There is scarcely any record of progress until after the introduction of the two great American species. It is true that in 1660 a fruit grower at Montreuil, France, is "said to have produced a new variety from the seed of the Wood strawberry," which was called the "Cappron," and afterward the "Fressant." It was named as a distinct variety one hundred years later, but it may be doubted whether it differed greatly from its parent. Be this as it may, it is said to be the first improved variety of which there is any record.
Early in the 17th century, intercourse with this continent led to the introduction of the most valuable species in existence, the "Virginian" strawberry (Fragaria Virginiana), which grows wild from the Arctic regions to Florida, and westward to the Rocky Mountains. It is first named in the catalogue of Jean Robin, botanist to Louis XIII., in 1624. During the first century of its career in England, it was not appreciated, but as its wonderful capacity for variation and improvement—in which it formed so marked a contrast to the Wood strawberry—was discovered, it began to receive the attention it deserved. English gardeners learned the fact, of which we are making so much to-day, that by simply sowing its seeds, new and possibly better varieties could be produced. From that time and forward, the tendency has increased to originate, name and send out innumerable seedlings, the majority of which soon pass into oblivion, while a few survive and become popular, usually in proportion to their merit.
The Fragaria Virginiana, therefore, the common wild strawberry that is found in all parts of North America east of the Rocky Mountains, is the parent of nine-tenths of the varieties grown in our gardens; and its improved descendants furnish nearly all of the strawberries of our markets. As we have seen, the Fragaria vesca, or the Alpine species of Europe, is substantially the same to-day as it was a thousand years ago. But the capacity of the Virginian strawberry for change and improvement is shown by those great landmarks in the American culture of this fruit,—the production of Hovey's Seedling by C. M. Hovey, of Cambridge, Mass., forty-five years since; of the Wilson's Albany Seedling, originated by John Wilson, of Albany, N. Y., about twenty-five years ago, and, in our own time, of the superb varieties, Monarch of the West, Seth Boyden, Charles Downing, and Sharpless.
As in the Alpine species there are two distinct strains,—the Alpine of the Continent, and the Wood strawberry of England,—so in the wild Virginian species there are two branches of the family,—the Eastern and the Western. The differences are so marked that some writers have asserted that there are two species; but we have the authority of Professor Gray for saying that the Western, or Fragaria Illincensis, is "perhaps" a distinct species, and he classifies it as only a very marked variety.
There are but two more species of the strawberry genus. Of the first of these, the Fragaria Indica, or "Indian" strawberry, there is little to say. It is a native of Northern India, and differs so much from the other species that it was formerly named as a distinct genus. It has yellow flowers, and is a showy house-plant, especially for window-baskets, but the fruit is dry and tasteless. It is said by Professor Gray to have escaped cultivation and become wild in some localities of this country.
Fragaria Chilensis is the last great species or subdivision that we now have to consider. Like the F. Virginiana, it is a native of the American continent, and yet we have learned to associate it almost wholly with Europe. It grows wild on the Pacific slope, from Oregon to Chili, creeping higher and higher up the mountains as its habitat approaches the equator. "It is a large, robust species, with very firm, thick leaflets, soft and silky on the under side." The flowers are larger than in the other species; the fruit, also, in its native condition, averages much larger, stands erect instead of hanging, ripens late, is rose-colored, firm and sweet in flesh, and does not require as much heat to develop its saccharine constituents; but it lacks the peculiar sprightliness and aroma of the Virginia strawberry. It has become, however, the favorite stock of the European gardeners, and seems better adapted to transatlantic climate and soil than to ours. The first mention of the Fragaria Chilensis, or South American strawberry, says Mr. Fuller, "is by M. Frezier, who, in 1716, in his journey to the South Sea, found it at the foot of the Cordillera mountains near Quito, and carried it home to Marseilles, France." At that time it was called the Chili strawberry, and the Spaniards said that they brought it from Mexico.
From Mr. W. Collett Sandars, an English antiquarian, I learned that seven plants were shipped from Chili and were kept alive during the voyage by water which M. Frezier saved from his allowance, much limited owing to a shortness of supply. He gave two of the plants to M. de Jessieu, "who cultivated them with fair success in the royal gardens." In 1727, the Chili strawberry was introduced to England, but not being understood it did not win much favor.
