The landweker bold I then marched to my field,
Resolved that this corn foe should die or should yield,
But yield them they did and thus died every one.
So exultant felt I, when the labor was done,
(If you will believe it), I sprang from the ground,
And leaped o'er the fence with my hoe, at a bound;
And if of my reason you deem me bereft

I insist it's all true, but, "over the left."
Your corn having gathered, or yellow or white,
Protect it in cribs which are airy and tight;
Place o'er it a roof that will shield it from rains;
The market will pay you, twice over, your pains.
When I hear a man say, that he thinks it no use
To cover his corn cribs, I think him a goose;
And should you consider this saying too rude,
I will change it, and say, that he's surely not shrewd,
"Tis a mild way of saying the very same thing,
For still to the thought, Sirs. I cannot but cling.
Abandon, pray let us, this loose way of farming,
Indeed 'tis so loose, as to make it alarming.
Our money we lose, and we lose reputation;
The money, indeed, beyond all calculation.
Pause a little, I pray you, with pencil and slate,
And, on corn, for a moment, let us calculate.
And now reckon up all the gains, if you please;
I dare say you've been taught and can do it with ease.
Should you, by a process of farming more thrifty,
Exceed forty bushels, and gather in fifty,

Ten bushels an acre, your gain would then measure,
Which for State, or one county, would make a vast treas-

ure.

Five dollars an acre as corn is now sold,

A high rent for land, as you need not be told;

This sum now, by millions should you multiply,
The truth you will have, as the figures don't lie;
This increase of one-fourth, will pay taxes and Priest,
And keep away Sheriff and Lawyers, at least;

And Sheriff and Lawyers, though good in their place,

Have for debtors, oft-times, but a very hard face.
Half a million each year, it would bring Bureau County,
And this is much better than federal bounty.
Better farming good friends, I insist we must do it,
And if we neglect it ere long we shall rue it;
And debts slowly growing will soon undermine us,
The plus on our farms having changed into minus.
And now a few words, as the Ministers say,
With respect to the culture of oats, wheat and hay.
For horses, the oat is the more normal feed;
Provide it for horses, as well as for seed.

If some are still left for the cow and her calf,
They will thrive on them better than hay, by the half;
Still, a few left for market when prices are high,
A very good way is, you'll find if you try.
Of wheat I am puzzled to know what to say
In the mode we now raise it, it surely don't pay.
But should we continue to raise it at all;
We must sow late in August, or early fall;
Deep, 'neath the surface, put it in with a drill,
And roll it and pack it as hard as you will.
This one word of advice in regard to our hay,
Is all, my good friends, I'll detain you to say-
Change half of your plow-lands at once into grasses,
And when you regret it, then write me with asses.

Let us turn from the harvests of meadows and field,
To the sweet luscious fruits which our orchards yield.
One cold polar winter, 'tis true, at a blow,
Laid at once the fond hopes of our fruit-growers low.
The peach and the plum, with the apple and pear,
Each gave this destroyer its sorrowful share.
And far worst of all, the fruits choicest and best,
Were dealt with severely, far worse than the rest.
Yet give up we will not; our generous soil,
With only five years of right culture and toil,
Selected with wisdom, good trees will produce,
With enough of good fruit for each family's use.

And five more still added, enough will bestow,
To make our home markets with fruits overflow.
Fence strong-plant well-then careful cultivation,
Will soon give back a liberal compensation.

When you, with trees would plant your orchard ground,
Three things of prime importance will be found:
First, are they hardy? Second, will they bear

A liberal crop, and bear it every year?

Thirdly, when bearing will these trees produce

Fruit fit for cooking, or for dessert use?

Those that won't live, no man of sense would choose,
And those that will not bear, of course refuse.

The Golden Belle-Flower, Willow Twig and Snow
In every portion of our State will grow;
And other kinds for prices within reason
Our nurseries sell, well suited to each season.

