The strike was ordered for Wednesday. On the morning of that day the seven carpenters whom I had engaged arrived at my office ready for work. I took them to the station and started for Four Oaks. At a station five miles from Exeter we quitted the train, hired two carriages, and were driven to the farm without passing through the village.

We arrived without incident, the men had their dinners, and at one o'clock the hammers and saws were busy again. We had lost but one half day. The two non-union men whom Nelson had spoken of were also at work, and three days later the spokesman of the strikers threw up his card and joined our force. We had no serious trouble. It was thought wise to keep the new men on the place until the excitement had passed, and we had to warn some of the old ones off two or three times, but nothing disagreeable happened, and from that day to this Four Oaks has remained non-unionized.



CHAPTER XIII

PLANNING FOR THE TREES

The morning of September 17th a small frost fell,—just enough to curl the leaves of the corn and show that it was time for it to be laid by. Thompson, Johnson, Anderson, and the two men from the woods, who were diverted from their post-splitting for the time being, went gayly to the corn fields and attacked the standing grain in the old-fashioned way. This was not economical; but I had no corn reaper, and there was none to hire, for the frost had struck us all at the same time. The five men were kept busy until the two patches—about forty-three acres—were in shock. This brought us to the 24th. In the meantime the men and women moved from the cottage to the more commodious farm-house. Polly had found excuses for spending $100 more on the furnishings of this house,—two beds and a lot of other things. Sunday gave the people a chance to arrange their affairs; and they certainly appreciated their improved surroundings.

The cottage was moved to its place on the line, and the last of the seeding on the north forty was done. Ten tons of fertilizer were sown on this forty-acre tract (at a cost of $250), and it was then left to itself, not to be trampled over by man or beast, except for the stretching of fences or for work around some necessary buildings, until the middle of the following May.

We did not sow any wheat that year,—there was too much else to be done of more importance. There is not much money in wheat-farming unless it be done on a large scale, and I had no wish to raise more than I could feed to advantage. Wheat was to be a change food for my fowls; but just then I had no fowls to feed, and there were more than two hundred bushels in stacks ready for the threshers, which I could hold for future hens.

The ploughmen were now directed to commence deep ploughing on No. 14,—the forty acres set apart for the commercial orchard. This tract of land lay well for the purpose. Its surface was nearly smooth, with a descent to the west and southwest that gave natural drainage. I have been informed that an orchard would do better if the slope were to the northeast. That may be true, but mine has done well enough thus far, and, what is more to the point, I had no land with a northeast slope. The surface soil was thin and somewhat impoverished, but the subsoil was a friable clay in which almost anything would grow if it was properly worked and fed. It was my desire to make this square block of forty acres into a first-class apple orchard for profit. Seven years from planting is almost too soon to decide how well I have succeeded, but the results attained and the promises for the future lead me to believe that there will be no failure in my plan.

The three essentials for beginning such an orchard are: prepare the land properly, get good stock (healthy and true to name), and plant it well. I could do no more this year than to plough deep, smooth the surface, and plant as well as I knew how. Increased fertility must come from future cultivation and top dressing. The thing most prominent in my plan was to get good trees well placed in the ground before cold weather set in. At my time of life I could not afford to wait for another autumn, or even until spring. I had, and still have, the opinion that a fall-planted tree is nearly six months in advance of one planted the following spring. Of course there can be no above-ground growth during that time, but important things are being done below the surface. The roots find time to heal their wounds and to send out small searchers after food, which will be ready for energetic work as soon as the sun begins to warm the soil. The earth settles comfortably about these roots and is moulded to fit them by the autumn rains. If the stem is well braced by a mound of earth, and if a thick mulch is placed around it, much will be done below ground before deep frosts interrupt the work; and if, in the early spring, the mulch and mound are drawn back, the sun's influence will set the roots at work earlier by far than a spring tree could be planted.

Other reasons for fall planting are that the weather is more settled, the ground is more manageable, help is more easily secured, and the nurserymen have more time for filling your order. Any time from October 15 until December 10 will answer in our climate, but early November is the best. I had decided to plant the trees in this orchard twenty-five feet apart each way. In the forty acres there would be fifty-two rows, with fifty-two trees in each row,—or twenty-seven hundred in all. I also decided to have but four varieties of apples in this orchard, and it was important that they should possess a number of virtues. They must come into early bearing, for I was too old to wait patiently for slow-growing trees; they must be of kinds most dependable for yearly crops, for I had no respect for off years; and they must be good enough in color, shape, and quality to tempt the most fastidious market. I studied catalogues and talked with pomologists until my mind was nearly unsettled, and finally decided upon Jonathan, Wealthy, Rome Beauty, and Northwestern Greening,—all winter apples, and all red but the last. I was helped in my decision, so far as the Jonathans and Rome Beauties were concerned, by the discovery that more than half of the old orchard was composed of these varieties.

There is little question as to the wisdom of planting trees of kinds known to have done well in your neighborhood. They are just as likely to do well by you as by your neighbor. If the fruit be to your liking, you can safely plant, for it is no longer an experiment; some one else has broken that ground for you.

In casting about for a reliable nurseryman to whom to trust the very important business of supplying me with young trees, I could not long keep my attention diverted from Rochester, New York. Perhaps the reason was that as a child I had frequently ridden over the plank road from Henrietta to Rochester, and my memory recalled distinctly but three objects on that road,—the house of Frederick Douglass, Mount Hope Cemetery, and a nursery of young trees. Everything else was obscure. I fancy that in fifty years the Douglass house has disappeared, but Mount Hope Cemetery and the tree nursery seem to mock at time. The soil and climate near Rochester are especially favorable to the growing of young trees, and my order went to one of the many reliable firms engaged in this business. The order was for thirty-four hundred trees,—twenty-seven hundred for the forty-acre orchard and seven hundred for the ten acres farthest to the south on the home lot. Polly had consented to this invasion of her domain, for reasons. She said:—

"It is a long way off, rather flat and uninteresting, and I do not see exactly how to treat it. Apple trees are pretty at most times, and picturesque when old. You can put them there, if you will seed the ground and treat it as part of the lawn. I hate your old straight rows, but I suppose you must have them."

"Yes, I guess I shall have to have straight rows, but I will agree to the lawn plan after the third year. You must give me a chance to cultivate the land for three years."

Your tree-man must be absolutely reliable. You have to trust him much and long. Not only do you depend upon him to send you good and healthy stock, but you must trust, for five years at least, that this stock will prove true to name. The most discouraging thing which can befall a horticulturist is to find his new fruit false to purchase labels. After wait, worry, and work he finds that he has not what he expected, and that he must begin over again. It is cold comfort for the tree-man to make good his guarantee to replace all stock found untrue, for five years of irreplaceable time has passed. When you have spent time, hope, and expectation as well as money, looking for results which do not come, your disappointment is out of all proportion to your financial loss, be that never so great. In the best-managed nurseries there will be mistakes, but the better the management the fewer the mistakes. Pay good prices for young trees, and demand the best. There is no economy in cheap stock, and the sooner the farmer or fruit-grower comprehends this fact, the better it will be for him. I ordered trees of three years' growth from the bud,—this would mean four-year-old roots. Perhaps it would have been as well to buy smaller ones (many wise people have told me so), but I was in such a hurry! I wanted to pick apples from these trees at the first possible moment. I argued that a sturdy three-year-old would have an advantage over its neighbor that was only two. However small this advantage, I wanted it in my business—my business being to make a profitable farm in quick time. The ten acres of the home lot were to be planted with three hundred Yellow Transparent, three hundred Duchess of Oldenburg, and one hundred mixed varieties for home use. I selected the Transparent and the Duchess on account of their disposition to bear early, and because they are good sellers in a near market, and because a fruit-wise friend was making money from an eight-year-old orchard of three thousand of these trees, and advised me not to neglect them.

My order called for thirty-four hundred three-year-old apple trees of the highest grade, to be delivered in good condition on the platform at Exeter for the lump sum of $550. The agreement had been made in August, and the trees were to be delivered as near the 20th of October as practicable. Apple trees comprised my entire planting for the autumn of 1895. I wanted to do much other work in that line, but it had to be left for a more convenient season. Hundreds of fruit trees, shade trees, and shrubs have since been planted at Four Oaks, but this first setting of thirty-four hundred apple trees was the most important as well as the most urgent.

The orchard was to be a prominent feature in the factory I was building, and as it would be slower in coming to perfection than any other part, it was wise to start it betimes. I have kicked myself black and blue for neglecting to plant an orchard ten years earlier. If I had done this, and had spent two hours a month in the management of it, it would now be a thing of beauty and an income-producing joy forever,—or, at least, as long as my great-grandchildren will need it.

