Success With Small Fruits
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E. P. Roe >> Success With Small Fruits
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But where trees or brush have grown very thickly, the roots and stumps
must be eradicated. The thick growth on the sandy land of Florida is
grubbed out at the cost of about $30 per acre, and I know of a
gentleman who pays at the rate of $25 per acre in the vicinity of
Norfolk, Va. I doubt whether it can be done for less elsewhere.
In some regions they employ a stump extractor, a rude but strong
machine, worked by blocks and pulleys, with oxen as motor power. From
the "Farmer's Advocate" of London, Ont., I learn that an expert with
one of these machines, aided by five men and two yoke of oxen, was in
the habit of clearing fifty acres annually.
I have cleaned hedge-rows and stony spots on my place in the following
thorough manner: A man commences with pick and shovel on one side of
the land and turns it steadily and completely over by hand to the
depth of fourteen to eighteen inches, throwing on the surface behind
him all the roots, stumps and stones, and stopping occasionally to
blast when the rocks are too large to be pried out. This, of course,
is expensive, and cannot be largely indulged in; but, when
accomplished, the work is done for all time, and I have obtained at
once by this method some splendid soil, in which the plow sinks to the
beam. A drought must be severe, indeed, that can injure such land.
There is a great difference in men in the performance of this work. I
have one who, within a reasonable time, would trench a farm. Indeed,
in his power to obey the primal command to "subdue the earth," my man,
Abraham, is a hero--although, I imagine, he scarcely knows what the
word means and would as soon think of himself as a hippopotamus. His
fortunes would often seem as dark as himself to those who "take
thought for the morrow;" and that is saying much, for Abraham is
"colored" as far as man can be.
I doubt whether his foresight often reaches further than bedtime, and
to that hour he comes with an honest right to rest. He is a family
man, and has six or seven children, under eight years of age, whom he
shelters in a wretched little house that appears tired of standing up.
But to and from this abode Abraham passes daily, with a face as serene
as a May morning. In that weary old hovel I am satisfied that he and
his swarming little brood have found what no architect can build--a
home. Thither he carries his diurnal dollar, when he can get it, and
on it they all manage to live and grow fat. He loses time
occasionally, it is true, through illness, but no such trifling
misfortune can induce him, seemingly, to take a long, anxious look
into the future. Only once--it was last winter--have I seen him
dismayed by the frowning fates. The doctor thought his wife would die,
and they had nothing to eat in the house. When Abraham appeared before
me at that time, "his countenance was fallen," as the quaint, strong
language of Scripture expresses it. He made no complaints, however,
and indulged in no Byronic allusions to destiny. Indeed, he said very
little, but merely drooped and cowered, as if the wolf at the door and
the shadow of death within it were rather more than he could face at
one and the same time. It soon became evident, however, that his wife
would "pull through," as he said, and then the wolf didn't trouble him
a mite. He installed himself as cook, nurse, and house man-of-all-
work, finding also abundant leisure to smoke his pipe with
infinite content. One morning he was seen baking buckwheat cakes for
the children; each one in turn received an allowance on a tin plate,
and squatted here and there on the floor to devour it; and, from the
master of ceremonies down, there was not an indication that all was
not just as it should be. A few days later I met him coming back to
his work with his pipe in the corner of his mouth, and the old
confident twinkle in his eye as he said, "Mornin', Bossie." Now,
Abraham carries his peculiar characteristics into grubbing. If I
should set him at a hundred-acre field full of stumps and stones, and
tell him to clear it to the depth of two feet, he would begin without
any apparent misgiving, and with no more thought for the magnitude of
his task than he has for the tangled and stubborn mysteries of life in
general, or the dubious question of "what shall be on the morrow" in
his own experience. He would see only the little strip that he
proposed to clear up that day, and would go to work in a way all his
own.