Mr. Fuller further states: "We do not learn from any of the old French works that new varieties were raised from the Chili strawberry for at least fifty years after its introduction." Duchesne, in 1766, says that "Miller considered its cultivation abandoned in England on account of its sterility. The importations from other portions of South America appeared to have met with better success; and, early in the present century, new varieties of the F. Chilensis, as well as of the Virginiana, became quite abundant in England and on the Continent."
If we may judge from the characteristics of the varieties imported to this country of late years, the South American species has taken the lead decidedly abroad, and has become the parent stock from which foreign culturists, in the main, are seeking to develop the ideal strawberry. But in all its transformations, and after all the attempts to infuse into it the sturdier life of the Virginian strawberry, it still remembers its birthplace, and falters and often dies in the severe cold of our winters, or, what is still worse, the heat and drought of our summers. As a species, it requires the high and careful culture that they are able and willing to give it in Europe. The majority of imported varieties have failed in the United States, but a few have become justly popular in regions where they can be grown. The Triomphe de Gand may be given as an example, and were I restricted to one variety I should take this. The Jucunda, also, is one of the most superb berries in existence; and can be grown with great profit in many localities.
Thus the two great species which to-day are furnishing ninety-nine hundredths of the strawberries of commerce and of the garden, both in this country and abroad, came from America, the Fragaria Chilensis reaching our Eastern States by the way of Europe, and in the form of the improved and cultivated varieties that have won a name abroad. We are crossing the importations with our own native stock. President Wilder's superb seedling, which has received his name, is an example of this blending process. This berry is a child of the La Constante and Hovey's Seedling, and, therefore, in this one beautiful and most delicious variety we have united the characteristics of the two chief strawberry species of the world, the F. Virginiana and F. Chilensis.
It will be seen that the great law of race extends even to strawberry plants. As in the most refined and cultivated peoples there is a strain of the old native stock, which ever remains, a source of weakness or strength, and will surely show itself in certain emergencies, so the superb new varieties of strawberries, the latest products of horticultural skill, speedily indicate in the rough-and-tumble of ordinary culture whether they have derived their life from the hardy F. Virginiana or the tender and fastidious F. Chilensis. The Monarch of the West and the Jucunda are the patricians of the garden, and on the heavy portions of my land at Cornwall I can scarcely say to which I give the preference. But the Monarch is Anglo-Saxon and the Jucunda is of a Latin race; or to drop metaphor, the former comes of a species that can adapt itself to conditions extremely varied, and even very unfavorable, and the latter cannot.
There are certain strong, coarse-feeding vegetables, like corn and potatoes, that can be grown on the half-subdued and comparatively poor soil of the field; but no gardener would think of planting the finer and more delicate sorts in such situations. There are but few who do not know that they can raise cauliflowers and egg-plants only on deep, rich land. The parallel holds good with this fruit. There are strawberries that will grow almost anywhere, and under any circumstances, and there is another class that demands the best ground and culture. But from the soil of a good garden, with a little pains, we can obtain the finest fruit in existence; and there is no occasion to plant those kinds which are grown for market solely because they are productive, and hard enough to endure carriage for a long distance. The only transportation to be considered is from the garden to the table, and therefore we can make table qualities our chief concern. If our soil is light and sandy, we can raise successfully one class of choice, high-flavored varieties; if heavy, another class. Many worry over a forlorn, weedy bed of some inferior variety that scarcely gives a week's supply, when, with no more trouble than is required to obtain a crop of celery, large, delicious berries might be enjoyed daily, for six weeks together, from twenty different kinds.