There is no danger of overdoing orcharding. The demand for fruit increases faster than the supply, and it is only poor quality or bad handling that causes a slack market. If the general farmer will become an expert orchardist, he will find that year by year his ten acres of fruit will give him a larger profit than any forty acres of grain land; but to get this result he must be faithful to his trees. Much of the time they are caring for themselves, and for the owner, too; but there are times when they require sharp attention, and if they do not get it promptly and in the right way, they and the owner will suffer. Fruit growing as a sole occupation requires favorable soil, climate, and market, and also a considerable degree of aptitude on the part of the manager, to make it highly profitable. A fruit-grower in our climate must have other interests if he would make the most of his time. While waiting for his fruit he can raise food for hens and hogs; and if he feeds hens and hogs, he should keep as many cows as he can. He will then use in his own factory all the raw material he can raise. This will again be returned to the land as a by-product, which will not only maintain the fertility of the farm, but even increase it. If his cows are of the best, they will yield butter enough to pay for their food and to give a profit; the skim milk, fed to the hogs and hens, will give eggs and pork out of all proportion to its cost; and everything that grows upon his land can thus be turned off as a finished product for a liberal price, and yet the land will not be depleted. The orchard is better for the hens and hogs and cows, and they are better for the orchard. These industries fit into each other like the folding of hands; they seem mutually dependent, and yet they are often divorced, or, at best, only loosely related. This view may seem to be the result of post hoc reasoning, but I think it is not. I believe I imbibed these notions with my mother's milk, for I can remember no time when they were not mine. The psalmist said, "Comfort me with apples"; and the psalmist was reputed a wise man. With only sufficient wisdom to plant an orchard, I live in high expectation of finding the same comfort in my old age.



CHAPTER XIV

PLANTING OF THE TREES

September proved as dry as August was wet,—only half an inch of water fell; and the seedings would have been slow to start had they depended for their moisture upon the clouds. By October 1, however, green had taken the place of brown on nearly all the sixty acres we had tilled. The threshers came and threshed the wheat and oats. Of wheat there were 311 bushels, of oats, 1272. We stored this grain in the cottage until the granary should be ready, and stacked the straw until the forage barn could receive it. My plan from the first has been to shelter all forage, even the meanest, and bright oat straw is not low in the scale.

On the 10th the horse stable was far enough advanced to permit the horses to be moved, and the old barn was deserted. A neighbor who had bought this barn at once pulled it down and carted it away. In this transaction I held out several days for $50, but as my neighbor was obdurate I finally accepted his offer. The first entry on the credit side of my farm ledger is, By one old barn, $45. The receipts for October, November, and December, were:—

By one old barn $45.00

By apples on trees (153 trees at $1.85 each) 283.00

By 480 bushels of potatoes at 30 cents per bushel 144.00

By five old sows, not fat 35.00

One cow 15.00

Three cows 70.00

Two cows 35.00

Three cows, two heifers, nine calves 187.00

Forty-three shoats and gilts, average 162 lb., at 2 cents per lb 139.00

Total $953.00

The young hogs had eaten most of my small potatoes and some of my corn before we parted with them in late November. These sales were made at the farm, and at low prices, for I was afraid to send such stuff to market lest some one should find out whence it came. The Four Oaks brand was to stand for perfection in the future, and I was not willing to handicap it in the least. Top prices for gilt-edged produce is what intensive farming means; and if there is money in land, it will be found close to this line.

The potatoes had been dug and sold, or stored in the cellar of the farm-house; the apples from the trees reserved for home use had been gathered, and we were ready for the fall planting. While waiting for the stock to arrive, we had time to get in all the hay and most of the straw into the forage barn, which was now under roof.

On Saturday, the 26th, word came that sixteen immense boxes had arrived at Exeter for us. Three teams were sent at once, and each team brought home two boxes. Three trips were made, and the entire prospective orchard was safely landed. Monday saw our whole force at work planting trees. Small stakes had been driven to give the exact centre for each hole, so that the trees, viewed from any direction, would be in straight lines. Sam, Zeb, and Judson were to dig the holes, putting the surface dirt to the right, and the poor earth to the left; I was to prune the roots and keep tab on the labels; Johnson and Anderson were to set the trees,—Anderson using a shovel and Johnson his hands, feet, and eyes; while Thompson was to puddle and distribute the trees. The puddling was easily done. We sawed an oil barrel in halves, placed these halves on a stone boat, filled them two-thirds full of water, and added a lot of fine clay. Into this thin mud the roots of each tree were dipped before planting.

My duty was to shorten the roots that were too long, and to cut away the bruised and broken ones. The top pruning was to be done after the trees were all set and banked. The stock was fine in every respect,—fully up to promise. Watching Johnson set his first tree convinced me that he knew more about planting than I did. He lined and levelled it; he pawed surface dirt into the hole, and churned the roots up and down; more dirt, and he tamped it; still more dirt, and he tramped it; yet more dirt, and he stamped it until the tree stood like a post; then loose dirt, and he left it. I was sure Johnson knew his business too well to need advice from a tenderfoot, so I went back to my root pruning.

We were ten days planting these thirty-four hundred trees, but we did it well, and the days were short. We finished on the 7th of November. The trees were now to be top pruned. I told Johnson to cut every tree in the big orchard back to a three-foot stub, unless there was very good reason for leaving a few inches (never more than six), and I turned my back on him and walked away as I said these cruel words. It seemed a shame to cut these bushy, long-legged, handsome fellows back to dwarfish insignificance and brutish ugliness, but it had to be done. I wanted stocky, thrifty, low-headed business trees, and there was no other way to get them. The trees in the lower, or ten-acre, orchard, were not treated so severely. Their long legs were left, and their bushy tops were only moderately curtailed. We would try both high and low heading.

On the night of November 11 the shredders came and set up their great machine on the floor of the forage barn, ready to commence work the next morning. There were ten men in the shredding gang. I furnished six more, and Bill Jackson came with two others to change work with me; that is, my men were to help him when the machine reached his farm. We worked nineteen men and four teams three and a half days on the forty-three acres of corn, and as a result, had a tremendous mow of shredded corn fodder and an immense pile of half-husked ears. For the use of the machine and the wages of the ten men I paid $105. Poor economy! Before next corn-shredding time I owned a machine,—smaller indeed, but it did the work as well (though not as quickly), and it cost me only $215, and was good for ten years.

The weather had favored me thus far. The wet August had put the ground into good condition for seeding, and the dry September and October had permitted our buildings to be pushed forward, but now everything was to change. A light rain began on the morning of the 15th (I did not permit it to interrupt the shredding, which was finished by noon), and by night it had developed into a steady downpour that continued, with interruptions, for six weeks. November and December of 1895 gave us rain and snow fall equal to twelve and a half inches of water. Plans at Four Oaks had to be modified. There was no more use for the ploughs. Nos. 10 and 11, and much of the home lot were left until spring. I had planned to mulch heavily all the newly set trees, and for this purpose had bought six carloads of manure (at a cost of $72); but this manure could not be hauled across the sodden fields, and must needs be piled in a great heap for use in the spring. The carpenters worked at disadvantage, and the farm men could do little more than keep themselves and the animals comfortable. They did, however, finish one good job between showers. They tile-drained the routes for the two roads on the home lot,—the straight one east and west through the building line, about 1000 feet, and the winding carriage drive to the site of the main house, about 1850 feet. The tile pipe cost $123. They also set a lot of fence posts in the soft ground.

Building progressed slowly during the bad weather, but before the end of December the horse barn, the woodshed, the granary, the forage barn, and the power-house were completed, and most of the machinery was in place. The machinery consisted of a fifteen horse-power engine, with shafting running to the forage barn, the granary, and the woodshed. A power-saw was set in the end of the shed, a grinding mill in the granary, and a fodder-cutter in the forage barn. The cost of these items was:—

Engine and shafting $187.00

Saw 24.00

Mill 32.00

Feed-cutter and carrier 76.00

Total $319.00

I gave the services of my two carpenters, Thompson and Sam, during most of this time to Nelson, for I had but little work for them, and he was not making much out of his job.

The last few days of 1895 turned clear and cold, and the barometer set "fair." The change chirked us up, and we ended the year in good spirits.



