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' ' ;' ' " ' ' ." "" :'"7 ' ; . yy '" " '' "' " '" - --'I' - ' . . - ' . . ' 1 m . - .,f . - , I ' -. . ' : - : ' . . ' ; I " - : - : - ' j. - - - - - . - .: . - - : ' j 4 y V ' (MHMMaaMiMHHHHHHBHHMBBBMH MBaBBHMMMM : , ' , ' . 1 ' ' i WILLIAM D. COOKE, ) EDITOR k PROPRIETOR. J A FAMILY NEWSPAPER-NEUTRAL IN POLITICS. TERMS, . ; ;,. TWO DOLLARS PER AXStX V cimtcfc to all fljc n fcrcsts of )t Soutf), gCtteratarc, Mutation, Agriculture, $tas, tfje jttarfecte,. etc. t, VOL III NO. 21. RALEIGH, NORTH CAROLINA, SATURDAY, APRIL 29, 1854. WHOLE NO. 125. L - . SELECT POETRY. THE TOPIC OF THE DAY. A COMPLAINT BY" AN ' OLD FOOT. For pity sake can no one hit On. some new theme for contersation : . Something to let us rest a bit From this eternal botheration About the eastern question, and Its-vnrious probable solutions; Something to rid' u out of h;ind Of the One topic now the Rooh'ns ? This tnpio haunts me day s.nd night, Xo single hourgoenby without it; The milkman comes befire it's ligiit. And tell the hou-eliold all about it I rinj; tl bell, the servant brings Hot water for the morn's abluiions, Thin throng1! the keyhole loudly sings, " Sir, have you heard about the Roosh'ns?' Enraged, I down to breakfast sit, There lies I'm i'tn most constant reader The Times I dare not open it, I knothe subject of the leader. A knock comes I am told it ia A man collecting contributions; For whom ! " The wives and families Of those who've gone to fight the Roosh'ns." I go to town, and want tofcnow : If funds are up, and how to rate 'em ; I'm answered, ' Well, I think they're low IJut have you read the ultimatum V- I try ag iin. I ask, " How fare The ministerial resulutions On the reform; bill." "Eh, oh. they're Postponed 'till we've thrash'd the Rooshn's." I go into an inn to dine. The waiter comes all prime and smirky, And says their poultry's good and fine, The Czar has not attacked his Turkey. ; In the next box I overhear A talk of Austrians and of Prooshn'a ; . I'm pleased, another topic's here : No, 'tis bu ". will they help the Rooshn's ?" The question haunts me every way, Even the boy that sweeps my office . Young rascal anked t'other day To tell him who Prince Menschikoffis. In reading-rooms nought else reajl ; In scientific institutions Science is set aside instead, Folks lecture now about the Roosh'ns. I cannot sleep a wink all night, - . I feel that I am daily sinking ; I've, lost my health and appetite - The worry's driven me to drinking. I feel that soon 1 shall he free, From all these daily persecutions ; ' An inquest soon will sit on me : The verdict bored to death by Roosh'ns. SELECTED STORY. From Peterson's Magazine. THE PROMISED KISS. 5 BY A. L. OATIS. Livin'gstcA' Athiouv, a you'nff'artist in search of the beWfound himself, one warm after noon in July, on Iligbee's beach, which is about an .hour's ride from the fashionable bathing place at Cape May, and is famous for its bril liant pebbles of all colors, particularly for one, which is called the Cape May diamond. As ho reclined" lazily on the sand enjoying the breeze from the bay, and the sailing of the fish-hawks, his thoughts were kiterrupted by the eager 'tone of some children's voices who alighted from a Jersey wagon, and commenced an active search for diamonds. Among them hp perceived a little g rl, whom he knew, and .who always attracted the artist's eye by her grace, whether on the green, or at the hops, or in the rough waves playing like a baby mer maid. Her name was Leonora Revillo." She was a lithe little maiden of nine years, with j glorious luge drk eyes, and ipretty rosy lips. . The children p;4ssed Amory without observ ing hiui, so eager were they in their search, and . they were soon out of sight; but hardly an hour elapsed, before he again heard their ex- ulting little voices as they approached, after having met with signal good fortune. Gaining for the first time some idea of the value of the spoil, he glanced carelessly among the pebbles at his feet, and saw almost immediately one of the largest diamonds ever found there. Upon examination it proved to be perfectly free from . flaws, and of a delicate pinki-h tinge, that, com bined with its pretty egg-like shape, made it really beautiful.. While he was still admiring it, he heard one of the children say:. ' "Father will' call you Dull Eyes, to-day, Leonora, and me Bright Eyes, for I have found three and you not one." , "And I seveD," " and I five," "and I four," cried numerous voices. , Oh, Leonora, for shame! You never find the pretty things. You are always looking af teT. fish-hawks, or