Although not talkative to other people, he is very social with
himself, and, in the early days of our acquaintance, I was constantly
misled into the belief that somebody was with him, and that he was a
man of words rather than work. As soon, however, as I reached a point
from which I could see him, there he would be, alone, bending to his
task with the steady persistence that makes his labor so effective;
but, at the same time, until he saw me he would continue discussing
with equal vigor whatever subject might be uppermost in his mind. I
suppose he scarcely ever takes out a stone or root without
apostrophizing, adjuring, and berating it in tones and vernacular so
queer that one might imagine he hoped to remove the refractory object
by magic rather than by muscle. When the sun is setting, however, and
Abraham has complacently advised himself, "Better quit, for de day's
done gone, and de ole woman is arter me, afeared I've kivered myself
up a-grubbin'," one thing is always evident--a great many stones and
roots are "unkivered," and Abraham has earned anew his right to the
title of champion grubber.
But, as most men handle the pick and shovel, the fruit grower must be
chary in his attempts to subdue the earth with those old-time
implements. It is too much like making war with the ancient Roman
short sword in an age of rifled guns. I agree with that practical
horticulturist, Peter Henderson, that there are no implements equal to
the plow and subsoiler, and, in our broad and half-occupied country,
we should be rather shy of land where these cannot be used.
The cultivator whose deep moist loam is covered by sod only, instead
of rocks, brush, and trees, may feel like congratulating himself on
the easy task before him; and, indeed, where the sod is light,
strawberries, and especially the larger small fruits, are often
planted on it at once with fair success. I do not recommend the
practice; for, unless the subsequent culture is very thorough and
frequent, the grass roots will continue to grow and may become so
intertwined with those of the strawberry that they cannot be
separated. Corn is probably the best hoed crop to precede the
strawberry. Potatoes too closely resemble this fruit in their demand
for potash, and exhaust the soil of one of the most needed elements. A
dressing of wood ashes, however, will make good the loss. Buckwheat is
one of the most effective means of subduing and cleaning land, and two
crops can be plowed under in a single summer. Last spring I had some
very stiff marsh sod turned over and sown with buckwheat, which, in
our hurry, was not plowed under until considerable of the seed ripened
and fell. A second crop from this came up at once, and was plowed
under when coming into blossom, as the first should have been. The
straw, in its succulent state, decayed in a few days, and by autumn my
rough marsh sod was light, rich, and mellow as a garden, ready for
anything.
If it should happen that the land designed for strawberries was in
clover, it would make an admirable fertilizer if turned under while
still green, and I think its use for this purpose would pay better
than cutting it for hay, even though there is no better. Indeed, were
I about to put any sod land, that was not very stiff and unsubdued,
into small fruits, I would wait till whatever herbage covered the
ground was just coming into flower, and then turn it under. The
earlier growth that precedes the formation of seed does not tax the
soil much, but draws its substance largely from the atmosphere, and
when returned to the earth while full of juices, is valuable. In our
latitude this can usually be done by the middle of June, and if on
this sod buckwheat is sown at once, it will hasten the decay, loosen
and lighten the soil in its growth, and in a few weeks be ready itself
to increase the fertility of the field by being plowed under. In
regions where farmyard manure and other fertilizers are scarce and
high, this plowing under of green crops is one of the most effective
ways both of enriching and preparing the land; and if the reader has
no severer labors to perform than this, he may well congratulate
himself.
But let him not be premature in his self-felicitation, for he may find
in his sod ground, especially if it be old meadow land, an obstacle
worse than stumps and stones--the Lachnosterna fusca.
This portentous name may well inspire dread, for the thing itself can
realize one's worst fears. The deep, moist loam which we are
considering is the favorite haunt of this hateful little monster, and
he who does not find it lying in wait when turning up land that has
been long in sod, may deem himself lucky. The reader need not draw a
sigh of relief when I tell him that I mean merely the "white grub,"
the larva of the May-beetle or June-bug, that so disturbs our slumbers
in early summer by its sonorous hum and aimless bumping against the
wall. This white grub, which the farmers often call the "potato worm,"
is, in this region, the strawberry's most formidable foe, and, by
devouring the roots, will often destroy acres of plants. If the plow
turns up these ugly customers in large numbers, the only recourse is
to cultivate the land with some other crop until they turn into
beetles and fly away. This enemy will receive fuller attention in a
later chapter.
It is said that this pest rarely lays its eggs in plowed land,
preferring sod ground, where its larvae will be protected from the
birds, and will find plenty of grass roots on which to feed. Nature
sees to it that white grubs are taken care of, but our Monarch
strawberries need our best skill and help in their unequal fight; and
if "Lachnos" and tribe should turn out in force, Alexander himself
would be vanquished.