CHAPTER XV

POLLY'S JUDGMENT HALL

Before closing the books, we should take account of stock, to see what we had purchased with our money. Imprimis: 320 acres of good land, satisfactory to the eye, well fenced and well groomed; 3400 apple trees, so well planted as to warrant a profitable future; a water and sewer system as good as a city could supply; farm buildings well planned and sufficient for the day; an abundance of food for all stock, and to spare; an intelligent and willing working force; machinery for more than present necessity; eight excellent horses and their belongings; six cows, moderately good; two pigs and two score fowls, to be eaten before spring, and a lot of fun. What price I shall have to put against this last item to make the account balance, I can tell better when I foot the other side of the ledger.

But first I must add a few items to the debit account. Moving the cottage cost $30. I paid $134 for grass seed and seed rye. The wage account for six men and two women for five months was $735. Their food account was $277. Of course the farm furnished milk, cream, butter, vegetables, some fruit, fresh pork, poultry, and eggs. There were also some small freight bills, which had not been accounted for, amounting to $31, and $8 had been spent in transportation for the men. Then the farm must be charged with interest on all money advanced, when I had completed my additions. The rate was to be five per cent, and the time three months.

On the last day of the year I went to the farm to pay up to date all accounts. I wished to end the year with a clean score. I did not know what the five months had cost me (I would know that evening), but I did know that I had had "the time of my life" in the spending, and I would not whine. I felt a little nervous when I thought of going over the figures with Polly,—she was such a judicious spender of money. But I knew her criticism would not be severe, for she was hand-in-glove with me in the project. I tried to find fault with myself for wastefulness, but some excellent excuse would always crop up. "Your water tower is unnecessary." "Yes, but it adds to the landscape, and it has its use." "You have put up too much fencing." "True, but I wanted to feel secure, and the old fences were such nests of weeds and rubbish." "You have spent too much money on the farm-house." "I think not, for the laborer is worthy of his hire, and also of all reasonable creature comforts." And thus it went on. I would not acknowledge myself in the wrong; nor, arguing how I might, could I find aught but good in my labors. I devoutly hoped to be able to put the matter in the same light when I stood at the bar in Polly's judgment hall.

The day was clear, cool, and stimulating. A fair fall of snow lay on the ground, clean and wholesome, as country snow always is. I wished that the house was finished (it was not begun), and that the family was with me in it. "Another Christmas time will find us here, God willing, and many a one thereafter."

I spent three hours at the farm, doing a little business and a lot of mooning, and then returned to town. The children were off directly after dinner, intent on holiday festivities, so that Polly and I had the house to ourselves. I felt that we needed it. I invited my partner into the den, lighted a pipe for consolation, unlocked the drawer in which the farm ledger is kept, gave a small deprecatory cough, and said:—

"My dear, I am afraid I have spent an awful lot of money in the last five months. You see there is such a quantity of things to do at once, and they run into no end of money. You know, I—"

"Of course I know it, and I know that you have got the worth of it, too."

Wouldn't that console you! How was I to know that Polly would hail from that quarter? I would have kissed her hand, if she would have permitted such liberty; I kissed her lips, and was ready to defend any sum total which the ledger dare show.

"Do you know how much it is?" said Polly.

"Not within a million!" I was reckless then, and hoped the total would be great, for had not Polly said that she knew I had got the worth of my money? And who was to gainsay her? "It is more than I planned for, I know, but I do not see how I could use less without losing precious time. We started into this thing with the theory that the more we put into it, without waste, the more we would ultimately get out of it. Our theory is just as sound to-day as it was five months ago."

"We will win out all right in the end, Mr. Headman, for we will not put the price-mark on health, freedom, happiness, or fun, until we have seen the debit side of the ledger."

"How much do you want to spend for the house?" said I.

"Do you mean the house alone?"

"No; the house and carriage barn. I'll pay for the trees, shrubs, and kickshaws in the gardens and lawns."

"You started out with a plan for a $10,000 house, didn't you? Well, I don't think that's enough. You ought to give me $15,000 for the house and barn and let me see what I can do with it; and you ought to give it to me right away, so that you cannot spend it for pigs and foolish farm things."

"I'll do it within ten days, Polly; and I won't meddle in your affairs if you will agree to keep within the limit."

"It's a bargain," said Polly, "and the house will be much more livable than this one. What do you think we could sell this one for?"

"About $33,000 or $34,000, I think."

"And will you sell it?"

"Of course, if you don't object."

"Sell, to be sure; it would be foolish to keep it, for we'll be country folk in a year."

"I have a theory," said I, "that when we live on the farm we ought to credit the farm with what it costs us for food and shelter here,—providing, of course, that the farm feeds and shelters us as well."

"It will do it a great deal better. We will have a better house, better food, more company, more leisure, more life, and more everything that counts, than we ever had before."

"We'll fix the value of those things when we've had experience," said I. "Now let's get at the figures. I tell you plainly that I don't know what they foot up,—less than $40,000, I hope."

"Don't let's worry about them, no matter what they say."

This from prudent, provident Polly!

"Certainly not," said I, as bold as a lion.

"There are thirty-five items on the debit side of the ledger and a few little ones on the credit side. Hold your breath while I add them.

"I have spent $44,331 and have received $953, which leaves a debit balance of $43,378."

"That isn't so awfully bad, when you think of all the fun you've had."

"Fun comes high at this time of the year, doesn't it, Polly?"

"Much depends on what you call high. You have waited and worked a long time for this. I won't say a word if you spend all you have in the world. It's yours."

"Mine and yours and the children's; but I won't spend it all. Seventy or seventy-five thousand dollars, besides your house and barn money, shall be my limit. There is still an item of interest to be added to this account.

"Interest! Why, John Williams, do you mean to tell me that you borrowed this money? I thought it was your own to do as you liked with. Have you got to pay interest on it?"

"It was mine, but I loaned it to the farm. Before I made this loan I was getting five per cent on the money. I must now look to the farm for my five per cent. If it cannot pay this interest promptly, I shall add the deferred payment to the principal, and it shall bear interest. This must be done each year until the net income from the farm is greater than the interest account. Whatever is over will then be used to reduce the principal."

"That's a long speech, but I don't think it's very clear. I don't see why a man should pay interest on his own money. The farm is yours, isn't it? You bought it with your own money, didn't you? What difference does it make whether you charge interest or not?"

"Not the least difference in the world to us, Polly, but a great deal to the experiment."

"Oh, yes, I forgot the experiment. And how much interest do you add?"

"Five hundred and forty-two dollars. Also, $75 to the lawyer and $5 for recording the deed, making the whole debt of the farm to me $44,000 even."

"Does it come out just even $44,000? I believe you've manipulated the figures."

"Not on your life! Add them yourself. They were put down at all sorts of times during the past five months. My dear, I wish you a good-night and a happy New Year. You have given me a very happy ending for the old one."



CHAPTER XVI

WINTER WORK

The new year opened full of all sorts of interests and new projects. There were so many things to plan for and to commence at the farm that we often got a good deal mixed up. I can hardly expect to make a connected narrative of the various plans and events, so will follow each one far enough to launch it and then leave it for future development.

Little snow fell in January and February '96. The weather was average winter weather, and a good deal of outdoor work was done. On the 2d I went to the farm to plan with Thompson an outline for the two months. I had decided to make Thompson the foreman, for I had watched him carefully for five months and was satisfied that I might go farther and fare a great deal worse. Indeed, I thought myself very fortunate to have found such a dependable man. He was temperate and good-natured, and he had a bluff, hearty way with the other men that made it easy for them to accept his directions. He was thorough, too, in his work. He knew how a job should be done, and he was not satisfied until it was finished correctly. He was not a worker for work's sake, as was Anderson, but he was willing to put his shoulder to the wheel for results.

"Wait till I get my shoulder under it," was a favorite expression with him, and I am frank to say that when this conjunction took place there was apt to be something doing. Thompson is still at Four Oaks, and it will be a bad day for the farm when he leaves.

"Thompson," said I, "you are to be working foreman out here, and I want you to put your mind on the business and keep it there. I cannot raise your wages, for I have a system; but you shall have $50 as a Christmas present if things go well. Will you stay on these terms?"

"I will stay, all right, Dr. Williams, and I will give the best I've got. I like the looks of this place, and I want to see how you are going to work it out."

That being settled, I told Thompson of some things that must be done during January and February.

"You must get out a great lot of wood, have it sawed, and store it in the shed, more than enough for a year's use. The wood should be taken from that which is already down. Don't cut any standing trees, even though they are dead. Use all limbs that are large enough, but pile the brushwood where it can be burned. We must do wise forestry in these woods, and we will have an unlimited supply of fuel. I mean that the wood lot shall grow better rather than worse as the years go by. We cannot do much for it now, but more in time. You must see to it that the men are not careless about young trees,—no breaking or knocking down will be in order. Another thing to look after is the ice supply. I will get Nelson to build an ice-house directly, and you must look around for the ice. Have you any idea as to where it can be had?"

