Chapter 47

HOW TO RESTORE A WORN-OUT FARM.

I have never yet seen a “worn-out” or “exhausted farm.” I know many farms that are “run down.” I bought just such a farm a dozen or more years ago, and I have been trying hard, ever since, to bring it up to a profitable standard of productiveness--and am still trying, and expect to have to keep on trying so long as I keep on farming. The truth is, there never was a farm so rich, that the farmer did not wish it was richer.

I have succeeded in making the larger part of my farm much more productive than it ever was before, since it was cleared from the original forest. But it is far from being as rich as I want it. The truth is, God sent us into this world to work, and He has given us plenty to do, if we will only do it. At any rate, this is true of farming. He has not given us land ready to our hand. The man who first cleared up my farm, had no easy task. He fairly earned all the good crops he ever got from it. I have never begrudged him one particle of the “natural manure” he took out of the land, in the form of wheat, corn, oats, and hay. On the dry, sandy knolls, he probably got out a good portion of this natural manure, but on the wetter and heavier portions of the farm, he probably did not get out one-hundredth part of the natural manure which the land contained.

Now, when such a farm came into my possession, what was I to do with it?

“Tell us what you did,” said the Doctor, “and then, perhaps, we can tell you what you ought to have done, and what you ought to have left undone.”

“I made many mistakes.”

“Amen,” said the Deacon; “I am glad to hear you acknowledge it.”

“Well,” said the Doctor, “it is better to make mistakes in trying to do something, than to hug our self-esteem, and fold our hands in indolence. It has been said that critics are men who have failed in their undertakings. But I rather think the most disagreeable, and self-satisfied critics, are men who have never done anything, or tried to do anything, themselves.”

The Deacon, who, though something of an old fogy, is a good deal of a man, and possessed of good common sense, and much experience, took these remarks kindly. “Well,” said he to me, “I must say that your farm has certainly improved, but you did things so differently from what we expected, that we could not see what you were driving at.”

“I can tell you what I have been aiming at all along. 1st. To drain the wet portions of the arable land. 2d. To kill weeds, and make the soil mellow and clean. 3d. To make more manure.”

“You have also bought some bone-dust, superphosphate, and other artificial manures.”

“True; and if I had had more money I would have bought more manure. It would have paid well. I could have made my land as rich as it is now in half the time.”

I had to depend principally on the natural resources of the land. I got out of the soil all I could, and kept as much of it as possible on the farm. One of the mistakes I made was, in breaking up too much land, and putting in too much wheat, barley, oats, peas, and corn. It would have been better for my pocket, though possibly not so good for the farm, if I had left more of the land in grass, and also, if I had summer-fallowed more, and sown less barley and oats, and planted less corn.

“I do not see how plowing up the grass land,” said the Deacon, “could possibly be any better for the farm. You agricultural writers are always telling us that we plow too much land, and do not raise grass and clover enough.”

“What I meant by saying that it would have been better for my pocket, though possibly not so good for the farm, if I had not plowed so much land, may need explanation. The land had been only half cultivated, and was very foul. The grass and clover fields did not give more than half a crop of hay, and the hay was poor in quality, and much of it half thistles, and other weeds. I plowed this land, planted it to corn, and cultivated it thoroughly. But the labor of keeping the corn clean was costly, and absorbed a very large slice of the profits. _But_ the corn yielded a far larger produce per acre than I should have got had the land lain in grass. And as all this produce was consumed on the farm, we made more manure than if we had plowed less land.”

I have great faith in the benefits of thorough tillage--or, in other words, of breaking up, pulverizing, and exposing the soil to the decomposing action of the atmosphere. I look upon a good, strong soil as a kind of storehouse of plant-food. But it is not an easy matter to render this plant-food soluble. If it were any less soluble than it is, it would have all leached out of the land centuries ago. Turning over, and fining a manure-heap, if other conditions are favorable, cause rapid fermentation with the formation of carbonate of ammonia, and other soluble salts. Many of our soils, to the depth of eight or ten inches, contain enough nitrogenous matter in an acre to produce two or three thousand pounds of ammonia. By stirring the soil, and exposing it to the atmosphere, a small portion of this nitrogen becomes annually available, and is taken up by the growing crops. And it is so with the other elements of plant-food. Stirring the soil, then, is the basis of agriculture. It has been said that we must return to the soil as much plant-food as we take from it. If this were true, nothing could be sold from the farm. What we should aim to do, is to develop as much as possible of the plant-food that lies latent in the soil, and not to sell in the form of crops, cheese, wool, or animals, any more of this plant-food than we annually develop from the soil. In this way the “condition” of the soil would remain the same. If we sell _less_ than we develop, the condition of the soil will improve.

