"As you sow you shall reap," no doubt you have read,
And you'll find it quite true, as before I have said.
For, if poor seed you plant you will have a poor crop,
By hand, or by planter, however you drop.
Good seed you must have, pray do not forget it,
A moment now listen and learn how to get it.
When Summer's sultry heat has ceased to burn,
And towards the Artic Earth begins to turn,
When day and night of equal length, are found
In all the varied climes the globe around;
(This season occurs, you will all please remember,
The twenty-first day of the month September.)
Then! then is the time, good farmers, take heed
And seize on this moment, to gather your seed.
Delay not, I warn, till the germ has been chilled,
Much injured, it may be, though hap'ly not killed-
As many have learned, but too late, who have sown it,
And each cold and wet Spring has unerringly shown it.
This moment then seize on to go through your field,
And gather the very best fruit it will yield.
Your basket well filled with the long and full ear,
By the husk tie them up in good, strong, double tier;
Then hang up with care, though it cost you a deal,
Where vermin can never gnaw to it, and steal.
When thoroughly cured, it will pay well the cost
To place it in cellars away from the frost;

And though in the Spring it be covered with mold,
You'll find on the trial the truth has been told.

Long enough you'll deem I've prated,

And this matter overrated;

But I tell you farming friends,

On it everything depends;

At best without it, all your toil,
Too oft, will prove but useless moil.
Oh! my heart, and flesh, and ribs,
How I've sweltered in those cribs;
Digging, sorting, shelling, panting
To obtain good seed for planting;

And when planted, would it grow?
May be yes, and may be no,
'Tis too late before you know.
Soft, indeed must be his pate
Who thinks this matter I o'errate.
In the mode and time I've told you;
(If you do not I shall scold you),
Garner up the choicest seed,
Twice the quantity you need.
It will germinate and grow Sir,
Buried deep, 'twill fear no crow Sir,
And will thrive through all the season,
With green foliage like the trees, on.
Leaves will wave in Summer's air,
And when Autumn's breath is there,
Golden ears the stalks will bear,
To reward your toil and care.
Crowned and queen-like stands that corn,
As indeed 'twere Heaven born.
Farmers, 'tis a goodly sight
Shimmering in the golden light;
Gently waving to and fro

As the zephyrs come and go.

When April suns and winds have dried the ground,
In active motion let your plows be found;

Plow deep, plow straight; be sure to plow it all,

Nor let one-half upon the other fall;

This last way of plowing is called, "cut and cover," But o'er it, vexation and loss always hover.

So let me exhort you of balks to beware,

For every square inch should be moved by the share.
This "half and half" plowing's a very great sham,
And the plowman who does it, is not worth a clam.
Clam is all that I meant, you'll of course understand;
But this "half and half" plowing's a shame to the land,
When God has bestowed such a generous soil
Which rewards every hand that is willing to toil.

Such slipshod and slovenly culture is ever

But casting reproach on the bounteous Giver.

Then thrust in the plow, boys, aye, plunge it beam deep;
The reproach you'll escape--the reward you will reap.
This motto I give on your hearts please to trace it,
And let neither time, sloth, or care e'er efface it;
If you plow the less land yet plow it much deeper,
You will grow the more corn, and will grow it much
cheaper.

Less land should you plant, and cultivate better,
I'd risk you some thousands, if I were a bettor
Your gains would increase by at least the one-half,
A thing, I presume, that must make you all laugh.
The harrow should follow the plowing instanter,
And after the harrow, please push on the planter.
Betwixt plowing and planting, should time intervene,
Shooting up between rows the young weeds will be seen;
And should they, at first, get the start of the grain,
To expect a good crop is just hoping in vain.
The process of marking, we sometime must learn,
And unto that process our thoughts let us turn.
But, ere the marker takes its station,
Let me claim your admiration.
Look a moment I entreat you,

What a goodly sight doth greet you!
Moved by the harrow and the share,
Smooth and mellow spread out there,
Ceres! Didst thou 'ere behold
So rich a soil as that dark mold,
Giving back four hundred fold?
On it who can ever gaze,

Soon to wave with tasselled maize,
And forbear to speak its praise.
Muck, 'tis true, reeks on the Nile,
And rich soil for many a mile
From the Caspian spreads away
Where the Dneiper winds its way,

But neither the Nile nor the Dneiper can mate

The unctuous soil of our Prairie State.
Having paid to the soil, this tribute so due,
The process of planting, we now will pursue.
In squares of four feet, your field having traced,
In each of the angles your seed should be placed-
Two or three inches the surface below,

"Tis safer from insect, from squirrel and crow,
"Twill germinate sooner, and stronger will grow.
Should you mark your ground less than four feet square,
You will shut out the sunshine and shut out the air.
The sunshine, I mean, when the corn is full grown,
And the earing time comes, with the tassels all blown.
Should you lessen this space for the sake of more corn,
Your hope is delusive as sure as you're born.

If you ask me the grains that each hill should contain,
"Tis a matter on which some just doubts may obtain.
When mature, but two stalks are much better than four,
And when brought into market, the weight will be more,
With many, three kernels the preference would claim,
And I am inclined the odd number to name.

But one grain more than this, when the corn is mature,
Will prove one too many you may be quite sure.
On this point so doubtful, good judges demur,
So you must decide it to please you, good sir.

Yet should any still clamor for more than the three,
With the kindest of feelings, we must disagree.
But should any insist on the palm for but two

My judgment inclines me to that number, too.

In one or two weeks, the young feathery blade
Will break through the mold and shoot up its green head.
Now as soon by the eye, as the rows you distinguish,
Then hasten your plows, the weeds to extinguish.
If you ask me what tools the good farmer now needs,
To move all the soil, and remove all the weeds,
When the corn is but small, the first going through
A harrow inverted, the best work will do.

A mold-boarded plow, next to this, I would use,
But shovels called "single," forever refuse.

The "double" is better, but o'er all the rest,
The plow with the mold-board, I deem much the best.
There is a machine the two horse cultivator,
Which proves I am told, a first-rate operator,
And still of improvements we doubtless shall hear,
In the culture of Corn, from the blade to the ear.
And the "proving all things" is a very good way,
If the good we hold fast, and the bad cast away.
When first you plow, be sure with careful skill,
And sift the moist earth close around the hill.
To do this well requires a sleight of hand,
That inexperience never can command.
The tyro, therefore, though the cutest Yankee,
For the first year can hardly earn "I thank ye.
Pigs they can feed, and they can milk the cow,
But need much drilling ere they guide the plow.
The weeds they leave in squares around each hill,
The very weeds they first of all should kill.

Do you ask me how often to go through the corn?
Plow, plow it enough, sir, and evermore scorn
To let it be seen with rank weeds overborne.

If weedless and clean when you lay it aside,

You will feel as you view it both pleasure and pride. When in shocks you have gathered your crop of small grain,

Return to your corn-fields, return once again.

Ho, ho! for the onslaught, with muscle and hoe,

And ruthlessly slaughter each green straggling foe.
Or, should they stand thickly in tangled array,
Then all the more earnestly kill them, I say.

Forgive me I pray you, for boasting just here;
I have fought through this battle, myself, this same year.
To a hundred add eighty, and you will then know,
The number of acres where ambushed my foe.
But in all that broad field not one noxious weed,
Has been left there to scatter its pestilent seed.