sand-pups, or soils, and havnt found one diamond, for the ring father promis 'ed'you." Leonora's face expressed sham and vexation, sufficient ' foj a disappointed California gold hunter. . She began eagerly looking round her, a very pretty picture of impatience and disap pointed ambition. Amory called the children to him and show ed them his diamond, asking to whom he should giv it, supposing the children wpuld, with one voice, suggest" the unfortunate Leono ra. On the contrary there were shrill cries of "me," ."give it to me." "No, no, to ine!" Leonora being older and tomewbat more bash ful than the other children, restrained her im patience to become owner of the stone, and on ly once faintly said, i " I should like it." :; " Would you like to have it ?" he ask. " Oh, yes, very much, indeed." " Well, will you give me a kiss for it ?" " Oh, yes, a great many of them." " Stop," said he,, gravely, "I only ask for one, but you promise me that." " Yes," and she held out her hand for the stone, her eyes dancing with joy. i , " And will you pay me when I demand pay ment ?" " I will pay you now." " No, no, thank you, I had rather have the pleasure of anticipation. Will you not prom ise to pay me that kiss, when I shall demaud it, upon condition of receiving this stone now?" " Oh, yesj I promise," and though those cher ry lips, pouting with the long suspense, looked sufficiently tempting. Amory gave her the diamond, without taking its price, and saw her run off in triumph, surrounded by her compan ions. . The romantic idea which suggested this bar gain served as food for Amory's imagination, till he had painted a little sketch called " The Promised Kiss," representing a youth of about his own years, eighteen, kneeling to receive a touch on the forehead, from a rather Madonno like, having preposterously large eyes,; who bent gracefully over him. After this picture, which he soon learned to think unbearable, was de stroyed, all remembrance of the promised kiss faded from his mind, till it was recalled many years afterward. The interim was spent by him f in Europe, where the young experimenter in: colors, be came came a handsome man, of whose artistic skill fame began to whisper wonderful stories. Leonora Revillo grew only more perfectly lovely as woman's charms were added to her childish beauty, and sie was the bell at New port the happy summer! that saw her nineteenth birth-day. 1. j One evening, as she was listlessly submitting her luxuriant, dark curls to the skill bf the de lighted hair dresser, her friend, Martha Wynd ham, came dancing into the room, and whis pered, " Set your cap to-night, and set it becoming ly, for there is a new arrival among the beaux, a. very handsome millionaire! He is to he at the ball to-night" ' Who is-he?" asked Leonora, " A Mr. Somerton from the South, I believe. I do like Southerners." " You had better set your cap then." " Oh, I shall, assuredly. Don't you see this love of a peach blossom dress ? Is it not be coming? What are you going to wear ? This pure white this cloud of a dress ; It is charm ing! and the work on it looks like strings and clusters of pearls. But otdy those snow-berries , in your hair common things do wear your silver ornaments." But the snow-berries matched the dress, and Leonora looked like a very innocent Venus, clothed in mist, with frth-beads still clinging to her, as, with her soft, dark eyes full of pleas ure, her lips, that were usually prone to repose breaking into a smile, and her motion the very expression of a dreamy joy, she took her place. in the dance. ': She was introduced to Mr. Someiton, and danced the second set with him well pleased to find the new arrival a very agreeable man, besides being a very handsome one, with ear nest blue eyes, and a golden moustasche. A few dances together at balls, some strolls (though in a crowd) by moonlight, some rides on horseback, and several rainy days spent in doors together, made the acquaintance speed rapidly. Indeed, Leonora knew that Mr. Som erton loved her, though she had given no name to the bliss, which in her own heart made its new found home. i Several ladies and gentlemen received an in vitation, one afternoon, from a resident of the place, to come to his house and j decide upon the merits of a picture which had just arrived from Europe, painted by an American . artist Mr. Livingston Amory. Leonora and Mr. Som erton were among the invited. Standing with many others before the picture, they gazed at it in silence till Leonora turned away with tears streaming from her eyes. It represented Cleo patra parting from Anthony. , Among