By “condition,” I mean the amount of _available_ plant-food in the soil. Nearly all our farms are poorer in plant-food to-day than when first cleared of the original forest, or than they were ten, fifteen, or twenty years later. In other words, the plants and animals that have been sold from the farm, have carried off a considerable amount of plant-food. We have taken far more nitrogen, phosphoric acid, potash, etc., out of the soil, than we have returned to it in the shape of manure. Consequently, the soil must contain less and less of plant-food every year. And yet, while this is a self-evident fact, it is, nevertheless, true that many of these self-same farms are more productive now than when first cleared, or at any rate more productive than they were twenty-five or thirty years ago.

Sometime ago, the Deacon and I visited the farm of Mr. Dewey, of Monroe Co., N.Y. He is a good farmer. He does not practice “high farming” in the sense in which I use that term. His is a good example of what I term slow farming. He raises large crops, but comparatively few of them. On his farm of 300 acres, he raises 40 acres of wheat, 17 acres of Indian corn, and 23 acres of oats, barley, potatoes, roots, etc. In other words, he has 80 acres in crops, and 220 acres in grass--not permanent grass. He lets it lie in grass five, six, seven, or eight years, as he deems best, and then breaks it up, and plants it to corn. The land he intends to plant to corn next year, has been in grass for seven years. He will put pretty much all his manure on this land. After corn, it will be sown to oats, or barley; then sown to wheat, and seeded down again. It will then lie in grass three, four, five, six, or seven years, until he needs it again for corn, etc. This is “slow farming,” but it is also good farming--that is to say, it gives large yields per acre, and a good return for the labor expended.

The soil of this farm is richer to-day in _available_ plant-food than when first cleared. It produces larger crops per acre.

Mr. D. called our attention to a fact that establishes this point. An old fence that had occupied the ground for many years was removed some years since, and the two fields thrown into one. Every time this field is in crops, it is easy to see where the old fence was, by the short straw and poor growth on this strip, as compared with the land on each side which had been cultivated for years.

This is precisely the result that I should have expected. If Mr. D. was a poor farmer--if he cropped his land frequently, did not more than half-cultivate it, sold everything he raised, and drew back no manure--I think the old fence-strip would have given the best crops.

The strip of land on which the old fence stood in Mr. Dewey’s field, contained _more_ plant-food than the soil on either side of it. But it was not available. It was not developed. It was latent, inert, insoluble, crude, and undecomposed. It was so much dead capital. The land on either side which had been cultivated for years, produced better crops. Why? Simply because the stirring of the soil had developed _more_ plant-food than had been removed by the crops. If the stirring of the soil developed 100 lbs. of plant-food a year, and only 75 lbs. were carried off in the crops--25 lbs. being left on the land in the form of roots, stubble, etc.--the land, at the expiration of 40 years, would contain, provided none of it was lost, 1,000 lbs. more _available_ plant-food than the uncultivated strip. On the other hand, the latter would contain 3,000 lbs. more actual plant-food per acre than the land which had been cultivated--but it is in an unavailable condition. It is dead capital.

I do not know that I make myself understood, though I would like to do so, because I am sure there is no point in scientific farming of greater importance. Mr. Geddes calls grass the “pivotal crop” of American agriculture. He deserves our thanks for the word and the idea connected with it. But I am inclined to think the _pivot_ on which our agriculture stands and rotates, lies deeper than this. The grass crop creates nothing--developes nothing. The untilled and unmanured grass lands of Herkimer County, in this State, are no richer to-day than they were 50 years ago. The pastures of Cheshire, England, except those that have been top-dressed with bones, or other manures, are no more productive than they were centuries back. Grass alone will not make rich land. It is a good “savings bank.” It gathers up and saves plant-food from running to waste. It pays a good interest, and is a capital institution. But the real source of fertility must be looked for _in the stores of plant-food lying dormant in the soil_. Tillage, underdraining, and thorough cultivation, are the means by which we develop and render this plant-food available. Grass, clover, peas, or any other crop consumed on the farm, merely affords us the means of saving this plant-food and making it pay a good interest.