"A big company is getting ice on Round Lake three miles west, and I suppose they will sell you what you want," said Thompson, "and our teams can haul it all right."

"What do you suppose they will charge per ton on their platform?"

"From twenty-five to forty cents, I reckon."

"All right, make as good a bargain as you can, and attend to it at the best time. When the teams are not hauling ice or wood, let them draw gravel from French's pit. It will be hard to get it out in the winter, but I guess it can be done, and we will need a lot of it on these roads. Have it dumped at convenient places, and we will put it on the drives in the spring.

"Another thing,—we must have a bridge across the brook on each lane. You will find timbers and planks enough in the piles from the old barns to make good bridges, and the men can do the work. Then there is all that wire for the inside fences to stretch and staple; but mind, no barbed wire is to be put on top of inside fences.

"These five jobs will keep you busy for the next two months, for there'll be only four men besides yourself to do them. I am going to set Sam at the chicken plant. I'll see you before long, and we'll go over the cow and hog plans; but you have your work cut out for the next two months. By the way, how much of an ice-house shall I need?"

"How many cows are you going to milk?"

"About forty when we run at full speed; perhaps half that number this year."

"Well, then you'd better build a house for four hundred tons. That won't be too big when you are on full time, and it's a mighty bad thing to run short of ice."

I saw Nelson the same day and contracted with him for an ice-house capable of holding four hundred tons, for $900. The walls of the house to be of three thicknesses of lumber with two air spaces (one four inches, the other two) without filling. As a result of the conference with Thompson, I had, before the first of March, a wood-house full of wood, which seemed a supply for two years at full steam; an ice-house nearly full of ice; two serviceable bridges across the brook; the wire fencing almost completed; and eighty loads of gravel,—about one-third of what I needed. The whole cash outlay was,—

300 tons of ice at 30 cents per ton $90.00 80 tons of gravel at 25 cents per load 20.00 Fence staples 19.00 ——— Total $129.00

The conference with Sam Jones, the hen man, was deferred until my next visit, and my plans for the cow barn, dairy-house, and hog-house were left to Nelson for consideration, he promising to give me estimates within a few days.



CHAPTER XVII

WHAT SHALL WE ASK OF THE HEN?

Sam Jones, the chicken-loving man, was as pleased as a boy with a new top when I began to talk of a hen plant. He had a lot of practical knowledge of the business, for he had failed in it twice; and I could furnish any amount of theory, and enough money to prevent disaster.

In his previous attempts he had invested nearly all his small capital in a plant that might yield two hundred eggs a day; he had to buy all foods in small quantities, and therefore at high prices; and he had to give his whole time to a business which was too small and too much on the hand-to-mouth order to give him a living profit. My theory of the business was entirely different. I could plan for results, and, what was more to the point, I could wait for them. Mistakes, accidents, even disasters, were disarmed by a bank account; my bread and butter did not depend upon the temper of a whimsical hen. The food would cost the minimum. All grains and green food, and most of the animal food, in the form of skim milk, would be furnished by the farm. I meant also to develop a plant large enough to warrant the full attention of an able-bodied man. I felt no hesitation about this venture, for I did not intend to ask more of my hens than a well-disposed hen ought to be willing to grant.

I do not ask a hen to lay a double-yolk every day in the year. That is too much to expect of a creature in whom the mother instinct is prominent, and who wishes also to have a new dress for herself at least once in that time. I do not wish a hen to work overtime for me. If she will furnish me with eight dozen of her finished product per annum, I will do the rest. Whatever she does more than that shall redound to her credit. Two-hundred-eggs-a-year hens are scarcer than hens with teeth, and I was not looking for the unusual. A hen can easily lay one hundred eggs in three hundred and sixty-five days, and yet find time for domestic and social affairs. She can feel that she is not a subject for charity, while at the same time she retains her self-respect as a hen of leisure.

I have the highest regard for this domestic fowl, and I would not for a great deal impose a too arduous task upon her. I feel like encouraging her in her peculiar industry, for which she is so eminently fitted, but not like forcing her into strenuous efforts that would rob her of vivacity and dull her social and domestic impulses. No; if the hen will politely present me with one hundred eggs a year, I will thank her and ask no more. Some one will say: "How can you make hens pay if they don't lay more than eight dozen eggs a year? Eggs sometimes sell as low as twelve cents per dozen."

Four Oaks hens never have laid one-cent eggs, and never will. They would quit work if such a price were suggested. Ninety per cent of the eggs from Four Oaks have sold for thirty cents or more per dozen, and the demand is greater than the supply. The Four Oaks certificate that the egg is not thirty-six hours old when it reaches the egg cup, makes two and a half cents look small to those who can afford to pay for the best. To lack confidence in the egg is a serious matter at the breakfast table, and a person who can insure perfect trust will not lack patronage. If, therefore, a hen will lay eight dozen eggs, she is welcome to say to an acquaintance: "I have just handed the Headman a two-dollar bill," for she knows that I have not paid fifty cents for her food.

Of course the wages of the hen man and his food and the interest on the plant must be counted, but I do not propose to count them twice. Four Oaks is a factory where several things are made, each in a measure dependent on, and useful to, the others, and we cannot itemize costs of single products because of this mutual dependence. I feel certain that I could not drop one of the factory's industries without loss to each of the others. For this reason I kept a very simple set of books. I charged the farm with all money spent for it, and credited it with all moneys received. Even now I have no very definite knowledge of what it costs to keep a hen, a hog, or a cow; nor do I care. Such data are greatly influenced by location, method of getting supplies, and market fluctuations. I furnish most of my food, and my own market. My crops have never entirely failed, and I take little heed whether they be large or small. They are not for sale as crops, but as finished products. I am not willing to sell them at any price, for I want them consumed on the place for the sake of the land.

Corn has sold for eighty cents a bushel since I began this experiment, yet at that time I fed as much as ever and was not tempted to sell a bushel, though I could easily have spared five thousand. When it went down to twenty-eight cents, I did not care, for corn and oats to me are simply in transition state,—not commodities to be bought or sold. They cost me, one year with another, about the same. An abundant harvest fills my granaries to overflowing; a bad harvest doesn't deplete them, for I do not sell my surplus for fear that I, too, may have to buy out of a high market. I have bought corn and oats a few times, but only when the price was decidedly below my idea of the feeding value of these grains. I can find more than twenty-eight cents in a bushel of corn, and more than eighteen cents in thirty-two pounds of oats. But I am away off my subject. I began to talk about the hen plant, and have wandered to my favorite fad,—the factory farm.



CHAPTER XVIII

WHITE WYANDOTTES

"Sam," said I, "I am going to start this poultry plant from just as near the beginning of things as possible. I want you to dispose of every hen on the place within the next twenty days, and to burn everything that has been used in connection with them. We've cleared this land of disease germs, if there were germs in it, by turning it bottom-side up; now let's start free from the pestiferous vermin that make a hen's life unhappy. No stock, either old or young, shall be brought here. When we want to change our breeding, we'll buy eggs from the best fanciers and hatch them in our own incubators. It will then be our own fault if we don't keep our chickens comfortable and free from their enemies. This is sound theory, and we'll try how it works out in practice. Certainly it will be easier to keep clean if we start clean. Not one board or piece of lumber that has been used for any other purpose shall find place in my hen-houses. Eternal vigilance makes a full egg basket; and a full egg basket means a lot of money at the year's end. I will never find fault with you for being too careful Attend to the details in such way as suits you best, provided the result is thorough and everlasting cleanliness. Nothing less will win out, and nothing less will meet the requirements of our factory rules.

"The first thing to do is to get the incubating cellar made. It ought to be four feet in the ground and four feet out of it. Make it ten feet by fifteen, inside measure, and you can easily run five two-hundred-egg incubators. Build it near the south fence in No. 4,—that's the lot for the hens. The walls are to be of brick, and we'll have a brick floor put in, for it's too cold to concrete it now. Gables are to point east and west, and each is to have a window; put the door in the middle of the south wall, and shingle the roof. Digging through three feet of frost will be hard, but it must be done, and done quickly. I want you to start your incubator lamps before the 3d of February."

"I can dig the hole without much trouble,—big fire on the ground for two or three hours will help,—and I can put on the roof and do all the carpenter work, but I can't lay the brick."

"I'll look out for that part of the job, but I want you to see that things are pushed, for I shall have a thousand eggs here by February 1st and another thousand by the 25th, and these eggs mean money."

"What do you have to pay for them?"

"Ten cents apiece,—$200 for two thousand eggs."