all the admiring remarks made upon the picture, there was but one that would have satisfied the artist. When Somerton asked in a low tone why the picture so distressed her, she replied, " I forgot it was a picture." ."Is Cleopatra so great a favorite with you, that you weep over her sorrows ?" "Cleopatra's grief is so expressed in that painting, that I cannot help feeling with her. Why did I never pity her before ?" On the way home, Leonora anl Mr. Somer ton wandered in the summer twilight, quite out of the town, and in a pleasant green lane, up which the glowing evening star shone, the vows they exchanged were heard by none but them selves. ; That evening after tea, the merits of the pic ture were still - further discussed,5 and some re marks made concerning the speedy return of the artist to his native land. Leonora had en tirely forgotten the kiss she had once promised this artist, though still wore as a seal the stone he had given her. It was in its original state, except that at the large end it was polished just sufficiently to receive Iter izutml is s pret ty lozenge. A band of gold around it and three small gold chains attaching it to her watch-guard, made it one of the very prettiest of those little toys ladies call their " charms." About a week after the visit to the picture, a rumor was circulated through the ball-room, that Mr. Amory would arrive, or had arrived, in- NewPort' that very evening. While Leono ra was leaning on the arm of Mr. Somerton, she expressed a strong wish to see the artist who had known how to awake with such power the deepest feelings of the heart. Mr. Somerton was silent, so silent that Leonora stole a glance at his face, and blushed as she imagined she read jealousy there. It was flattering to her, perhaps, but unworthy of her lover. She wish ed heartily for the immediate presence of the artist, that she might show Mr. Somerton how little he had to fear. At this instant a waiter handed her a note. Astonished at its arrival at such a time, she drew her lover to the window recess, near which lights were placed, and entirely uncon scious of his closely watchful eyes, she proceed ed to open and read the following note : " Do you remember receiving from a young artist a stone, worthless in itself, but to him a ' pearl of great price ?' He has not for gotton the promise you made on receiving it, nor can he forego the fulfilment of that prom ise. For more than an hour, had he gazed with ever-increasing admiration on your peerless beau ty, ere he recognized in you the very lovely child who once "captivated his boyish fancy. This recognition was aided by learning your name, and observing that you wore a pearl-like pebble, which, notwithstanding its beautiful set ting, he knew to be the one of so great import to him. As you doubtless remember the bar gain, and caunot avoid paying so just a debt, he will find some opportunity this evening of receiving his due. Indignant amazement flushed Leonora's brow, and returning to Mr. Somerton, she would have hastily handed the note to him, had she not been struck with the keenness of his glance. It looked like distrust, aad she despised the feeling. Haughtily, withdrawing her half ex tended hand, containing the note, she requested her lover to lead her from the room, and left him at the foot of. the staircase without saying a word. In her own room she reflected upon her pre sent position. The promise was vividly reveal ed to her unind, and honesty demanded just pay ment of the debt she had incurred. Neverthe less it could not be doue it was an impossibili ty. Besides, should she even overcome her own reluctance, ought she not to tell Mr. So merton all about it, and wonid not this occasion a quarrel ? She determined to find some mode of elijding the penalty," and finally wrote the following note, sending it to Mr. Amory with the pebble, by the waiter who had brought his to her. ' " "I return the stone Which I find too costly for me to purchase. The price you asked was a trifle at the. time. Was it generous to demand fit now when circumstances makes it no longer so. In ten minutes an answer was returned, ac eompanie,d by the stone. "Return me what was mine, precisely as it was when you received it, or I claim the pay raent of your debt, and should you refuse to see me this evening one-half hour from now in the arbor, I will remind you of your promise, when, perhaps, its fulfilment may not be so aoreeable as I should now try to make it." ''Despicable creature," cried Leonora, despair ingly then, with sudden resolve, throwing around:her a whte crape shawl she hastened to the