The strawberry of commerce is a much more difficult problem. The present unsatisfactory condition of affairs was admirably expressed in the following editorial in the "Evening Post" of June 12, 1876, from the pen of the late William Cullen Bryant:—
STRAWBERRIES "In general, an improvement has been observed of late in the quality of fruit. We have more and finer varieties of apple; the pear is much better in general than it was ten years since; of the grape there are many new and excellent varieties which the market knew nothing of a few years ago, and there are some excellent varieties of the raspberry lately introduced. But the strawberry has decidedly deteriorated, and the result is owing to the general culture of Wilson's Albany for the market. Wilson's Albany is a sour, crude berry, which is not fully ripe when it is perfectly red, and even when perfectly ripe is still too acid. When it first makes its appearance in the market, it has an exceedingly harsh flavor and very little of the agreeable aroma which distinguishes the finer kinds of the berry. If not eaten very sparingly, it disagrees with the stomach, and you wake with a colic the next morning. Before Wilson's strawberry came into vogue there were many other kinds which were sweeter and of a more agreeable flavor. But the Wilson is a hard berry, which bears transportation well; it is exceedingly prolific and altogether hardy,—qualities which give it great favor with the cultivator, but for which the consumer suffers. The proper way of dealing in strawberries is to fix the prices according to the quality of the sort. This is the way they do in the markets of Paris. A poor sort, although the berry may be large, is sold cheap; the more delicate kinds—the sweet, juicy, and high-flavored—are disposed of at a higher price. Here the Wilson should be sold the cheapest of all, while such as the Jucunda and the President Wilder should bear a price corresponding to their excellence. We hope, for our part, that the Wilsons will, as soon as their place can be supplied by a better berry, be banished from the market. It can surely be no difficult thing to obtain a sort by crossing, which shall bear transportation equally well, and shall not deceive the purchaser with the appearance of ripeness."
The reader will perceive that Mr. Bryant has portrayed both the evil and the remedy. The public justly complains of the strawberry of commerce, but it has not followed the suggestion in the editorial and demanded a better article, even though it must be furnished at a higher price.
In spite, however, of all that is said and written annually against the Wilson, it still maintains its supremacy as the market berry. Those who reside near the city and can make, to some extent, special arrangements with enlightened customers, find other varieties more profitable, even though the yield from them is less and some are lost from lack of keeping qualities. But those who send from a considerable distance, and must take their chances in the general market, persist in raising the "sour, crude berry," which is red before it is ripe, and hard enough to stand the rough usage which it is almost certain to receive from the hands through which it passes. I do not expect to see the day when the Wilson, or some berry like it, is not the staple supply of the market; although I hope and think it will be improved upon. But let it be understood generally that they are "Wilsons,"—the cheap vin ordinaire of strawberries. Cities will ever be flooded with varieties that anybody can grow under almost any kind of culture; and no doubt it is better that there should be an abundance of such fruit rather than none at all. But a delicately organized man, like Mr. Bryant, cannot eat them; and those who have enjoyed the genuine strawberries of the garden will not. The number of people, however, with the digestion of an ostrich, is enormous, and in multitudes of homes Wilsons, even when half-ripe, musty, and stale, are devoured with unalloyed delight, under the illusion that they are strawberries.
If genuine strawberries are wanted, the purchaser must demand them, pay for them, and refuse "sour, crude berries." The remedy is solely in the hands of the consumers.
If people would pay no more for Seckel than for Choke pears, Choke pears would be the only ones in market, for they can be furnished with the least cost and trouble. It is the lack of discrimination that leaves our markets so bare of fine-flavored fruit. What the grower and the grocer are seeking is a hard berry, which, if not sold speedily, will "keep over." Let citizens clearly recognize the truth,—that there are superb, delicious berries, like the Triomphe, Monarch, Charles Downing, Boyden, and many others, and insist on being supplied with them, just as they insist on good butter and good meats, and the problem is solved. The demand will create the supply; the fruit merchant will write to his country correspondents: "You must send fine-flavored berries. My trade will not take any others, and I can return you more money for half the quantity of fruit if it is good." The most stolid of growers would soon take such a hint. Moreover, let the patrons of high-priced hotels and restaurants indignantly order away "sour, crude berries," as they would any other inferior viand, and caterers would then cease to palm off Wilsons for first-class strawberries. If these suggestions were carried out generally, the character of the New York strawberry market would speedily be changed. It is my impression that, within a few years, only those who are able to raise large, fine-flavored fruit will secure very profitable returns. Moreover, we are in a transition state in respect to varieties, and there are scores of new kinds just coming before the public, of which wonderful things are claimed. I shall test nearly a hundred of these during the coming season, but am satisfied in advance that nine-tenths of them will be discarded within a brief period. Indeed, I doubt whether the ideal strawberry, that shall concentrate every excellence within its one juicy sphere, ever will be discovered or originated. We shall always have to make a choice, as we do in friends, for their several good qualities and their power to please our individual tastes.