"Well, I should say! Are they hand-painted? I wouldn't have had to quit business if I could have sold my eggs at a quarter of that price."

"That's all right, Sam, but you didn't sell White Wyandotte eggs for hatching. I've contracted with two of the best-known fanciers of Wyandottes in the country to send me five hundred eggs apiece February 1st and 25th. I don't think the price is high for the stock."

"Have you decided to keep 'dottes? I hoped you would try Leghorns; they're great layers."

"Yes, they're great summer layers, but the American birds will beat them hollow in winter; and I must have as steady a supply of eggs as possible. My customers don't stop eating eggs in winter, and they'll be willing to pay more for them at that season. The Leghorn is too small to make a good broiler, and as half the chicks come cockerels, we must look out for that."

"Why do you throw down the Plymouth Rocks? They're bigger than 'dottes, and just as good layers."

"I threw down the barred Plymouth Rocks on account of color; I like white hens best. It was hard to decide between White Rocks and Wyandottes, for there's mighty little difference between them as all-around hens. I really think I chose the 'dottes because the first reply to my letters was from a man who was breeding them."

"They are 'beauts,' all of them, and I'll give them a good chance to spread themselves," said Sam.

"What percentage of hatch may we expect from purchased eggs?"

"About sixty chicks out of every hundred eggs, I reckon."

"That would be doing pretty well, wouldn't it? If we had good luck with the sixty chicks, how many would grow up?"

"Fifty ought to."

"Of these fifty, can we count on twenty-five pullets?"

"Yes."

"That's what I was getting at. You think we might, by good luck, raise twenty-five pullets from each hundred eggs. I'll cut that in the middle and be satisfied with twelve, or even with ten. At that rate the two thousand eggs that cost $200 will give me two hundred pullets to begin the egg-making next November. That's not enough; we ought to raise just twice that number. I'll spend as much more on eggs to be hatched by the middle of April or the first of May, and then we can reasonably expect to go into next winter with four hundred pullets. They will cost the farm a dollar apiece, but the farm will have four hundred cockerels to sell at fifty cents each, which will materially reduce the cost."

"I think you put that pretty low, sir; we ought to raise more than four hundred pullets out of four thousand eggs."

"Everything more will be clear gain. I shall be satisfied with four hundred. We must also get at the brooder house. This is the order in which I want the buildings to stand in the chicken lot: first, the incubating house, 10 feet from the south line; 40 feet north of this, the brooder house; and 120 feet north of that, the first hen-house, with runs 100 feet deep. We'll build other houses for the birds as we need them. They are all to face to the south. If the brooder house is 50 feet long and 15 feet wide, it can easily care for the eight hundred chicks, and for half as many more, if we are lucky enough to get them.

"We'll have a five-foot walk against the north wall of this house, and a ten-foot space north and south through the centre for heating plant and food. This will leave a space at each side ten by twenty feet, to be cut into five pens four feet by ten, each of which will mother a hundred chicks or more. There must be plenty of glass in the south wall, and we'll use overhead water pipes in each hover.

"There's no hurry about the poultry-houses. You can build one in the early summer, and perhaps another in the fall. I expect you to do the carpenter work on these houses. I'll see the mason at once and have him ready by the time you've dug the hole. The incubators will be here in good time, and we want everything ready for work as soon as the eggs arrive."

Sam was pleased with his job; it was exactly to his liking. He took real delight in caring for fowls, and he was especially anxious to prove to me that it was not so much lack of knowledge as lack of capital that had caused the downfall of his previous efforts. Sam could not then understand why one man could sell his eggs at thirty-six cents a dozen when his neighbor could get only sixteen; he found out later.

The mason's work for the incubator house and the foundation wall for the brooder house cost $290. The lumber bill for these two, including doors and windows, was $464. The five incubators, $65, and the hot-water heater for the brooder house, $68, made the total $897. Add to this $400 paid during two months for eggs, and we have $1297 as the cost of starting the poultry plant.



CHAPTER XIX

FRIED PORK

I had given Nelson this sketch as a guide in working out the plan for the cow barn: Length over all, 130 feet; width, 40 feet. This parallelogram was to be divided lengthwise into three equal spaces, one in the centre for a driveway, and one on each side for the cow platforms and feeding mangers. Twenty feet at the west end of the barn was partitioned off, one corner for a small granary, the other for a kitchen in which the food was to be prepared. These rooms were each thirteen feet by twenty. At the other end of the building, ten feet on each side was given over to hospital purposes,—a lying-in ward ten feet by thirteen being on each side of the driveway.

The foundation for this building was to be of stone, and the entire floor of cement; and the walls were to be sealed within and sheeted without, and then covered with ship lap boards, making three thicknesses of boards. It was to be one story high. An east-and-west passage, cutting the main drive at right angles, divided the barn at its middle. At the south end of this passage was a door leading to the dairy-house, which was on the building line 150 feet away. The four spaces made by these passages were each subdivided into ten stalls five feet wide. Two doors on the north and two on the south gave exit for the cows. I had placed my limit at forty milch cows, and I thought this stable would furnish suitable quarters for that number. If I had to rebuild, I would make some modifications. Experience is a good teacher; but the stable has served its purpose, and I cannot quarrel with the results. The chief defect is in the distribution of water. The supply is abundant, but it is let on only in the kitchen, whence it is supplied to the cows by means of a hose or a barrel swung between wheels.



In the kitchen are appliances for mixing and cooking food, and for warming the drinking water in winter. Nelson and I discussed the sketch plan given below, and he found some fault with it. I would not be dissuaded from my views, however, and Nelson had to yield. I was as opinionated in those days as a theoretical amateur is apt to be; and it was hard to give up my theories at the suggestion of a person who had only experience to guide him. The best plan, as I have long since learned, is to mix the two and use the solid substance that results from their combination.

We located the site of the building, and talked plans until the low sun of January 8th disappeared in the west. Then we adjourned to the sitting room of the farm-house to finish the matter so far as was possible. An hour and a half passed, and we were in fair accord, when Mrs. Thompson came into the room to say that supper was ready, and to ask us to join the men at table before starting homeward. I was glad of the opportunity, for I was curious to know if Mrs. Thompson set a good table. We went into the dining room just as the farm family was ready to sit down. There were ten of us,—two women, six men, Nelson, and myself; and as we sat down, I noticed with pleasure that each had evidently taken some thought of the obligations which a table ought to impose. The table was clothed in clean white, and there was a napkin at each plate. Nelson and I had the only perfectly fresh ones, and this I took as evidence that napkins were usual. The food was all on the table, and was very satisfactory to look at. Thompson sat at one end, and before him, on a great platter, lay two dozen or more pieces of fried salt pork, crisp in their shells of browned flour, and fit for a king. On one side of the platter was a heaping dish of steaming potatoes. A knife had been drawn once around each, just to give it a chance to expand and show mealy white between the gaping circles that covered its bulk. At the other side was a boat of milk gravy, which had followed the pork into the frying-pan and had come forth fit company for the boiled potatoes. I went back forty years at one jump, and said,—

"I now renew my youth. Is there anything better under the sun than fried salt pork and milk gravy? If there is, don't tell me of it, for I have worshipped at this shrine for forty years, and my faith must not be shaken."

Such a supper twice or thrice a week would warm the cockles of my old heart; but Polly says, "No modern cook can make these things just right; and if not just right, they are horrid." That is true; it takes an artist or a mother to fry salt pork and make milk gravy.

There were other things on the table,—quantities of bread and butter, apple sauce (in a dish that would hold half a peck), stacks of fresh ginger-bread, tea, and great pitchers of milk; but naught could distract my attention from the piece de resistance. Thrice I sent my plate back, and then could do no more. That meal convinced me that I could trust Mrs. Thompson. A woman who could fry salt pork as my mother did, was a woman to be treasured.

I left the farm-house at 7, and reached home by 8.45. Polly was not quite pleased with my late hours; she said it did not worry her not to know where I was, but it was annoying.

"Can't you have a telephone put into the farm-house? It would be convenient in a lot of ways."

"Why, of course; I don't see why it can't be done at once. I'll make application this very night."

It was six weeks before we really got a wire to the farm, but after that we wondered how we ever got along without it.



CHAPTER XX

A RATION FOR PRODUCT

Nelson was to commence work on the cow-house at once; at least, the mason was. I left the job as a whole to Nelson, and he made some sort of contract with the mason. The agreement was that I should pay $4260 for the barn complete. The machinery we put into it was very simple,—a water heater and two cauldrons for cooking food. All three cost about $60.