ball room, and found her lover awaiting her at the door. He glanced uneasily at her pale cheek, whispered " You are not well. Let us go to the garden. You wilt feel better for resting in the arbor, af ter the close air of this room." " Yes, come. I have something to tell you. But no Jet us walk on the piazza, I can tell you best there." Bending that he might catch every word, he heard from Leonora the whole story, and then promised the blushing, trembling girl that if she chose he would be present, yet not interfere with the accomplishment of what her conscience represented as a duty. She thanked him gratefully, and they proceed ed at once to the arbor, as it wanted but a few minutes of the appointed time. Arrrived there, Leonora began to have serious fears for her lov er, "Should the dreaded artist, be in an angry mood. - " Only do one thing more for me," she plead ed, "stand behind the grape-vine. Come if I call, but for my sake keep quiet if I do not." Somerton promised, and before withdrawing her hold upon his arm, Leonora leaned her head against it, and pressed fervently that beloved protection. Somerton being concealed, five mi nutes of most d'sagreeable suspense followed. Then steps were heard approaching, and a man muffled in a cloak, so that even his face was con cealed, stood before Leonora. She gazed fearfully at the tall apparition, and asked in an almost inaudible voice r f." Are you, Mr. Amory?" "I am." " I am ready To redeem my deeply lamented promise," she faultered, then from terror and distress, feeling .herself fainting, she gasped Mr. SomertonV name, as ber eyts 'clowd, and in- stantly felt herself folded in supporting arms, while a voice she loved called her every endear ing name, and she felt that the bated fulfilment of her promise was not demanded of her. Slowly recovering she looked anxiously around for the artist The cloak was enfol. ing her, and yet no person was visible but Mr. Somer ton. " How is it " " has he gone ?" " My cruel deception is at an end," said her lover, " I entreat you to listen to my justifica tion. One, whose malice I now know how to appreciate, told me to beware, that I had not yet had an opportunity of seeing your real char acter that vou were, in short, a heartless flirt- to whom each new admirer was welcome, and who kept faith with none. I had no right to doubt you. Can you ever forgive me ?" A pleasant smile, and gentle pressure, assured' him of Leonora's leniency. Still she did not under stand the matter. "I hope you and that hateful artist are not the same person," she said ; " bis name was Amory." " So was mine my dearest. I changed it just before leaving England, as a maternal uncle left me a very handsome fortune upon condition that I should take his name, and though I con sented to bear it in my every day character, I will never have my artist's name any but my own. Writers have a 'nomme de plume,' why should not I have a nomme de brush i If you have forgiven me, dearest, tell me which you will consent to bear 1" " Leonora, your promise to Mr. Amory is yet unfulfilled." " Since Mr. Amory has not 'come to claim it I am absolved from that detestable pro mise." " Why do you still hate poor Mr. Amory ? Has he not proved himself a self-denying indi vidual ? Yres, Leonora, though I had your pro mise, and though my love has been deep and warm as ever lover's was, you know that I have never even touched my lips to the lips of those dear fingers, I have not dared to ask it. Yet this evening the yearning tenderness of my heart toward you,' made me feel that I was de nying myself too great a privilege. 4 I was about to tell you so as you stood by the window after waltzing, when my pretended friend whispered his warning, and the fiendish resolve entered my mind to try you; to see how sacred you considered a positive promise, to know how flat tery would effect you, and also to discover whe ther you would use concealment toward me. You stood the test nobly, my Leonora. Can yon forgive me ! Remember that I have one excuse to give in palliation of ray fault it was not a long premeditated scheme, but a sudden impulse to which I gave way, under provoca tion, for my jealousy was roused, and besides, I thought it was time I had that kiss. Oh ! Leo nora, Prove that I am forgiven. Freely give Mr. Amory his due. 