There is, however, one perfect strawberry in existence,—the strawberry of memory,—the little wildlings that we gathered perhaps, with those over whom the wild strawberry is now growing. We will admit no fault in it, and although we may no longer seek for this favorite fruit of our childhood, with the finest specimens of the garden before us we sigh for those berries that grew on some far-off hillside in years still farther away.
The choice that Tobias Hobson imposed on his patrons when he compelled them to take "the horse nearest to the stable-door" or none at all, is one that, in principle, we often have to make in selecting our strawberry-ground. We must use such as we have, or raise no berries. And yet it has been said that "with no other fruit do soil and locality make so great differences." While I am inclined to think that this is truer of the raspberry, it is also thoroughly established that location and the native qualities of the soil are among the first and chief considerations in working out the problem of success with strawberries.
Especially should such forethought be given in selecting a soil suited to the varieties we wish to raise. D. Thurber, editor "American Agriculturist," states this truth emphatically. In August, 1875, he wrote: "All talk about strawberries must be with reference to particular soils. As an illustration of this, there were exhibited in our office windows several successive lots of the Monarch of the West, which were immense as to size and wonderful as to productiveness. This same Monarch behaved in so unkingly a manner on our grounds (very light and sandy in their nature) that he would have been deposed had we not seen these berries, for it was quite inferior to either Charles Downing, Seth Boyden, or Kentucky."
It is a generally admitted fact that the very best soil, and the one adapted to the largest number of varieties, is a deep sandy loam, moist, but not wet in its natural state. All the kinds with which I am acquainted will do well on such land if it is properly deepened and enriched. Therefore, we should select such ground if we have it on our places, and those proposing to buy land with a view to this industry would do well to secure from the start one of the best conditions of success.
It is of vital importance that our strawberry fields be near good shipping facilities, and that there be sufficient population in the immediate vicinity to furnish pickers in abundance. It will be far better to pay a much higher price for land—even inferior land—near a village and a railroad depot, than to attempt to grow these perishable fruits in regions too remote. A water communication with market is, of course, preferable to any other. Having considered the question of harvesting and shipping to market, then obtain the moist, loamy land described above, if possible.
Such ground will make just as generous and satisfactory returns in the home garden, and by developing its best capabilities the amateur can attain results that will delight his heart and amaze his neighbors.
Shall the fact that we have no such soil, and cannot obtain it, discourage us? Not at all! There are choice varieties that will grow in the extremes of sand or clay. More effort will be required, but skill and information can still secure success; and advantages of location, climate, and nearness to good markets may more than counterbalance natural deficiencies in the land. Besides, there is almost as solid a satisfaction in transforming a bit of the wilderness into a garden as in reforming and educating a crude or evil specimen of humanity. Therefore if one finds himself in an unfavorable climate, and shut up to the choice of land the reverse of a deep, moist, sandy loam, let him pit his brain and muscle against all obstacles.
If the question were asked, "Is there anything that comes from the garden better liked than a dish of strawberries?" in nine instances out of ten the answer would be, "Nothing," even though sour Wilsons were grown; and yet, too often the bed is in a neglected corner and half shaded by trees, while strong-growing vegetables occupy the moist, open spaces. It is hardly rational to put the favorite of the garden where, at best, a partial failure is certain. Let it be well understood that strawberries cannot be made to do well on ground exhausted by the roots and covered by the shade of trees.