Thompson had selected six cows, from those bought with the place, as worth wintering. They were now giving from six to eight quarts each, and were due to come in in April and May. An eight-quart-a-day cow was not much to my liking, but Thompson said that with good care they would do better in the spring. "Four of those cows ought to make fine milkers," he said; "they are built for it,—long bodies, big bags, milk veins that stand out like crooked welts, light shoulders, slender necks, and lean heads. They are young, too; and if you'll dehorn them, I believe they'll make your thoroughbreds hump themselves to keep up with them at the milk pail. You see, these cows never had more than half a chance to show what they could do. They have never been 'fed for milk.' Farmers don't do that much. They think that if a cow doesn't bawl for food or drink she has enough. I suppose she has enough to keep her from starving, and perhaps enough to hold her in fair condition, but not enough to do this and fill the milk pail, too. I read somewhere about a ration for 'maintenance' and one for 'product,' and there was a deal of difference. Most farmers don't pay much attention to these things, and I guess that's one reason why they don't get on faster."

"You've got the whole matter down fine in that 'ration for product,' Thompson, and that's what we want on this farm. A ration that will simply keep a cow or a hen in good health leaves no margin for profit. Cows and hens are machines, and we must treat them as such. Crowd in the raw material, and you may look for large results in finished product. The question ought always to be, How much can a cow eat and drink? not, How little can she get on with? Grain and forage are to be turned into milk, and the more of these foods our cows eat, the better we like it. If these machines work imperfectly, we must get rid of them at once and at any price. It will not pay to keep a cow that persistently falls below a high standard. We waste time on her, and the smooth running of the factory is interrupted. I'm going to place a standard on this farm of nine thousand pounds a year for each matured cow; I don't think that too high. If a cow falls much below that amount, she must give place to a better one, for I'm not making this experiment entirely for my health. The standard isn't too high, yet it's enough to give a fine profit. It means at least three hundred and fifty pounds of butter a year, and in this case the butter means at least thirty cents a pound, or more than $100 a year for each cow. This is all profit, if one wishes to figure it by itself, for the skimmed milk will more than pay for the food and care. But why did you say dehorn the cows?"

"Well, I notice that a man with a club is almost sure to find some use for it. If he isn't pounding the fence or throwing it at a dog, he's snipping daisies or knocking the heads off bull-thistles. He's always doing something with it just because he has it in his hand. It's the same way with a cow. If she has horns, she'll use them in some way, and they take her mind off her business. No, sir; a cow will do a lot better without horns. There's mighty little to distract her attention when her clubs are gone."

"What breeds of cows have you handled, Thompson?"

"Not any thoroughbreds that I know of; mostly common kinds and grade Jerseys or Holsteins."

"I'm going to put a small herd of thorough bred Holsteins on the place."

"Why don't you try thoroughbred Jerseys' They'll give as much butter, and they won't eat more than half as much."

"You don't quite catch my idea, Thompson. I want the cow that will eat the most, if she is, at the same time, willing to pay for her food. I mean to raise a lot of food, and I want a home market for it. What comes from the land must go back to it, or it will grow thin. The Holstein will eat more than the Jersey, and, while she may not make more butter, she will give twice as much skimmed milk and furnish more fertilizer to return to the land. Fresh skimmed milk is a food greatly to be prized by the factory-farm man; and when we run at full speed, we shall have three hundred thousand pounds of it to feed.

"I have purchased twenty three-year-old Holstein cows, in calf to advanced registry bulls, and they are to be delivered to me March 10. I shall want you to go and fetch them. I also bought a young bull from the same herd, but not from the same breeding. These twenty-one animals will cost, by the time they get here, $2200. I shall give the bull to my neighbor Jackson. He will be proud to have it, and I shall be relieved of the care of it. Be good to your neighbor, Thompson, if by so doing you can increase the effectiveness of the factory farm. We will start the dairy with twenty thoroughbreds and six scrubs. I shall probably buy and sell from time to time; but of one thing I am certain: if a cow cannot make our standard, she goes to the butcher, be she mongrel or thoroughbred. What do you think of Judson as a probable dairyman?"

"I shouldn't wonder if he would do first-rate. He's a quiet fellow, and cows like that. He has those roans tagging him all over the place; and if a horse likes a man, it's because he's nice and quiet in his ways. I notice that he can milk a cow quicker than the other men, and it ain't because he don't milk dry—I sneaked after him twice. The cow just gives down for him better than for the others."



CHAPTER XXI

THE RAZORBACK

We have now launched three of the four principal industries of our factory farm. The fourth is perhaps the most important of all, if a single member of a group of mutually dependent industries can have this distinction. There is no question that the farmer's best friend is the hog. He will do more for him and ask less of him than any other animal. All he asks is to be born. That is enough for this non-ruminant quadruped, who can find his living in the earth, the roadside ditch, or the forest, and who, out of a supply of grass, roots, or mast, can furnish ham and bacon to the king's taste and the poor man's maintenance. The half-wild razorback, with never a clutch of corn to his back, gives abundant food to the mountaineer over whose forest he ranges. The cropped or slit ear is the only evidence of human care or human ownership. He lives the life of a wild beast, and in the autumn he dies the death of a wild beast; while his flesh, made rich with juices of acorns, beechnuts, and other sweet masts, nourishes a man whose only exercise of ownership is slaughter. The hog that can make his own living, run like a deer, and drink out of a jug, has done more for the pioneer and the backwoodsman than any other animal.

Take this semi-wild beast away from his wild haunts, give him food and care, and he will double his gifts. Add a hundred generations of careful selection, until his form is so changed that it is beyond recognition, and again the product will be doubled. The spirit of swine is not changed by civilization or good breeding; such as it was on that day when the herd "ran down a steep place and was drowned in the sea," such it is to-day. A fixed determination to have its own way dominated the creature then, and a pig-headed desire to be the greatest food-producing machine in the world is its ruling passion now. That the hog has succeeded in this is beyond question; for no other food animal can increase its own weight one hundred and fifty fold in the first eight months of its life.

All over the world there is a growing fondness for swine flesh, and the ever increasing supply doesn't outrun the demand. Since the dispersion of the tribes of Israel there has been no persistent effort to depopularize this wonderful food maker. Pig has more often been the food of the poor than of the rich, but now rich and poor alike do it honor. Old Ben Jonson said:—

"Now pig is meat, and a meat that is nourishing and may be desired, and consequently eaten: it may be eaten; yea, very exceedingly well eaten."

Hundreds have praised the rasher of ham, and thousands the flitch of bacon; it took the stroke of but one pen to make roast pig classical.

The pig of to-day is so unlike his distant progenitor that he would not be recognized; if by any chance he were recognized, it would be only with a grunt of scorn for his unwieldy shape and his unenterprising spirit. Gone are the fleet legs, great head, bulky snout, terrible jaws, warlike tusks, open nostrils, flapping ears, gaunt flanks, and racing sides; and with these has gone everything that told of strength, freedom, and wild life. In their place has come a cuboidal mass, twice as long as it is broad or high, with a place in front for mouth and eyes, and a foolish-looking leg under each corner. A mighty fall from "freedom's lofty heights," but a wonderfully improved machine. The modern hog is to his progenitor as the man with the steam-hammer to the man with the stone-hammer,—infinitely more useful, though not so free.

It is not easy to overestimate the value of swine to the general farmer; but to the factory farmer they are indispensable. They furnish a profitable market for much that could not be sold, and they turn this waste material into a surprising lot of money in a marvellously short time. A pig should reach his market before he is nine months old. From the time he is new-born until he is 250 days old, he should gain at least one pound a day, which means five cents, in ordinary times. During this time he has eaten, of things which might possibly have been sold, perhaps five dollars' worth. At 250 days, with a gain of one pound a day, he is worth, one year with another, $12.50. This is putting it too low for my market, but it gives a profit of not less than $6 a head after paying freight and commissions. It is, then, only a question of how many to keep and how to keep them. To answer the first half of this question I would say, Keep just as many as you can keep well. It never pays to keep stock on half rations of food or care, and pigs are not exceptions. In answering the other half of the question, how to keep them, I shall have to go into details of the first building of a piggery at Four Oaks.

As in the case of the hens, I determined to start clean. Hogs had been kept on the farm for years, and, so far as I could learn, there had been no epizooetic disease. The swine had had free range most of the time, and the specimens which I bought were healthy and as well grown as could be expected. They were not what I wanted, either in breed or in development, so they had been disposed of, all but two. These I now consigned to the tender care of the butcher, and ordered the sty in which they had been kept to be burned.