'Not to Mr. Amory, but to Mr. Somerton.' persisted Leonora, as she permitted the last named favored individual to take both principal and interest of the debt. "Leonora, you have uttered sweet words, that the Artist Amory thrilled to hear. It was his love you won. Had you known how his heart beat when you were gazing at his picture, and turned weeping from it, you would have pi tied him. Oh, you must love the name of Amo ry, which now indeed shall be made one of never-dying fame !" " Never, never so well as Somerton !" and thus finding he could lead the usually timid girl, to give utterance to words which made music in his heart, he never omitted an oppor tunity of praising Mr. Amory. Mr. Somerton being instantly quoted as the only pattern of manly excellence, and Mr. Amory's cruel con duct remaiuing forever unforgiven. From the Southern Cultivator. FIRE-FANGED MANURE. Thk ssason of the year has arrived when sta ble manure is prone to fire-fang a chemical change that lessens its value from 50 to 60 per cent. To prevent such a loss is an object of much importance in farm economy, and we will endeavor to explain the subject in a way that will render it plain to all interested in providing .food for plants. Few are ignorant of the fact that a mass of dung thrown from a stable, and particularly that from horses and mules, is apt to heat, and some times it proceeds to spontaneous combustion. This heating is not injurious, if only moderate in degree, for it always precedes, aid attends fermentation, whether vinous or putrefactive. The latter is what the skilful farmer desires to increase the solubility of manure; for Nature rots vege table and animal substances to prepare their ele ments for .reorganization in the cells of living, growing plants. Fire-fangingis a peculiar chem ical operation analagous to burning wood into coal, t or charring hay and straw by imperfect combustion. It not only checks putrefactive fermentation in a manure heap, but drives off in a gaseous state all the nitrogen and ammonia it may contain. Half burnt dung and straw, (fire fanged manure) refuses to ferment, rot, or dis solve for the nourishment of crops, for a long time after it is buried in tilled ground. Hence, it is not too much to say that a farmer who al lows his dung-heaps to fira-tang really loses narly three-quarters of the value of the same, and often more tham that. How one can Best ' prevent this excMi of beat- ing is the point now to be considered. It is done simply by, spreading the manure over a greater surface so thin as not to heat at all, nor ferment, but thicker or thinner according to the weather and the nature of the manure. To a dopt the language of farmers, some excrements are of a more heating nature than others ; and no one rule will apply to every condition and composition of the dung-heap. It should not, however, be long exposed to the open air, rain, nd sunshine, but be covered over with loam, clay, or vegetable mould. In this state Scotch farmers call their dung-heaps " pies ;" the cover ing of earth being the upper-crust, and one of clay or leaf-mould taincr th ndpr-mt The right management of these " pies" is quite as difhcult as the management of a coal-pit, or burning brick-kiln. All air must not be exclud ed, for that would arrest decomposition. To earn the condition of the mass, the farmer sticks a stake into it, which being drawn out, he learns from the steam, gases and temperature of the air that issue how his pie is baking. If the heat is too great, the heap should be forked over immediately to cool it, as you would separate the sticks in a burning brushheap ; or you may cover it deeper and closer to exclude air as you would close the draft in a coalpit, a lime or brick kiln. If water is convenient. mak stal hlo into the heap and pour water into them just enough to put out the latent fire below. To avoid all loss and labor of this kind, we prefer to haul most of our manure in a raw, un fermented state, into the field, spread and plow it in at once, and let it rot in the soil. This course is not always practicable, and the dung lias to be preserved in some form for future use. To have it rot, and at the same time decompose a good deal of corn-stalks, straw and forest leaves, mixed therewith, and lose nothing of its volatile elements, is the end to be aimed at. D.Lee. COTTON-MODE OF CULTIVATION. The position is taken, that the cotton plant is not easily suited in soil and climate, and that " the best cotton lands are of a deep, rich, soft mould a medium between the spongy and sandy." According to my way of thinking-, cotton grows and yields according to fertility on almost all soils in this latitude. No one would say, the orange is not easily suited, because it requires climate. I have seen cotton doing as well as could be expected on the red clay and sandy flats of Carolina and upon the stiff, hard bottoms of the bayous in your