On many farms and even in some gardens there are several varieties of soil. Within the area of an acre I have a sandy loam, a gravelly hillside, low, black, alluvial land, and a very stiff, cold, wet clay. Such diversity does not often occur within so limited a space, but on multitudes of places corresponding differences exist. In such instances, conditions suited to every variety can be found, and reading and experience will teach the cultivator to locate his several kinds just where they will give the best results. Moreover, by placing early kinds on warm, sunny slopes, and giving late varieties moist, heavy land, and cool, northern exposures, the season of this delicious fruit can be prolonged greatly. The advantage of a long-continued supply for the family is obvious, but it is often even more important to those whose income is dependent on this industry. It frequently occurs that the market is "glutted" with berries for a brief time in the height of the season. If the crop matures in the main at such a time, the one chance of the year passes, leaving but a small margin of profit; whereas, if the grower had prolonged his season, by a careful selection of soils as well as of varieties, he might sell a large portion of his fruit when it was scarce and high.
Climate is also a very important consideration, and enters largely into the problem of success from Maine to Southern California. Each region has its advantages and disadvantages, and these should be estimated before the purchaser takes the final steps which commit him to a locality and methods of culture which may not prove to his taste. In the far North, sheltered situations and light, warm land should be chosen for the main crop; but in our latitude, and southward, it should always be our aim to avoid that hardness and dryness of soil that cut short the crops and hopes of so many cultivators.
Having from choice or necessity decided on the ground on which our future strawberries are to grow, the next step is to prepare the soil. The first and most natural question will be: What is the chief need of this plant? Many prepare their ground in a vague, indefinite way. Let us prepare for strawberries.
Whether it grows North or South, East or West, the strawberry plant is the same, and has certain constitutional traits and requirements, which should be thoroughly fixed in our minds. Modifications of treatment made necessary by various soils and climates are then not only easily learned but also easily understood.
When asked, on one occasion, what was the chief requirement in successful strawberry culture, Hon. Marshall P. Wilder replied substantially in the following piquant manner:—
"In the first place, the strawberry's chief need is a great deal of water.
"In the second place, it needs more water.
"In the third place, I think I would give it a great deal more water."
The more extended and full my experience becomes, the less exaggerationI find in his words. The following strong confirmation of PresidentWilder's opinion may be found in Thompson's "Gardener's Assistant," astandard English work:—
"Ground that is apt to get very dry from the effects of only ten days' or a fortnight's drought is not suitable, on account of the enormous quantity of water that will be necessary; and if once the plants begin to flag for want of moisture, the crop is all but lost. A soil that is naturally somewhat moist, but not too wet, answers well; and where the land has admitted of irrigation, we have seen heavy crops produced every year."
If this be true in England, with its humid climate, how much more emphatically should we state the importance of this requirement in our land of long droughts and scorching suns.
Moisture, then, is the strawberry's first and chief need. Without it, the best fertilizers become injurious rather than helpful. Therefore, in the preparation of the soil and its subsequent cultivation, there should be a constant effort to secure and maintain moisture, and the failure to do this is the chief cause of meagre crops. And yet, very probably, the first step absolutely necessary to accomplish this will be a thorough system of underdrainage. I have spent hundreds of dollars in such labors, and it was as truly my object to enable the ground to endure drought as to escape undue wetness. Let it be understood that it ismoistand notwetland that the strawberry requires. If water stands or stagnates upon or a little below the surface, the soil becomes sour, heavy, lifeless; and if clay is present, it will bake like pottery in dry weather, and suggest the Slough of Despond in wet. Disappointment, failure, and miasma are the certain products of such unregenerate regions, but, as is often the case with repressed and troublesome people, the evil traits of such soil result from a lack of balance, and a perversion of what is good.
The underdrain restores the proper equilibrium; the brush-hook and axe cut away the rank unwholesome growth which thrives best in abnormal conditions. Sun, air, and purifying frosts mellow and sweeten the damp, heavy malarious ground, as the plowshare lifts it out of its low estate. A swamp, or any approach to one, is like a New York tenement-house district, and requires analogous treatment.
