, if a cow’s yield falls off more or
less, and her feed diminishes in price considerably, there is a loss or
profit, and if so, why so, and how much. For my part, I never could
arrive at any satisfactory conclusion except that pure milk and fresh
cream were, either combined or separate, very satisfactory.
Cushy had an excellent disposition; she never exhibited but one evil
passion, and that was for the meal-tub: she would feed from the hand or
a pail, or, in fact, in any way, so long as she was fed enough. Upon
this regimen she waxed fat, until it became a serious question whether
she would ever again pass out of the doors that it was at first doubtful
whether she would enter. Her stomach was of goodly size when she came,
and I did not wonder that it occupied so much of her thoughts; but it
grew prodigiously, and she had a way of standing still by the hour, with
her head under the clothes on the lines, when the sun began to grow hot
in the spring, or of lying at full length in their shade, that was
evidently conducive to corpulency. When she wanted her meals, which she
did not only at frequent intervals, but whenever any one came into the
yard, she would go to the kitchen window, and, thrusting forward her
head as far as the bars permitted, would “moo” gently to express her
wants. If not attended to immediately, she would soon speak louder, and
at last would demand food in the most peremptory tone of stentorian
bovine lungs. She invariably had her desires gratified, and thus was
this interesting evidence of intelligence greatly developed. She had an
amusing way of playing with whatever boxes or baskets might be left in
the yard, somewhat regardless, to be sure, of their fragile nature; she
would carry them on her head round about, and occasionally pin them to
the earth with a thrust of her horns; and if she found the stable, which
was of wood, close and uncomfortable, she now and then walked out of it
through the side, but did these things in so unconscious a way that no
one could find fault.
She kept on growing fat and fatter--(to continue her history and
somewhat anticipate events)--until summer came, and it was necessary to
send her to the country. Then the services of another Irishman, of
course, were called into requisition, and he started off from the house
with her, early one morning in June, to lead her eight miles to her
future home at Flushing. Neither himself nor the cow was heard of again
till late that night, when, with startled countenance, he related his
adventures to my friend Weeville. He had hardly turned the corner before
a butcher rushed out and announced that he wanted to buy that cow.
Patrick indignantly refused, true to the aristocratic Irish idea that
the employer is always above disposing of any thing; but the butcher was
irrepressible, and, pulling out his wallet, offered ninety-five dollars
for her; but Pat retorted. “You’ll not get the likes of her for
ninety-five dollars.” This the would-be purchaser mistook for a haggle
over price, and demanded how much she would be sold for, when Patrick,
breaking away from him with indignation, answered resolutely, “She is
not for sale at all, at all, but going to the country for air and
grass.”
“But it’s an awful time I’ve had with her,” he continued, in his
narration. “Sure and didn’t she lay down with me twelve times, and
didn’t I think every blessed time that she would niver get up again? Her
tongue hung out a yard, in spite of me watering her at every trough
along the road. She kept me ever since tin o’clock this very morning,
and would stop to rest whenever she felt like it, until I began to think
I shouldn’t get home till next day.”
Thus Cushy exhibited another evidence of her intelligence. As she had
heretofore insisted upon being fed whenever she was hungry, she now had,
with equal peremptoriness, demanded rest when she was tired. Fat and
unaccustomed to travel, she made the Irishman conform to her views of
speed, like the superior being she was, knowing well that he was only
sent to wait on and accompany her in her journey. She was evidently
pleased with the country, being found next morning up to her knees in
clover; and, had it not been for the attacks of a gadfly, which she
resented furiously, she would have led a perfectly happy life. She
certainly was a model animal. My presentiments of success were not
mistaken, and I felt almost like claiming, with the modest author of
“Ten Acres Enough,” that my impressions were never wrong.
[Illustration: PORTRAIT OF A LADY.]