I had planned to devote lot No. 2 to a piggery. There are five acres in this lot, and I thought it large enough to keep four or five hundred pigs of all sizes in good health and good condition for forcing. Some of the swine, not intended for market, would have more liberty; but close confinement in clean pens and small runs was to be the rule. To crowd hogs in this way, and at the same time to keep them free from disease, would require special vigilance. The ordinary diseases that come from damp and draughts could be fended off by carefully constructed buildings. Cleanliness and wholesome food ought to do much, and isolation should accomplish the rest. I have established a perfect quarantine about my hog lot, and it has never been broken. After the first invoices of swine in the winter and spring of 1896, no hog, young or old, has entered my piggery, save by the way of a sixty-day quarantine in the wood lot, and very few by that way.

My pigs are several hundred yards from the public roads, and my neighbor, Jackson, has planted a young orchard on his land to the north of my hog lots, and permits no hogs in this planting. I have thus secured practical isolation. I have rarely sent swine to fairs or stock shows. In the few instances in which I have broken this rule I have sold the stock shown, never returning it to Four Oaks.

Isolation, cleanliness, good food, good water, and a constant supply of ashes, charcoal, and salt, have kept my herd (thus far) from those dreadfully fatal diseases that destroy so many swine. If I can keep the specific micro-organism that causes hog-cholera off my place, I need not fear the disease. The same is true of swine plague. These diseases are of bacterial origin, and are communicated by the transference of bacteria from the infected to the non-infected. I propose to keep my healthy herd as far removed as possible from all sources of infection. I have carried these precautions so far that I am often scoffed at. I require my swineherd, when returning from a fair or a stock show, to take a full bath and to disinfect his clothing before stepping into the pig-house. This may seem an unnecessary refinement in precautionary measures, but I do not think so. It has served me well: no case of cholera or plague has shown itself at Four Oaks.

What would I do if disease should appear? I do not know. I think, however, that I should fight it as hard as possible at close quarters, killing the seriously ill, and burning all bodies. After the scourge had passed I would dispose of all stock as best I could, and then burn the entire plant (fences and all), plough deep, cover the land white as snow with lime, leave it until spring, plough again, and sow to oats. During the following summer I would rebuild my plant and start afresh. A whole year would be lost, and some good buildings, but I think it would pay in the end. There would be no safety for the herd while a single colony of cholera or plague bacteria was harbored on the place; and while neither might, for years, appear in virulent form, yet there would be constant small losses and constant anxiety. One cannot afford either of these annoyances, and it is usually wise to take radical measures. If we apply sound business rules to farm management, we shall at least deserve success.

I chose to keep thoroughbred swine for the reason that all the standard varieties are reasonably certain to breed true to a type which, in each breed, is as near pork-making perfection as the widest experience can make it. Most of our good hogs are bred from English or Chinese stock. Modifications by climate, care, crossing, and wise selection have procured a number of excellent varieties, which are distinct enough to warrant separate names, but which are nearly equal as pork-makers.

In color one could choose between black, black and white, and white and red. I wanted white swine; not because they are better than swine of other colors, for I do not think they are, but for aesthetic reasons. My poultry was to be white, and white predominated in my cows; why should not my swine be white also,—or as white as their habits would permit? I am told on all sides that the black hog is the hardiest, that it fattens easier, and that for these reasons it is a better all-round hog. This may be true, but I am content with my white ones. When some neighbor takes a better bunch of hogs to market, or gets a better price for them, than I do, I may be persuaded to think as he talks. Thus far I have sold close to the top of the market, and my hogs are never left over.

Perhaps my hogs eat more than those of my neighbors. I hope they do, for they weigh more, on a "weight for age" scale, and I do not think they are "air crammed," for "you cannot fatten capons so." I am more than satisfied with my Chester Whites. They have given me a fine profit each year, and I should be ungrateful if I did not speak them fair.

I wished to get the hog industry started on a liberal scale, and scoured the country, by letter, for the necessary animals. I found it difficult to get just what I wanted. Perhaps I wanted too much. This is what I asked for: A registered young sow due to farrow her second litter in March or April. By dint of much correspondence and a considerable outlay of money, I finally secured nineteen animals that answered the requirements. I got them in twos and threes from scattered sources, and they cost an average price of $31 per head delivered at Four Oaks. A young boar, bred in the purple, cost $27. My foundation herd of Chester Whites thus cost me $614,—too much for an economical start; but, again, I was in a hurry.

The hogs began to arrive in February, and were put into temporary quarters pending the building of the house for the brood sows, which house must now be described.

It was a low building, 150 by 30 feet, divided by a six-foot alley-way into halves, each 150 by 12 feet. Each of these halves was again divided into fifteen pens 10 by 12 feet, with a 10 by 30 run for each pen. This was the general plan for the brood-house for thirty sows. At the east end of this house was a room 15 by 30 feet for cooking food and storing supplies for a few days. The building was of wood with plank floors. It stands there yet, and has answered its purpose; but it was never quite satisfactory. I wanted cement floors and a more sightly building. I shall probably replace it next year. When it was built the weather was unfavorable for laying cement, and I did not wish to wait for a more clement season. The house and the fences for the runs cost $2100.

On the 6th of March Thompson called me to one of the temporary pens and showed me a family of the prettiest new-born animals in the world,—a fine litter of no less than nine new-farrowed pigs. I felt that the fourth industry was fairly launched, and that we could now work and wait.



CHAPTER XXII

THE OLD ORCHARD

March was unusually raw even for that uncooked month. The sun had to cross the line before it could make much impression on the deep frost. After the 15th, however, we began to find evidences that things were stirring below ground. The red and yellow willows took on brighter colors, the bark of the dogwood assumed a higher tone, and the catkins and lilac buds began to swell with the pride of new sap.

If our old orchard was to be pruned while dormant, it must be done at once. Thompson and I spent five days of hard work among the trees, cutting out all dead limbs, crossing branches, and suckers. We called the orchard old, but it was so only by comparison, for it was not out of its teens; and I did not wish to deal harshly with it. A good many unusual things were being done for it in a short time, and it was not wise to carry any one of them too far. It had been fertilized and ploughed in the fall, and now it was to be pruned and sprayed,—all innovations. The trees were well grown and thrifty. They had given a fair crop of fruit last year, and they were well worth considerable attention. They could not hereafter be cultivated, for they were all in the soiling lot for the cows, but they could be pruned and sprayed. The lack of cultivation would be compensated by the fertilization incident to a feeding lot. The trees would give shade and comfort to the cows, while the cows fed and nourished the trees,—a fair exchange.

The crop of the year before, though half the apples were stung, had brought nearly $300. With better care, and consequently better fruit, we could count on still better results, for the varieties were excellent (Baldwins, Jonathans, and Rome Beauties); so we trimmed carefully and burned the rubbish. This precaution, especially in the case of dead limbs, is important, for most dead wood in young trees is due to disease, often infectious, and should be burned at once.

I bought a spraying-pump (for $13), which was fitted to a sound oil barrel, and we were ready to make the first attack on fungus disease with the Bordeaux mixture. This was done by Johnson and Anderson late in the month. Another vigorous spraying with the same mixture when the buds were swelling, another when the flower petals were falling, and still another when the fruit was as large as peas (the last two sprayings had Paris green added to the Bordeaux mixture), and the fight against apple enemies was ended for that year.

Thompson had gone for the cows. He left March 9, and returned with the beauties on Friday the 17th. They were all my fancy had painted them,—large, gentle-eyed, with black and white hair over soft butter-yellow skin, and all the points that distinguish these marvellous milk-machines. They were bestowed as needs must until the cow barn was completed. One of them had dropped a bull calf two days before leaving the home farm. The calf had been left, and the mother was in an uncomfortable condition, with a greatly distended udder and milk streaming from her four teats, though Thompson had relieved her thrice while en route.

I was greatly pleased with the cows, but must not spend time on them now, for things are happening in my factory faster than I can tell of them. Johnson had built some primitive hotbeds for early vegetables out of old lumber and oiled muslin. He had filled them with refuse from the horse stable and had sown his seeds.



CHAPTER XXIII

THE FIRST HATCH

On February 3 the incubator lamps were lighted under the first invoice of one thousand eggs. The incubating cellar was to Sam's liking, and he felt confident that three weeks of strict attention to temperature, moisture, and the turning of eggs, would bring results beyond my expectations.

After the seventh day, on which he had tested or candled the eggs, he was willing to promise almost anything in the way of a hatch, up to seventy-five or eighty per cent. In the intervals of attendance on the incubators he was hard at work on the brooder-house, which must be ready for its first occupants by the 25th. Everything went smoothly until the 18th. That morning Sam met me with a long face.