If, however, we have mellow upland with natural drainage, let us first put that in order that we may have a remunerative crop as soon as possible. In suggesting, therefore, the best methods of preparing and enriching the ground, I will begin by considering soils that are already in the most favorable conditions, and that require the least labor and outlay. Man received his most essential agricultural instruction in the opening chapter of Genesis, wherein he is commanded to "subdue the earth." Even the mellow western prairie is at first a wild, untamed thing, that must be subdued. This is often a simple process, and in our gardens and the greater part of many farms has already been practically accomplished. Where the deep, moist loam, just described, exists, the fortunate owner has only to turn it up to the sun and give it a year of ordinary cultivation, taking from it, in the process, some profitable hoed crop that will effectually kill the grass, and his land is ready for strawberries. If his ground is in condition to give a good crop of corn, it will also give a fair crop of berries. If the garden is so far "subdued" as to yield kitchen vegetables, the strawberry may be planted at once, with the prospect of excellent returns, unless proper culture is neglected.
Should the reader be content with mediocrity, there is scarcely anything to be said where the conditions are so favorable. But suppose one is not content with mediocrity. Then this highly favored soil is but the vantage-ground from which skill enters on a course of thorough preparation and high culture. A man may plow, harrow, and set with strawberries the land that was planted the previous year in corn, and probably secure a remunerative return, with little more trouble or cost than was expended on the corn. Or, he may select half the area that was in corn, plow it deeply in October, and if he detects traces of the white grub, cross-plow it again just as the ground is beginning to freeze. Early in the spring he can cover the surface with some fertilizer—there is nothing better than a rotted compost of muck and barn-yard manure—at the proportion of forty or fifty tons to the acre. Plow and cross-plow again, and in each instance let the first team be followed by a subsoil or lifting plow, which stirs and loosens the substratum without bringing it to the surface. The half of the field prepared in such a thorough manner will probably yield three times the amount of fruit that could be gathered from the whole area under ordinary treatment; and if the right varieties are grown, and a good market is within reach, the money received will be in a higher ratio.
The principle of generous and thorough preparation may be carried still further in the garden, and its soil, already rich and mellow, may be covered to the depth of several inches with well-rotted compost or any form of barn-yard manure that is not too coarse and full of heat, and this may be incorporated with the earth by trenching to the depth of two feet. Of this be certain, the strawberry roots will go as deeply as the soil is prepared and enriched for them, and the result in abundant and enormous fruit will be commensurate. English gardeners advise trenching even to the depth of three feet, where the ground permits it.
Few soils can be found so deep and rich by nature that they cannot be improved by art; and the question for each to decide is, how far the returns will compensate for extra preparation. Very often land for strawberries receives but little more preparation than for wheat, and such methods must pay or they would not be continued. Many who follow these methods declare that they are the most profitable in the long run. I doubt it.
If our market is one in which strawberries are sold simply as such, without much regard to flavor or size, there is not the same inducement to produce fine fruit. But even when quantity is the chief object, deeply prepared and enriched land retains that essential moisture of which we have spoken, and enables the plant not only to form, but also to develop and mature, a great deal of fruit. In the majority of markets, however, each year, size and beauty count for more, and these qualities can be secured, even from a favorable soil, only after thorough preparation and enriching. I find that every writer of experience on this subject, both American and European, insists vigorously on the value of such careful pulverization and deepening of the soil.
Having thus considered the most favorable land in the best condition possible, under ordinary cultivation, I shall now treat of that less suitable, until we finally reach a soil too sterile and hopelessly bad to repay cultivation.
I will speak first of this same deep, moist loam, in its unsubdued condition; that is, in stiff sod, trees, or brush-wood. Of course, the latter must be removed, and, as a rule, the crops on new land—which has been undisturbed by the plow for a number of years and, perhaps, never robbed of its original fertility—will amply repay for the extra labor of clearing. Especially will this be the case if the brush and rubbish are burned evenly over the surface. The finest of wild strawberries are found where trees have been felled and the brush burned; and the successful fruit grower is the one who makes the best use of such hints from nature.