State. The best cotton lands I ever saw, are as stiff and as bard as most clays get to be ; it is true, though, be fore the summer is over, the plowed land is as light as an ash bank, but after the winter rains, it is again hard to plow, and where not plowed, it is hard all the year, except when wet. I ob ject to such sayings, though only practical as to soiling lands. I object to the quantity of seed sown ; I have sown twenty-three creps, and have never yet used one bushel ..per acre, and have planted crops with a half bushel per acre. I am very particular to put my land in good order, operi very shallow, and more by pressing on the earth than plowing. I either step-drop seed, eight to twelve in a place, or drill seed very thinly. My reason is, I can save a bushel per acre and have every seed sound, hot injured in the least. A thin stand is less subject to die out; will stand the cold mornings best, and the land is easier cultivated, as the stand is easier thin ned. I cover with a heavy block, more by com pressing earth to the seed then by covering with eaith. This leaves the land in fine condition for the plow or the hoe. Other matters in whicb I differ with many : plowing lands in the water, with the expectation that winter freezes will pulverize ,the earth. I would ask those who have tried it, their ex perience. In 1840 or '41 I had about one-half of a field plowed in the fall ; next spring, when bedding up, I discovered, whenever the plow came to the plowed land, it always tended out of the land, and the plowman invariably declar ed it was difficult to keep the plow in the earth, the land was so hard. Is this according to rea son ? At the North, where there are freezes, or a freeze all winter, the land is mellowed the depth of the freeze not much rain, or it falls on frozen earth. In latitude 30 to 33 degrees, our freezes are few and far between, not over an inch or so, followed by torrents of raiu, which dissolves a portion of the soil, washes other portions, and followed by dry weather, when the land having run together and bakes about as hard as land gets to be. I ask for examination, and I think no more plowing will be done before March than is necessary to the planting of corn and oats. I prefer doing as much plowing after winter rains have passed as is possible. Yours, with respect, M. W. Philips. Southern Organ. From the Southern Cultivator. "RESCUE GRASS "-CEEAT0CHL0A BEE-YIARISTATA- Messrs. Editors Your kind favor of the 11th inst is before me, and, in answer, I have to say that the history of my famous " Rescue Grass" is soon told. The Seeds were sent to my father-in-law (the late Maj. James Smith, of Macon, Ga.,) about 5 years ago. : He received about a tea-spoon full and had them planted in his garden in the spring. The chickens scratch ed them up and over the bed, and, as they did not germinate, the family thought they were lost or destroyed ; but in the early part of Sep tember following they came up, and the grass grew so rapidly and was so luxuriant it . attract- I ed the attention of all who law it. From this the seeds were saved and have been cultivated by the family ever since. There was no name or description on the paper in which the seed were enclosed. Last year when the grass was in seed I gave specimens to Dr. Hugh Neisler (the best Botanist here) to ascertain its true name and nativity, He could neither define or locate it. We then sent them to Dr. Torrev, of New-York, who wrote him its Botanical name, native place and properties. He said its Bot anical name is Ceratochloa Breviaristata ; Eng lish. "Short awn Horn Grass" that it is a native of the Pacific coast, in Russian America -that it is a distinct variety that it has the largest seed of any known specimen of grass that, if climatized, it would be very valuable for grazing stock, for making hay apd fer enriching exhausted fields. We have now about 40 acres in this grass, from which I expect to raise seed enough to supply such as may wish to cultivate it, with a peck each, which is plenty for a start. This grass, followed with our corn-field pea, can reclaim every old field in the South can make them produce as well as they ever did, and that for ages to come. They can give us all the manure our fields require, and pay us richly to use them besides. In fine, they can make the South the Eden of the world. This grass has the following extraordinary properties, which places it far ahead of any oth er known variety : 1st. It has the largest grain of any known species of grass, being nearly as large as wheat. ' , 2d. It will grow (on very rich ground) from ; three to four feet high. 3d. It is never injured by cold no freeze hurts it. 4th. It is never troubled by insects of any kind. 5th. It is never injured or retarded in grow ing by heavy rains, overflows or ordinary drouth. 