THE HARVESTER AND THE AMERICAN FARMER
If the American Farmer went out of business this year he could clean up
thirty thousand million dollars. And he would have to sell his farm on
credit; for there is not enough money in the whole world to pay him half
his price.
Talk of the money-mad Trusts! They might have reason to be mad if they
owned the farms, instead of their watered stock. When we remember that the
American Farmer earns enough in seventeen days to buy out Standard Oil,
and enough in fifty days to wipe Carnegie and the Steel Trust off the
industrial map, the story of the trusts seems like the "short and simple
annals of the poor."
One American harvest would buy the kingdom of Belgium, king and all. Two
would buy Italy. Three would buy Austria-Hungary. And five, at a spot
cash price, would take Russia from the Czar.
Talk of swollen fortunes! With the setting of every sun, the money-box of
the American Farmer bulges with the weight of twenty-four new millions.
Only the most athletic imagination can conceive of such a torrent of
wealth.
Place your finger on the pulse of your wrist and count the heart-beats;
one--two--three--four. With every four of those quick throbs, day and
night, a thousand dollars clatters into the gold-bin of the American
Farmer.
How incomprehensible it would seem to Pericles, who saw Greece in her
Golden Age, if he could know that the yearly revenue of his country is now
no more than one day's pay for the men who till the soil of this infant
Republic!
Or, how it would amaze a resurrected Christopher Columbus, if he were told
that the revenues of Spain and Portugal are not nearly as much as the
earnings of the American Farmer's Hen!
Merely the crumbs that drop from the Farmer's table (otherwise known as
agricultural exports), have brought him in enough of foreign money since
1892, so that he could, if he wished, settle the railway problem once for
all, by buying every foot of railroad in the United States.
Such is our New Farmer--a man for whom there is no name in any language.
He is as far above the farmer of the story-books, as a 1908 touring-car is
above a jinrikisha. Instead of being an ignorant hoe-man in a barn-yard
world, he gets the news by daily paper, daily mail, and telephone; and
incidentally publishes seven hundred trade journals of his own. Instead of
being a moneyless peasant, he pays the interest on the mortgage with the
earnings of four days, and his taxes with the earnings of a week. Even
this is less of an expense than it seems, for he borrows the money from
himself, out of his own banks, and spends the bulk of the tax money around
his own properties.
Farming for a business, not for a living--this is the _motif_ of the New
Farmer. He is a commercialist--a man of the twentieth century. He works as
hard as the Old Farmer did, but in a higher way. He uses the four
M's--Mind, Money, Machinery and Muscle; but as little of the latter as
possible.
Neither is he a Robinson Crusoe of the soil, as the Old Farmer was. His
hermit days are over; he is a man among men. The railway, the trolley, the
automobile and the top buggy have transformed him into a suburbanite. In
fact, his business has become so complex and many-sided, that he touches
civilisation at more points and lives a larger life than if he were one of
the atoms of a crowded city.
All American farmers, of course, are not of the New variety. The country,
like the city, has its slums. But after having made allowance for
exceptions, it is still true that the United States is the native land of
the New Farmer. He is the most typical human product that this country has
produced, and the most important; for, in spite of its egotistical cities,
the United States is still a farm-based nation.
There could be no cloth-mills without the wool and cotton of the farm; no
sugar factories without beets; no flour-mills without wheat; no
beef-packing industry without cattle. The real business that is now
swinging the whole nation ahead is not the ping-pong traffic of the Stock
Exchanges, but the steady output of twenty millions a day from the fields
and barn-yards. If this farm output were to be cut off, the towering
skyscrapers would fall and the gay palace-hotels would be as desolate as
the temple of Thebes.
The brain-working farmer is the man behind prosperity. That is the Big
Fact of recent American history. It is he who pays the bills and holds up
the national structure in the whirlwind hour of panic. Last year, for
instance, while banks were tumbling, the non-hysterical farmer was quietly
gathering in a crop that was worth three times all the bank capital in the
United States; and since 1902 he and his soil have produced as much new
wealth as would support Uncle Sam, at his present rate of living, for
fifty years.
What was called "McKinley Prosperity" was really created by the
agricultural boom of 1897. There had been a general crop failure in
Europe, and the price of wheat had soared above a dollar a bushel. Other
nations paid us twelve hundred millions for farm products; and this
unparalleled inpouring of foreign money made us the richest and busiest
nation in the world.