No longer must these field themes now detain us.
Let us come to those more miscellaneous.
When times are dull and money hard to get,
We're apt to turn and at our rulers fret,
And think our gains are sure to ebb and flow,
As Congress shall make tariffs high or low.
But friends 'tis little government can do,
For honest laboring men like me and you.
If they'll protect us, and then let us be,
"Tis all they need to do for you and me.
They tell us of fabrics piled up mountain high,
But pray who's compelled all these fabrics to buy?
Neither A, or yet B, nor you friend, nor I,—
Only buy what you need, of the rest, sir, play shy;
Importers and jobbers may do as they please,
Must I purchase goods merchants' greed to appease?
Nay, nay, my good friends, it is all quite in vain
For sensible men to discourse in this strain.

Pay, pay as you go is the grand panacea,

Which like love perfected will cast out all fear.
There are those who tell us, that our paper money

Will make the land flow both with milk and with honey.

So indeed it may be, but the way that I view it
These rags they call cash, neither will nor can do it.
The bank takes my note for their rag money lent,
Bearing fifteen or twenty or thirty per cent.
Horesco referens, which I beg to translate,
It makes one to shudder to bleed at that rate.

In exchange for my note then the bank gives me theirs,
Which not one per centum of interest bears,

And blandly in deed when you ask for the gold,
The cashier, all smiles will reply, "sir, you're sold;"
And the note which they promised, no matter what day,
To redeem at first sight, they refuse now to pay.

Or they dole out the cash, counting dime after dime,
To accomplish their plot while they use up your time;
Unless as it chanced in a bank down below,

Their mob rushes in and compels you to go.

But their notes are all good, and so, sir, are mine,
But neither is money, good friends, I opine.
What tell me is money, by that legal command
Bearing rule, undisputed, all over the land?
I mean, friends, that great constitutional bond,
To whose claims of allegiance our hearts all respond.
Good money by this must be silver or gold,
Either white, or else yellow, hard, solid and cold;
But the notes of a bank, a mere promise to pay,
Was not money last year nor are they today.

And it strikes me this truth you can not gainsay,
Puzzle o're it as much and as long as you may.

Rags, rags! nought but these, these old tattered bank rags,

Will they give in exchange for the wheat in our bags-
Wheat plump and clean, the very best yield,
From the choicest of seed which we sowed on the field.
"Perish all Commerce, and perish all credit,
It is thus, we are told, Old Hickory said it.
And under the rose, between me and you,
I was almost inclined to accept it as true,

When that wheat I poured out in those bins, from my bags,

And got in return rags, aye, nothing but rags.

The cradle and scythe, with the sickle and rake,
Seemed banished forever and without mistake;
And tho' in our boyhood we once used to wield them,
From being thus banished, we never would shield them,
For the mower and horse-rake, I freely confess,

Have done very much the farmer to bless.

A lad of thirteen with a horse and a rake,

The place of ten field hands can easily take.
That rough old hand-rake, I remember it well,
For by it my hand oft with blisters would swell,

As backward and forward the rake's tail would play,
Rolling in windrows the sweet-scented hay.

And the mower as well is above any price,

So rapid it cuts, so smoothly and nice;

The best should you ask me I scarcely could tell,
For most of them cut the tame grasses quite well.
But, if you should press me, I must aver,

We have nothing gained from the harvester.
This judgment I've made up when cool and retired,
And not out in the field, sweating, fretful and tired.
When a message would come told in half broken English,
With gutturals 'twould puzzle a clerk to distinguish,
Dat ar bolt, dat ar screw, dat rake mynheer,
Dis machine she be broken, yah, broken right here,
To which I'd respond with a plaintive, "Oh, dear!"
For with all of my faults, (I've enough and to spare),
One fault I have not-for I never would swear.
There's Beloit, McCormick, and Williams and Manny,
With Atkin's Self-Raker as worthy as any,

But if wheat we still raise and grain of this sort,
To the headers ere long I think we'll resort.

A moment I linger to put in a word

For those speechless dependents that make up the herd.