CHAPTER VIII.
PREPARATION OF SOIL BY DRAINAGE
Excessive moisture will often prevent the immediate cultivation of our
ideal strawberry land. Its absence is fatal, its excess equally so.
Let me suggest some of the evil effects. Every one is aware that
climate--that is the average temperature of the atmosphere throughout
the year--has a most important influence on vegetation. But a great
many, I imagine, do not realize that there is an underground climate
also, and that it is scarcely less important that this should be
adapted to the roots than that the air should be tempered to the
foliage. Water-logged land is cold. The sun can bake, but not warm it
to any extent. Careful English experiments have proved that well-
drained land is from 10 to 20 degrees warmer than wet soils; and Mr.
Parkes has shown, in his "Essay on the Philosophy of Drainage," that
in "draining the 'Red Moss' the thermometer in the drained land rose
in June to 66 degrees at seven inches below the surface, while in the
neighboring water-logged land it would never rise above 47 degrees--an
enormous gain."
In his prize essay on drainage, Dr. Madden confirms the above, and
explains further, as follows: "An excess of water injures the soil by
diminishing its temperature in summer and increasing it in winter--a
transformation of nature most hurtful to perennials, because the vigor
of a plant in spring depends greatly on the lowness of temperature to
which it has been subjected during the winter (within certain limits,
of course), as the difference of temperature between winter and spring
is the exciting cause of the ascent of the sap." In other words, too
much water in the soil may cause no marked difference between the
underground climate of winter and spring.
Dr. Madden shows, moreover, that excess of water keeps out the air
essential not only in promoting chemical changes in the soil itself
and required by the plants, but also the air which is directly needed
by the roots. Sir H. Davy and others have proved that oxygen and
carbonic acid are absorbed by the roots as well as by the foliage, and
these gases can be brought to them by the air only.
Again, drainage alters the currents which occur in wet soil. In
undrained land, evaporation is constantly bringing up to the roots the
sour, exhausted water of the subsoil, which is an injury rather than a
benefit. On the other hand, the rain just fallen passes freely through
a drained soil, carrying directly to the roots fresh air and
stimulating gases.
Wet land also produces conditions which disable the foliage of plants
from absorbing carbonic acid, thus greatly decreasing its atmospheric
supply of food. Other reasons might be given, but the reader who is
not satisfied had better set out an acre of strawberries on water-
logged land. His empty pocket will out-argue all the books.
The construction of drains may be essential, for three causes: 1st.
Land that is dry enough naturally may lie so as to collect and hold
surface water, which, accumulating with every rain and snow storm, at
last renders the soil sour and unproductive. 2nd. Comparatively level
land, and even steep hillsides, may be so full of springs as to render
drains at short intervals necessary. 3rd. Streams, flowing perhaps
from distant sources, may find their natural channel across our
grounds. If these channels are obstructed or inadequate, we find our
land falling into the ways of an old soaker.
It should here be stated, however, that if we could cause streams to
overflow our land in a shallow, sluggish current, so that a sediment
would be left on the surface after a speedy subsidence, the result
would be in miniature like the overflow of the Nile in Egypt, most
beneficial, that is, if means for thorough subsequent drainage was
provided.
If there is an abundance of stone on one's place suitable for the
construction of drains, it can often be used to advantage, as I shall
show; but for all ordinary purposes of drainage, round tile with
collars are now recommended by the best authorities. It is said that
they are cheaper than stone, even where the latter is right at hand;
and the claim is reasonable, since, instead of the wide ditch required
by stone, a narrow cut will suffice for tile; thus a great saving is
at once effected in the cost of digging. Tile also can be laid
rapidly, and are not liable to become obstructed if properly protected
at points of discharge by gratings, so that vermin cannot enter. They
should not be laid near willow, elm, and other trees of like
character, or else the fibrous roots will penetrate and fill the
channel. If one has a large problem of drainage to solve, he should
carefully read a work like Geo. E. Waring's "Drainage for Profit and
for Health;" and if the slope or fall of some fields is very slight,
say scarcely one foot in a hundred, the services of an engineer should
be employed and accurate grades obtained. By a well-planned system,
the cost of draining a place can be greatly reduced, and the water
made very useful.