The supreme fact about the American Farmer is that he has always been just
as intelligent and important as anyone else in the Republic. He put
fourteen of his sons in the White House; and he did his full share of the
working and fighting and thinking and inventing, all the way down from
George Washington to James Wilson.
He climbed up by self-help. He got no rebates, nor franchises, nor
subsidies. The free land that was given him was worthless until he took
it; and he has all along been more hindered than helped by the meddling of
public officials.
His best friend has been the maker of farm-machinery. But this is a family
matter. Four-fifths of the Harvester Kings were farmers' sons; and the
biggest harvester factory is only a development of the small workshop that
always stood beside the barn. There are no two men who are more closely
linked together by the ties of blood and business than the farmer and the
man who makes his labour-saving machines. Neither one can hurt the other
without doing injury to himself.
The inventor of the modern plough, Jethro Wood, was a wealthy Quaker
farmer of New York--a man of such masterful intelligence as to count Clay
and Webster among his friends. The late James Oliver, and David Bradley,
one of his greatest competitors, were born and bred near the furrowed
soil.
McCormick built his first reaper in a blacksmith shop on a farm. So did
John F. Sieberling, William N. Whiteley, Lewis Miller and C. W. Marsh. And
the man who owned the first of the reaper factories, Dayton S. Morgan,
grew up amid the stumps of a New York farm.
The American Farmer has always grown _ideas_, as well as corn and
potatoes. That is the secret of his prosperity. It was out in the
wheat-fields where the idea of a self-binder flashed upon the brain of
John F. Appleby; where Jacob Miller learned to improve the thresher and
George Esterley to build the header and Joseph F. Glidden to invent
barb-wire.
Before 1850 there was some progress among farmers, but it was as slow as
molasses in Alaska. They were free and independent, and little else. They
had poor homes, poor farms, poor implements.
Then came the gold-rush to California. What this event did for farmers and
the world can scarcely be exaggerated. It opened up the prairies, fed the
hungry banks with money, lured the farm labourers westward, and compelled
the farmers to use machinery.
Three years later the Crimean War sent the price of wheat soaring, and the
farmers had a jubilee of prosperity. Away went the log-cabin, the ox-cart,
the grain-cradle, and the flail. In came the frame house, the spring
buggy, the reaper, and the thresher. The farmers began to buy
labour-saving devices. Better still, they began to invent them.
There is one farm-bred man, named R. C. Haskins, in the Harvester Building
in Chicago, who, in his thirty years of salesmanship, has supervised the
selling of $275,000,000 worth of harvesters to American farmers. And as
for the amount of money represented by our farm machinery of all kinds,
now in use, it is very nearly a billion dollars--a total that no other
nation can touch.
To measure American Farmers by the census is now an outgrown method, for
the reason that each farmer works with the power of five men. The farm has
become a factory. Four-fifths of its work is done by machinery, which
explains how we can produce one-fifth of the wheat of the world, half of
the cotton, and three-fourths of the corn, although we are only six per
cent. of the human race.
The genie who built Aladdin's palace in a night was the champion hustler
of the fairy tale countries. But he was not so tremendously superior to
the farm labourer who takes a can of gasolene and cuts fifty cords of wood
in a day, or to the man who milks a herd of sixty cows in two hours, by
machinery.
To-day farming is not a drudgery. Rather it is a race--an exciting rivalry
between the different States. For years Illinois and Iowa have run neck
and neck in the raising of corn and oats. Minnesota carries the blue
ribbon for wheat, with Kansas breathless in second place. California has
shot to the front in the barley race. Texas and Louisiana are tied in the
production of rice. Kentucky is the tobacco champion; and New York holds
the record for hay and potatoes.
To see the New Farmer at his best, I went to Iowa. No other State has
invested so much money--sixty millions--in labour-saving machinery, so it
can fairly claim to be the zenith of the farming world.
Here there are twenty thousand women and three hundred thousand men who
have made farming a profession. They are producing wealth at the rate of
five hundred millions a year, nearly sixteen hundred dollars apiece. How?
By throwing the burden of drudgery upon machines.
Iowa is not so old; she will be sixty-two, this year. She is not so large;
little England is larger. Yet, with her hog-money she could pay the
salaries of all the monarchs of Europe; and with one year's corn crop she
could buy out the "Harvester Trust," or build three New York Subways.