The field would look better and the cultivation be easier if all the stumps could be removed before planting, but this might involve too great preliminary expense, and I always counsel against debt except in the direst necessity. A little brush burned on each stump will effectually check new growth, and, in two or three years, these unsightly objects will be so rotten that they can be pried out, and easily turned into ashes, one of the best of fertilizers. In the meantime, the native strength of the land will cause a growth which will compensate for the partial lack of deep and thorough cultivation which the stumps and roots prevent. Those who have travelled West and South have seen fine crops of corn growing among the half-burned stumps, and strawberries will do as well.
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.
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.
In the rear of my place there was a third drainage problem very different from either of the other two. My farm runs back to the rise of the mountain, whose edge it skirts for some distance. It thus receives at times much surface water. At the foot of the mountain-slope, there are about three acres of low alluvial soil, that was formerly covered with a coarse, useless herbage of the swamp. Between the meadow and the slope of the mountain, "the town" built a "boulevard" (marked II on the map), practically "cribbing" an acre or two of land. Ahab, who needed Naboth's vineyard for public purposes, is the spiritual father of all "town boards."
At the extreme end of the farm, and just beyond the alluvial ground, was the channel of a brook (marked J). Its stony bed, through which trickled a rill, had a very innocent aspect on the October day when we looked the farm over and decided upon its purchase. The rill ran a little way on my grounds, then crept under the fence and skirted my western boundary for several hundred yards. On reaching a rise of land, it re-entered my place and ran obliquely across it. It thus enclosed three sides of the low, bushy meadow I have named. Its lower channel across the place had been stoned up with the evident purpose of keeping it within limits; but the three or four feet of space between the walls had become obstructed by roots, bushes, vines and debris in general. With the exception of the stony bed where it entered the farm, most of its course was obscured by overhanging bushes and the sere, rank herbage of autumn.
In a vague way I felt that eventually something would have to be done to direct this little child of the mountain into proper ways, and to subdue the spirit of the wilderness that it diffused on every side. I had its lower channel across the place (K K) cleared out, thinking that this might answer for the present; and the gurgle of the little streamlet along the bottom of the ditch seemed a low laugh at the idea of its ever filling the three square feet of space above it. Deceitful little brook! Its innocent babble contained no suggestion of its hoarse roar on a March day, the following spring, as it tore its way along, scooping the stones and gravel from its upper bed and scattering them far and wide over the alluvial meadow. Instead of a tiny rill, I found that I would have to cope at times with a mountain torrent. At first, the task was too heavy, and the fitful-tempered brook, and the swamp-like region it encompassed, were left for years to their old wild instincts. At last the increasing demands of my business made it necessary to have more arable land, and I saw that, if I could keep it from being overwhelmed with water and gravel, the alluvial meadow was just the place for strawberries.
I commenced at the lowest point where it finally leaves my grounds, and dug a canal (K K), twelve feet wide by four or five deep, across my place, stoning up its walls on either side. An immense amount of earth and gravel was thrown on the lower side so as to form a high, strong embankment in addition to the channel. Then, where it entered the farm above the meadow, I had a wide, deep ditch excavated, throwing all the debris between it and the land I wished to shield. Throughout the low meadow, two covered box-drains (L and M) were constructed so that the plow could pass over them. On the side of the meadow next to the boulevard and mountain, I had an open drain (N N) dug and filled with stones even with the ground. It was designed to catch and carry off the surface water, merely, from the long extent of mountain-slope that it skirted. The system of ditches to protect and drain the partial swamp, and also to manage the deceitful brook, was now finished, and I waited for the results. During much of the summer there was not a drop of water in the wide canal, save where a living spring trickled into it. The ordinary fall rains could scarcely more than cover the broad, pebbly bottom, and the unsophisticated laughed and said that I reminded them of a general who trained a forty-pound gun on a belligerent mouse. I remembered what I had seen, and bided my time.
But I did not have to wait till March. One November day it began to rain, and it kept on. All the following night there was a steady rush and roar of falling water. It was no ordinary pattering, but a gusty outpouring from the "windows of heaven." The two swales in the front and rear of the house became great muddy ponds, tawny as the "yellow Tiber," and through intervals of the storm came the sullen roar of the little brook that had been purring like a kitten all summer. Toward night, Mature grew breathless and exhausted; there were sobbing gusts of wind and sudden gushes of rain, that grew less and less frequent. It was evident she would become quiet in the night and quite serene after her long, tempestuous mood.