6th. It grows as fast as Millet or Lucerne. 7th. It is as nutritious as Barley, and stock are as fond of it as they are of that. 8th. It will keep horses, ' mules, cattle, sheep, goats bogs, and poultry fat, throughout the winter and spring, from November to June. 9th. It will then (the stock being with drawn, and the ground being rich) yield from four to six tons of excellent hay per acre. 10th. It saves corn, and fodder being fed away to stock during the winter apd spring. 11th. It completely protects fields from wash ing rains. 12th. It enables f aimers to have an abundance of rich milk, cream and butter, with fat beef, mutton, kid, pork, turkey, and chickens for their table. 13th. It will (it followed by our corn-field pea) give to farmers the cheapest, the surest, and the most paying plan to reclaim worn out fields, and refertilize those not yet so, which the in genuity of man can devise. 14th. It will sow its own seeds after the first time, without expense or trouble, thereby re producing itself through its seeds on the same ground an infinitum. 15th. It does not spread or take possession of a field, so as to be difficult to get rid, but can be effectually destroyed at any stage before the eed ripen and fall out, by being plowed up, or under. This grass, having the above enumerated pro perties, will be found, by all who cultivate it, Tar superior to any other species ever introduced, or which can be introduced, for the climate and soil of the South. I shall be prepared by July next, to furnish seed of this valuable grass to all who desire to cultivate it My price is $5 per peck, which is as much as is necessary to begin with; it being distinctly understood that in every instance where the party is not satisfied (after giving it a fair trial) the price shall be returned. Your obedient servant, B. V. Iversok. N. B. rMesrs. D. B. Plumb & Co., of Augusta, are authorised to obtain names of persons who may wish to procure seed, which will ensure their getting tbem B. V. I. P. S. I called it " Rescue Grass" beforfe I found out its correct name. I Columbus, Ga., March, 1854. BENEFIT OP DITCHING. About one year ago I bought 120 acres of land, for $400. There was at least $350 worth of improvement on it. The reason I bought it so cheap was, it was so wet that the former Owner could not make a living on it He told the neighbors that it was too wet to raise grass. He said if he would sow clean timothy seed on it, in two years it will turn to wild grass. Well, last spring I went to work and cut a ditch large enough to drain it decently. Some of the time I worked in the water to the top of my boots, and that not a little of time, for I cut the ditch in the lowest of the ground. The consequence was the water had a chance to run off, and my ground was fit to plow about as soon as my neighbor's dry land. I planted six acres of corn on the part I ditched ; and from that six acre, I took off 400 bushels of shelled . ..... corn that was good and sound. This proves to my satisfaction that our low, wet lands when well ditched, are our best lands. I would say to one and. all of those for whose benefit I write, hold up your heads, "For in due season you shall reap, if ye faint not "-in ditching. Do not back out at the noise of a few frogs ; just go to work and dig a good ditch, and drain the wa ter off from them, and they will soon be missing. LuTHXR BbOWK. Paulding, 3, 185iZkrM6rat. MILKING COWS. To insure the greatest: yield of milk from cow, she should not only be well fed and well tended, but also well mixed. Now it is not ev ery man or every maid, who can squeeze fluid from a cow's udder that is a good milker; j It is important, in the first place, that a cow's bag should be clean. For this purpose, when the animal is stabled as they are, or should be during the winter, on all farms, and throughout the year by many let the whole udder be washed with cold water, and immediately thor oughly dried with a towel. The advantages of -this practice to the health of the animal and the healthiness of the. milk are great and manifest; and in this way, too, we escape the black sedi- . ment of which milk-buyers so constantly com plain, and which is nothing else than small par ticles of manure, brushed from the bag and bel ly of the cow into the milk pail.' The hands of the milkman by this process become, washed clean, of necessity ; an operation too generally