When the Indians sold Iowa to Uncle Sam they got about eight cents an
acre. To give the price exactly, to a cent, it was $2,877,547.87. When
this money was paid, there were statesmen who protested that it was too
much. Yet this amount was less than the Iowans got for last year's colts;
it was less than one quarter of the value of the eggs in last years nests.
Every three months, the Iowa hen pays for Iowa.
Through the courtesy of Mr. Harlan, of the Des Moines Historical Society,
I obtained the addresses of nine old settlers, who went into Iowa with
ox-carts, before 1850, and who are still living. I found that every one of
them had remained on the land and was prosperous. The poorest owned
$7,000, the richest $96,000; and their average wealth was $36,000.
These fortunes are not made, as in France, by sacrificial economies. The
Iowan is noted as a high liver and a good spender. Here, for instance, is
the menu of a chance supper I enjoyed at the home of an Iowa farmer, nine
miles from Des Moines: Mashed potatoes, poached eggs, hot biscuits, white
bread, fresh butter, honey, jelly, peaches and cream, gooseberry pie, and
good coffee--all served on china, with fine linen tablecloth and napkins.
The man of the house was the son of a rack-rented Irish immigrant, who
had been reared "on potatoes and salt, mostly."
I found one young county, born since the Civil War, in which five thousand
farmers now own property worth seventy-five millions. They have fourteen
thousand horses, seventeen thousand sheep, sixty thousand cattle, and
ninety thousand hogs. In the furnishing of the homes in this county, so
its Auditor informs me, more than twenty-five thousand dollars have been
spent on the one item of pianos.
In a small, out-of-the-way town, called Ames, I came upon a farmers'
college--a veritable Harvard of the soil. Here, on a thousand acres which
fed the wild deer and buffalo in the days of Andrew Jackson, is a college
that equals Princeton and Vassar combined, in the number of its pupils.
Its farm machinery building is the largest of its kind. Five professors
are in charge, and it is a curious fact, showing how new the New Farmer
is, that these professors are obliged to teach without a text-book. As
yet, there is no such thing in the world as a text-book on farm
machinery.
The Iowans pay half a million dollars a year to sustain this college. They
pay it cheerfully. They pay it with a hurrah. Why? Because it is the
biggest money-maker in the State. One little professor, named Holden--the
smallest of the whole hundred and forty, is revered by the Iowans as a
King Midas of the cornfield. He has shown them how to grow ten bushels
more per acre, by using a better quality of seed. This one _idea_, in a
State where every fourth dollar is a corn dollar, meant an extra twenty
millions last year.
First in corn, first in farm machinery, and first in the number of her
banks! That is Iowa. There are a few of her villages that have no banks,
but they are conscious of their disgrace. They feel naked and ashamed. In
all, there are as many banks as post-offices, very nearly; and they are
crammed with enough wealth to build three Panama Canals.
"Money is a trifle tight just now," said an Iowa banker. This was last
September. "You see, at this time of year, the farm labourers cause a
drain on the currency by keeping their wages in their pockets." This
surprising fact did not seem surprising to the banker. He was himself bred
on the soil--the son of a farm-hand who had become a rich farmer. But to
the financiers of Europe, what an incredible thing is this--that the wages
of the farm-labourers should sway the money market up and down.
The pride of Iowa is Des Moines, a city of farm-bred people. It is so
young that some of its old men remember when wolf-hunting was good where
its one skyscraper stands to-day. It has no ancient history and no
souvenirs. A little while ago a lot of industrious people came here poor,
and now they are prosperous and still busy--that is the story of Des
Moines in a sentence.
In the main hall of the five-domed Capitol at Des Moines is a life-sized
painting of a prairie wagon, hauled by oxen. In such a rude conveyance as
this most of the early settlers rolled into Iowa, at a gait of two miles
an hour. But there are no prairie wagons now, nor oxen. Ten thousand miles
of railway criss-cross the State, and make more profit in three months
than all the railways of ancient India made last year.
Instead of being tax-ridden serfs, these Iowans pay the total
self-governing cost of their Commonwealth by handing over the price of the
summer's hay. Instead of being the prey of money-lenders, they have made
Des Moines the Hartford of the West, in which forty-two insurance
companies carry a risk of half a billion. And so, in each one of its
details, the story of these Corn Kings is staggering to a mere
city-dweller, especially to anyone who has cold storage ideas about
farmers.