On my place at Cornwall I found three acres of wet land, each in turn
illustrating one of the causes which make drainage necessary. I used
stone, because, in some instances, no other material would have
answered, in others partly because I was a novice in the science of
drainage, and partly because I had the stones on my place, and did not
know what else to do with them. I certainly could not cart them on my
neighbors' ground without having a surplus of hot as well as cold
water, so I concluded to bury them in the old-fashioned box-drains.
Indeed, I found rather peculiar and difficult problems of drainage,
and the history of their solution may contain useful hints to the
reader.
In front of my house there is a low, level plot of land, containing
about three acres. Upon this the surface water ran from all sides, and
there was no outlet. The soil was, in consequence, sour, and in
certain spots only a wiry marsh grass would grow. And yet it
required, but a glance to see that a drain, which could carry off this
surface water immediately, would render it the best land on the place.
I tried, in vain, the experiment of digging a deep, wide ditch across
the entire tract, in hopes of finding a porous subsoil. Then I
excavated great, deep holes, but came to a blue clay that held water
like rubber. The porous subsoil, in which I knew the region abounded,
and which makes Cornwall exceptionally free from all miasmatic
troubles, eluded our spades like hidden treasures. I eventually found
that I must obtain permission of a neighbor to carry a drain across
another farm to the mountain stream that empties into the Hudson at
Cornwall Landing. The covered drain through the adjoining place was
deep and expensive, but the ditch across my land (marked A on the map)
is a small one, walled with stone on either side. It answers my
purpose, however, giving me as good strawberry land as I could wish.
On both sides of this open ditch, and at right angles with it, I had
the ground plowed into beds 130 feet long by 21 wide. The shallow
depressions between these beds slope gently toward the ditch, and
thus, after every storm, the surface water, which formerly often,
covered the entire area, is at once carried away. I think my simple,
shallow, open drain is better than tile in this instance.
[Illustration: Map showing experiments in the drainage of a strawberry
farm]
As may be seen from the map, my farm is peculiar in outline, and
resembles an extended city lot, being 2,550 feet long, and only 410
wide.
The house, as shown by the engraving, stands on quite an elevation, in
the rear of which the land descends into another swale or basin. The
drainage of this presented a still more difficult problem. Not only
did the surface water run into it, but in moist seasons the ground was
full of springs. The serious feature of the case was that there seemed
to be no available outlet in any direction. Unlike the mellow, sandy
loam in front of the house, the swale in the rear was of the stiffest
kind of clay--just the soil to retain and be spoiled by water. During
the first year of our residence here this region was sometimes a pond,
sometimes a quagmire, while again, under the summer sun, it baked into
earthenware. It was a doubtful question whether this stubborn acre
could be subdued, and yet its heavy clay gave me just the diversity of
soil I needed. Throughout the high gravelly knoll on which the house
stands, the natural drainage is perfect, and a sagacious neighbor
suggested that if I cut a ditch across the clayey swale into the
gravel of the knoll, the water would find a natural outlet and
disappear.
The ditch was dug eight feet wide and five feet deep, for I decided to
utilize the surface of the drain as a road-bed. Passing out of the
clay and hard-pan, we came into the gravel, and it seemed porous
enough to carry off a fair-sized stream. I concluded that my difficult
problem had found a cheap and easy solution, and to make assurance
doubly sure, I directed the men to dig a deep pit and fill it with
stones. When they had gone about nine feet below the surface, I
happened to be standing on the brink of the excavation, watching the
work. A laborer struck his pick into the gravel, when a stream gushed
out which in its sudden abundance suggested that which flowed in the
wilderness at the stroke of Moss's rod. The problem was now
complicated anew. So far from finding an outlet, I had dug a well
which the men could scarcely bail out fast enough to permit of its
being stoned up.
My neighbors remarked that my wide ditch reminded them of the Erie
canal, and my wife was in terror lest the children should be drowned
in it. Now something had to be done, and I called in the services of
Mr. Caldwell, city surveyor of Newburgh, and to his map I refer the
reader for a clearer understanding of my tasks.