omitted by those who consider themselves neat and careful. The same process obviates, too, the supposed necessity of moistening the teats " by milking a fine stream into the bands and . washing the teats therewith, a filthy prac- tice followed by almost all men and too many women. I The udder being now cooled and cleansed, we are ready to begin milking. If the caw be well trained she will now extend backwards her hind leg for your convenience, without a word accompanied with the word of command " hoist" They understand what is required of them, and need only at times, a gentle reminder. But it is a singular fact that men who are kind in ev ry other relation of life, as husband, father, neighbor and master are rough in their treat ment of gentle " bossy." If they say " hoist," it is in stentorian tones ; and too generally the first intimation of their wishes is conveyed in a striking manner, by the edge of a heavy milk ing stool. Now a considerable experience aJ mong the " milking mothers of the herd" has convinced us that harshness of tone or petty cruelty is not only not productive of good re sults but,is extremely disadvantageous. Many cows, that hold up their milk to a eross milker, will give down freely to one more gentle. And the sack of grain, orj other weight across the loins, which is well used to compel the ani mal to give down, would pave been .uncalled fpr if a kind hand had always drawn her- milk, or could soon be dispensed with, if gentleness takes hold of the teats. f Now the cow may kick. Well, we have in previous numbers of this journal shown that" to" return kick for kick is a poor method of con verting Mooley from the error of her ways but she may be completely cured by kindness. I When fairly seated, it is of the utmost con sequence that the milking should be done with out violence, and as. rapidly as possible. Many persons who pride j themselves upon their fast ' milking, jerk the, teats violently, and others will cause them to become sore by the pressure of theirfinger nails, j The, best milkers scaroely move their elbows,; but with the upper portion of the hand grasping and compressing the teat, force the jet of milk by the pressure of the low er fingers. i j ' Whether a cow should, be milked before, af i i i ter, or during feeding is a question of minor importance, and must be decided by circumstan ces. R. L. Allen, Iin his excellent work on "do mestic animals," recommends, if we rightly re member, that they be milked while feeding, for the reason, that while thus engaged they will more readily let! down their milk; but many cows, at other times quiet, will be a little Unea sy while eating, and anxious to get not orjy all that belongs to them, but a share of their neigh bor's meal also. For this reason we always milk ed before feeding that the feed might appear as a reward' of merit Where one has but one or two cows, it is of course a matter of little mo ment In fine, we recommend to those who want much milk and good milk, kindness and clean liness. Journal of Agriculture. . - -i Grease for Carriage Wheels. The position preventi friction to a great extent, com Its cost is not comparatively greater than the ma terials often employed for tbffpurpose ; its not changed by heat, and hence does not liquify and flow away from its proper place : -) . Black lead pulverized, 50 parts by weight Hog's Lard, j 50 " White Soap,,1 50 M Quicksilver, j 5 M , Amalgamate; well the lard and mercury by rubbing them together for a long time in al mor tar ; then gradually add the black lead and lastly the, soap,! mixing the whole as perfectly as possible. ' is Forty years' ago, three men Jbyi hard-work could scarcelyj manufacture 4,000 small sheets of paper! a day, while now they can produce 60,000 in theisarae time. It has been calculat ed that if the paper produced yearly by six ma chines could be put together, the sheet ybuld encircle the wrld. Nowhere is paper so much used as in the! United States. In France, with 35,000,000 of inhabitants only 70,000 are pro duced yearly,' of which one-seventh' is for ex jportation. If England, with S 8,000,000 jf in habitants 66,000 tons are produced, while ia this country the jamonut is nearly as. great :ia in France and England together. Bot. Af pint and a half of -strong sag lea, made very sweet with molasaev Two or ihree dote ii sufficient toe3ect s cure. . - 4' it I ' r. K. t I f i i- f t , F V t. h v. i i
Southern Weekly Post (Raleigh, N.C.)
Standardized title groups preceding, succeeding, and alternate titles together.
April 29, 1854, edition 1
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