Big Men, too, as well as big corn, are grown in Iowa. Here is a sample
group--half educators and half statesmen--John B. Grinnell, Henry Smith
Williams, Albert Shaw, Newell Dwight Hillis, Carl Snyder, Emerson Hough,
Hamlin Garland, Senators Allison and Dolliver, Leslie M. Shaw, John A.
Kasson, Horace Boies, Governor Albert B. Cummins and our Official
Farmer--James Wilson. There are now fifteen hundred newspaper men in Iowa.
(One of them ships seven carloads of magazines a month.) There are three
hundred and fifty architects, two thousand engineers, five thousand
doctors, three thousand bankers and brokers, and thirty thousand
teachers.
These amazing changes have taken place within the memory of men and women
who are now alive.
"I can remember when the first mowing-machine was made in our county,"
said Governor Cummins, who is still far from being a man of years.
"I walked eight miles through the forest and sold eggs for three cents a
dozen and butter for four cents a pound," said John Cownie--a well-known
figure at the Des Moines Capitol.
One short half-century, and here is the whole paraphernalia of a high
civilisation--a fruitage which has usually required the long cultivation
of a thousand years.
And Iowa is not a freak State. A traveller hears the same story--from
ox-cart to automobile, in almost every region of the prairie West. The
various States are only patches of one vast grassy plain where
"painted harvesters, fleet after fleet,
Like yachts, career through seas of waving wheat."
"My first experience with the 'New Farmer,' as you call him, was in
Texas," said a Kansas City business man. "I had taken an agency for
harvesters in a section of Texas that was bigger than several dozen
Vermonts, and I made my headquarters in a town called Amarillo. The first
morning I went into the bank to get acquainted. While I was there in came
a big, roughly dressed man. 'Come here, Bill,' said the banker. 'Maybe
you want some farm machinery.'
"'Maybe I do,' said the big fellow; so I gave him a catalogue and went on
talking with the banker.
"Ten minutes later the big fellow looked up from the catalogue and
asked--'How much do you want for ten of these binders?' I nearly had a
spell of heart failure, but I gasped the price. He said--'all right; send
'em along.'
"'Don't you worry about Bill's credit,' said the banker, seeing I looked
dazed. 'He has more than $100,000 in this bank right now.'
"This was my cue to get busy with the big farmer, and before he left the
bank he had bought a thresher, four traction engines and half a dozen
ploughs."
Harvesting by machinery has actually become cheaper than the ancient
method of harvesting by slaves. This surprising fact was first brought to
the notice of Europeans during the Chicago World's Fair, when forty-seven
foreign Commissioners were taken to the immense Dalrymple farm in North
Dakota. Here they saw a wheat-field very nearly a hundred square miles in
extent, with three hundred self-binders clicking out the music of the
harvest. There were no serfs--no drudges--no barefooted women. And yet
they were told that the labour-cost of reaping the wheat was LESS THAN A
CENT A BUSHEL.
It has now become impossible to reap the world's wheat by hand. As well
might we try to carry coal from mines to factories in baskets. Merely to
have gathered in our own cereal and hay of last year's growing, would have
been a ten days' job for every man and woman in the United States, between
the ages of twenty and twenty-six. But even if it had been possible to
return to hand-labour, in the production of the world's wheat, the extra
cost would have swollen, last year, to a total of $330,000,000--so I am
told by a Wisconsin professor who has made a careful study of the costs
of harvesting. This amount is more than equal to the entire revenue of the
International Harvester Company, in the five years of its existence.
Roughly speaking, the time needed to handle an acre of wheat has been
reduced from sixty-one hours to three, by the use of machinery. Hay now
requires four hours, instead of twenty-one; oats seven hours, instead of
sixty-six; and potatoes thirty-eight hours, instead of one hundred and
nine.
It is machinery that has so vastly increased the size of the average
American farm. In India, where a farmer's whole outfit can be bought for
ten dollars, the average farm is half an acre or less. In France and
Germany it is five acres. In England it is nine. But in the United
States--the home of farm machinery, it is one hundred and fifty acres.
Very little has been written about this stupendous prosperity of American
farmers. Why? Because it is so recent. The Era of Big Profits began barely
ten years ago. There was a time when the blue-ribbon New Farmer was the
man who grew wheat in the Red River Valley. He was the aristocrat of the
West. His year's work was no more than a few weeks of ploughing and
sowing, and a few days of harvesting. Even this was done easily, sitting
on the seat of a machine and driving a team of splendid horses. After
harvest, he cashed in, carried a big cheque to the bank, and settled down
for a long loaf or a trip to the old homestead in the East.