"Something went wrong with one of my lamps last night," said he. "I looked at them at ten o'clock and they were all right, but at six this morning one of the thermometers was registering 122 deg., and the whole batch was cooked."

"Not the whole thousand, Sam!"

"No, but 170 fertile eggs, and that spoils a twenty-dollar bill and a lot of good time. What in the name of the black man ever got into that lamp of mine is more than I know. It's just my luck!"

"It's everybody's luck who tries to raise chickens by wholesale, and we must copper it. Don't be downed by the first accident, Sam; keep fighting and you'll win out."

The brooder-house was ready when the first chicks picked the shells on the 24th, and within thirty-six hours we had 503 little white balls of fluff to transfer from the four incubators to the brooder-house. We put about a hundred together in each of five brooders, fed them cut oats and wheat with a little coarse corn meal and all the fresh milk they could drink, and they throve mightily.

The incubators were filled again on the 26th, and from that hatch we got 552 chicks. On the 21st of March they were again filled, and on the 13th of April we had 477 more to add to the colony in the brooder-house. For the last time we started the lamps April 15th, and on the 6th of May we closed the incubating cellar and found that 2109 chicks had been hatched from the 4000 eggs. The last hatch was the best of all, giving 607. I don't think we have ever had as good results since, though to tell the truth I have not attempted to keep an exact count of eggs incubated. My opinion is that fifty per cent is a very good average hatch, and that one should not expect more.

In September, when the young birds were separated, the census report was 723 pullets and 764 cockerels, showing an infant mortality of 622, or twenty-nine per cent. The accidents and vicissitudes of early chickenhood are serious matters to the unmothered chick, and they must not be overlooked by the breeder who figures his profits on paper.

After the first year I kept no tabs on the chickens hatched; my desire was to add each year 600 pullets to my flock, and after the third season to dispose of as many hens. It doesn't pay to keep hens that are more than two and a half years old. I have kept from 1200 to 1600 laying hens for the past six years. I do not know what it costs to feed one or all of them, but I do know what moneys I have received for eggs, young cockerels, and old hens, and I am satisfied.

There is a big profit in keeping hens for eggs if the conditions are right and the industry is followed, in a businesslike way, in connection with other lines of business; that is, in a factory farm. If one had to devote his whole time to the care of his plant, and were obliged to buy almost every morsel of food which the fowls ate, and if his market were distant and not of the best, I doubt of great success; but with food at the lowest and product at the highest, you cannot help making good money. I do not think I have paid for food used for my fowls in any one year more than $500; grits, shells, meat meal, and oil meal will cover the list. I do not wish to induce any man or woman to enter this business on account of the glowing statements which these pages contain. I am ideally situated. I am near one of the best markets for fine food; I can sell all the eggs my hens will lay at high prices; food costs the minimum, for it comes from my own farm; I utilize skim-milk, the by-product from another profitable industry, to great advantage; and I had enough money to carry me safely to the time of product. In other words, I could build my factory before I needed to look to it for revenue. I do not claim that this is the only way, but I do claim that it is the way for the fore-handed middle-aged man who wishes to change from city to country life without financial loss. Younger people with less means can accomplish the same results, but they must offset money by time. The principle of the factory farm will hold as well with the one as with the other.

To intensify farming is the only way to get the fat of the land. The nations of the old world have nearly reached their limit in food production. They are purchasers in the open market. This country must be that market; and it behooves us to look to it that the market be well stocked. There is land enough now and to spare, but will it be so fifty or a hundred years hence? Our arid lands will be made fertile by irrigation, but they will add only a small percentage to the amount already in quasi-cultivation. Our future food supplies must be drawn largely from the six million farms now under fences. These farms must be made to yield fourfold their present product, or they will fall short, not only of the demands made upon them, but also of their possibilities. That is why I preach the gospel of intensive farming, for grain, hay, market, and factory farm alike.

I will put the chickens out of the way for the present, referring to them from time to time and indicating their general management, the cost of their houses and food, and the amount of money received for eggs and fowls. I do not think my plant would win the approval of fanciers, and it is not in all ways up to date; but it is clean, healthy, and commodious, and the birds attend as strictly to business as a reasonable owner could wish. I shall be glad to show it to any one interested enough to search it out, and to go into the details of the business and show how I have been able to make it so remunerative.

Sam is with me no longer. For three years he did good service and saved money, and the lurid nose grew dim. There is, however, a limit to human endurance. Like victims of other forms of circular insanity, the dipsomaniac completes his cycle in an uncertain period and falls upon bad times. For a month before we parted company I saw signs of relapse in Sam. He was loquacious at times, at other times morose. He talked about going into business for himself, and his nose took on new color. I labored with him, but to no purpose; the spirit of unrest was upon him, and it had to work its own. I held him firm long enough to secure another man, and then we parted, he to do business for himself, I to get on as best I could. Sam painted his nose and raised chickens and other things until his savings had flown; then he got a position with a woman who runs a broiler plant, and for two years he has given good service. He will probably continue in ways of well-doing until the next cycle is complete, when the beacon light will blaze afresh and he will follow it on to the rocks. Such a man is more to be pitied than condemned, for his anchor is sure to drag at times.



CHAPTER XXIV

THE HOLSTEIN MILK MACHINE

During the month of March the teams hauled more gravel. They also distributed the manure that had been purchased in the fall for mulching the trees. While the ground was still frozen this mulch was placed near the trees, to be used as soon as the sun had warmed the earth. The mound of dirt at the base of each tree was of course levelled down before this dressing was applied. I never afterward purchased stable or stock-yard manure, though I could often have used it to advantage; for I did not think it safe to purchase this kind of fertilizer for a farm where large numbers of animals are kept. The danger from infection is too great. Large quantities of barnyard manure were furnished yearly out of my own pits, and I supplemented it with a good deal of the commercial variety. I try to turn back to the land each year more than I take from it, but I do not dare to go to a stock-yard for any part of my supply. It was not until I had mentally established a quarantine for my hogs that I realized the danger from those six carloads of manure; and I promised myself then that no such breach of quarantine should again occur.

The cows arrived on St. Patrick's Day. Our herd was then composed of the twenty Holstein heifers (coming three years old), and six of the best of the common cows purchased with the farm. Within forty days the herd was increased by the addition of twenty-three calves. Twenty-five were born, but two were dead. Of this number, eighteen were Holsteins eligible for registration, ten heifers, and eight bulls. Each calf was taken from its mother on the third day and fed warm skim-milk from a patent feeder three times a day, all it would drink. When three weeks old, seven of the Holstein calves and the five from the common cows were sent to market. They brought $5.25 each above the expense of selling, or $63 for the bunch. The ten Holstein heifer calves were of course held; and one bull calf, which had a double cross of Pieterje 2d and Pauline Paul, and which seemed an unusually fair specimen, was kept for further development.

The cow barn was finished about April 1st, and shortly after that the herd was established in permanent quarters. As the dairy-house was unfinished, and there was no convenient way of disposing of the milk which now flowed in abundance, I bought a separator (for $200) and sent the cream to a factory, using the fresh skim-milk for the calves and young pigs and chickens.

From March 22, when I began to sell, until May 10, when my dairy-house was in working order, I received $203 for cream. Thompson had sold milk from the old cows, from August to December, 1895, to the amount of $132. This item should have been entered on the credit side for the last year, but as it was not, we will make a note of it here. These are the only sales of milk and cream made from Four Oaks since I bought the land.

The milk supply from my herd started out at a tremendous rate, considering the age of the cows. It must be borne in mind that none of the thoroughbreds was within three years of her (probable) best; yet they were doing nobly, one going as high as fifty-two pounds of milk in one day, and none falling below thirty-six as a maximum. The common cows did nearly as well at first, four of them giving a maximum of thirty-two pounds each in twenty-four hours. It was easy to see the difference between the two sorts, however. The old ones had reached maturity and were doing the best they could; the others were just beginning to manufacture milk, and were building and regulating their machinery for that purpose. The Holsteins, though young, were much larger than the old cows, and were enormous feeders. A third or a half more food passed their great, coarse mouths than their less aristocratic neighbors could be coaxed to eat. Food, of course, is the one thing that will make milk; other things being equal, then the cow that consumes the most food will produce the most milk. This is the secret of the Holsteins' wonderful capacity for assimilating enormous quantities of food without retaining it under their hides in the shape of fat. They have been bred for centuries with the milk product in view, and they have become notable machines for that purpose. They are not the cows for people to keep who have to buy feed in a high market, for they are not easy keepers in any sense; but for the farmer who raises a lot of grain and roughage which should be fed at his own door, they are ideal. They will eat much and return much.