Between the upper and lower swales, the ridge on which the house
stands slopes to its greatest depression along its western boundary,
and I was shown that if I would cut deep enough, the open drain in the
lower swale could receive and carry off the water from the upper
basin. This appeared Tobe the only resource, but with my limited means
it was like a ship-canal across the Isthmus of Panama. The old device
of emptying my drains into a hole that practically had no bottom,
suggested itself to me. It would be so much easier and cheaper that I
resolved once more to try it, though with hopes naturally dampened by
my last moist experience. I directed that the hole (marked B on the
map) should be oblong, and in the direct line of the ditch, so that if
it failed of its purpose it could become a part of the drain. Down we
went into as perfect sand and gravel as I ever saw, and the deeper we
dug the dryer it became. This time, in wounding old "Mother Earth," we
did not cut a vein, and there seemed a fair prospect of our creating a
new one, for into this receptacle I decided to turn my largest drain
and all the water that the stubborn acre persisted in keeping.
I therefore had a "box-drain" constructed along the western boundary
of the place (marked C) until it reached the lowest spot in the upper
swale. This drain was simply and rapidly constructed, in the following
manner: a ditch was first dug sufficiently deep and wide, and with, a
fall that carried off the water rapidly. In the bottom of this ditch
the men built two roughly faced walls, one foot high and eight inches
apart. Comparatively long, flat stones, that would reach from wall to
wall, were easily found, and thus we had a covered water-course, eight
by twelve inches, forming the common box-drain that will usually last
a lifetime.
The openings over the channel were carefully "chinked" in with small
stones and all covered with inverted sods, shavings, leaves, or
anything that prevented the loose soil from sifting or washing down
into the water-course.
At the upper end of the box-drain just described, a second and smaller
receptacle was dug (marked D), and from this was constructed another
box-drain (E), six inches square, across the low ground to the end of
the canal in which we had found the well (F). This would not only
drain a portion of the land but would also empty the big ditch (G),
and prevent the water of the well from rising above a certain point.
This kind of stone-work can be done rapidly; two men in two short
winter days built thirteen rods with a water-course six inches in the
clear.
To the upper and further end of the canal (G), I constructed another
and cheaper style of drain. In the bottom of this ditch (H), two
stones were placed on their ends or edges and leaned together so as to
form a kind of arch, and then other stones were thrown over and around
them until they reached a point eighteen inches from the surface. Over
these stones, as over the box-drains also, was placed a covering of
any coarse litter to keep the earth from washing down; and then the
construction of one or two short side-drains, the refilling the
ditches and levelling the ground completed my task.
It will be remembered that this entire system of drainage ended in the
excavation (B) already described. The question was now whether such a
theory of drainage would "hold water." If it would, the hole I had dug
must not, and I waited to see. It promised well. Quite a steady stream
poured into it and disappeared. By and by there came a heavy March
storm. When I went out in the morning, everything was afloat. The big
canal and the well at its lower end were full to overflowing. The
stubborn acre was a quagmire, and alas! the excavation which I had
hoped would save so much trouble and expense was also full. I plodded
back under my umbrella with a brow as lowering as the sky. There
seemed nothing for it but to cut a "Dutch gap" that would make a like
chasm in my bank account. By noon it cleared off, and I went down to
take a melancholy survey of the huge amount of work that now seemed
necessary, when, to my great joy, the oblong cut, in which so many
hopes had seemingly been swamped, was entirely empty. From the box-
drain a large stream poured into it and went down--to China, for all
that I knew. I went in haste to the big canal and found it empty, and
the well lowered to the mouth of the drain. The stubborn acre was now
under my thumb, and I have kept it there ever since. During the past
summer, I had upon its wettest and stiffest portion two beds of
Jucunda strawberries that yielded at the rate of one hundred and
ninety bushels to the acre. The Jucunda strawberry is especially
adapted to heavy land requiring drainage, and I think an enterprising
man in the vicinity of New York might so unite them as to make a
fortune. The hole was filled with stones and now forms a part of my
garden, and the canal answers for a road-bed as at first intended. In
the fortuitous well I have placed a force-pump, around which are
grown and watered my potted plants. The theory of carrying drains into
gravel does hold water, and sometimes holes can be dug at a slight
expense, that practically have no bottom. I have no doubt that in this
instance tile would have been better and cheaper than the small stone
drains that I have described.
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