But it was the bad year of 1893 that first put the farmers, the country
over, on the road to affluence. Up to that time it was their usual policy
to depend upon a single crop. One farmer planted nothing but wheat;
another planted nothing but corn; a third nothing but cotton; and so on.
But in 1893 the prices of wheat, corn, and cotton fell so low that the
farmers' profits were wiped out. This disaster set the farmers thinking;
and in four years they had changed over to the new policy of _Diversified
Farming_.
Instead of putting all their work upon one crop, they planted from three
to a dozen different crops each year. They manufactured their corn into
cattle. They gave the soil a square deal in the matter of fertilisation.
They learned to plant better seed and to pay attention to the Weather
Bureau. They studied the market reports. And, best of all, they swung over
from muscle to machinery, until to-day the value of the machinery on
American farms is fully a thousand millions.
All this amazing progress that I have been describing is by no means the
best that the New Farmer will do. It is merely what he has done by the aid
of machinery. What he will do by the aid of SCIENCE remains to be seen.
Scientific agriculture is young. It has had to wait until machinery
prepared the way, by giving the farmers time to think, and money to spend.
The first scientist who took notice of farming was the Frenchman,
Lavoisier. He found out the composition of water in 1783, and was in the
midst of many discoveries, when a Paris mob hustled him to the guillotine.
The famous Liebig next appeared and founded the first agricultural
experiment station. Then came Berthelot--the father of synthetic
chemistry, with his sensational announcement--"The soil is alive."
To-day the New Farmer finds himself touched by Science on all sides. He
knows that there are more living things in one pinch of rich soil than
there are people on the whole globe. He knows that he can take half a
dozen handfuls of earth from different parts of his farm, mix them
together, send one thimbleful to a chemist, and find out exactly the kind
of crop that will give him the best harvest. And more, now that science
has given him a peep into Nature's factory, he can even feel a sense of
kinship between himself and his acres, because he knows that the same
elements that redden his blood are painting the green hues on his fields
and forests.
There are now fifteen thousand New Farmers who have graduated from
agricultural colleges; and since the late Professor W. C. Atwater opened
the first American experiment station in 1875, fifty others have sprung
into vigorous life. There is also at Washington an Agricultural Department
which has become the greatest aggregation of farm-scientists in the world.
To maintain this Department Uncle Sam pays grudgingly eleven millions a
year. He pays much more than this to give food and blankets to a horde of
lazy Indians, or for the building of two or three warships. But it is at
least more than is being spent on the New Farmer in any other country.
Step by step farming is becoming a sure and scientific profession. The
risks and uncertainties that formerly tossed the farmer back and forth,
between hope and despair, are being mastered. The Weather Bureau, which
sent half a million warnings last year to the farmers, has already become
so skilful that six-sevenths of its predictions come true. In Kansas,
wheat-growing has become so sure that there has been no failure for
thirteen years. And in the vast South-West, the trick of irrigation is
changing the man-killing desert into a Farmers' paradise, where there is
nothing so punctual as the crops.
Already gasolene engines are in use among the New Farmers. The
International Harvester Company made twenty-five thousand of them last
year at Milwaukee, without supplying the demand. These engines, in the
near future, will be operated with alcohol, which the farmers can distil
from potatoes at a cost of ten cents a gallon. This is no dream, as there
are now six thousand alcohol engines in use on the farms of Germany alone.
When this Age of Alcohol arrives, the making of the New Farmer will be
very nearly complete. _He will then grow his own power, and know how to
harness for his own use the omnipotence of the soil._
* * * * *
Transcriber's note:
Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_).
On page 31, the figure "$1,300,00" is presented as in the original.
On page 106, the image of a triangle has been replaced with [triangle].
The following misprints have been corrected:
"Doubelday" corrected to "Doubleday" (title page)
"Bejamin" corrected to "Benjamin" (page 67)
"consistingly" corrected to "consisting" (page 74)
"McCormich" corrected to "McCormick" (page 102)
"eet" corrected to "Meet" (page 131)
Other than the corrections listed above, inconsistencies in spelling
and hyphenation usage have been retained.
Punctuation has been corrected without note.