As the sun was setting I ventured out with much misgiving. The deepening roar as I went down the lane increased my fears, but I was fairly appalled by the wild torrent that cut off all approach to the bridge. The water had not only filled the wide canal, but also, at a point a little above the bridge, had broken over and washed away the high embankment. I skirted along the tide until I reached the part of the bank that still remained intact, and there beneath my feet rushed a flood that would have instantly swept away horse and rider. Indeed, quite a large tree had been torn up by its roots, and carried down until it caught in the bridge, which would also have gone had not the embankment above given way.
The lower part of the meadow was also under water. It had been plowed, and therefore would wash readily. Would any soil be left? A few moments of calm reflection, however, removed my fears. The treacherous brook had not beguiled me during the summer into inadequate provision for this unprecedented outbreak. I saw that my deep, wide cut had kept the flood wholly from the upper part of the meadow, which contained a very valuable bed of high-priced strawberry plants, and that the slowly moving tide which covered the lower part was little more than backwater and overflow. The wide ditches were carrying off swiftly and harmlessly the great volume that, had not such channels been provided, would have made my rich alluvial meadow little else than a stony, gravelly waste. And the embankment had given way at a point too low down to permit much damage.
The two swales in the front and rear of the house appeared like mill-ponds. In the former instance, the water had backed up from the mountain stream into which my drain emptied, and, therefore, it could not pass off; and in the latter instance I could scarcely expect my little underground channel to dispose at once of the torrents that for forty hours had poured from the skies. I must give it at least a night in which to catch up. And a busy night it put in, for by morning it had conveyed to depths unknown the wide, discolored pond, that otherwise would have smothered the plants it covered. As soon, also, as the mountain stream fell below the mouth of the lower drain, it emptied at once the water resting on the lower swale. Throughout the day came successive tales of havoc and disaster, of dams scooped out, bridges swept away, roads washed into stony gulches, and fields and gardens overwhelmed with debris. The Idlewild brook, that the poet Willis made so famous, seemed almost demoniac in its power and fury. Not content with washing away dams, roads, and bridges, it swept a heavy wall across a field as if the stones were pebbles.
My three diverse systems of drainage had thus practically stood the severest test, perhaps, that will ever be put upon them, and my grounds had not been damaged to any extent worth naming. The cost had been considerable, but the injury caused by that one storm would have amounted to a larger sum had there been no other channels for the water than those provided by nature.
My readers will find, in many instances, that they have land which must be or may be drained. If it can be done sufficiently, the very ideal strawberry soil may be secured—moist and deep, but not wet.
We have now reached a point at which we must consider land which in its essential character is unfavorable to strawberries, and yet which may be the best to be had. The difficulties here are not merely accidental or remediable, such as lack of depth or fertility, the presence of stones or stumps, undue wetness of soil, etc. Any or all of these obstacles may be found, but in addition there are evils inseparable from the soil, and which cannot be wholly eradicated. The best we can hope in such a case is to make up by art what is lacking in nature.
This divergence from the deep, moist sandy loam, the ideal strawberry land, is usually toward a stiff, cold, stubborn clay, or toward a droughty, leachy sand that retains neither fertility nor moisture. Of course, these opposite soils require in most respects different treatment.
We will consider first the less objectionable, that is, the heavy clay. To call clay more favorable for strawberries than sandy land may seem like heresy to many, for it is a popular impression that light soils are the best. Experience and observation have, however, convinced me of the contrary. With the clay you have a stable foundation. Your progress may be slow, but it can be made sure. The character of a sandy foundation was taught centuries ago. Moreover, all the fine foreign-blooded varieties, as well as our best native ones, grow far better on heavy land, and a soil largely mixed with clay gives a wider range in the choice of varieties.
If I had my choice between a farm of cold, stiff clay or light, leachy land, I would unhesitatingly take the former, and I would overcome its native unfitness by the following methods: If at all inclined to be wet, as would be natural from its tenacious texture, I should first underdrain it thoroughly with tile. Then, if I found a fair amount of vegetable matter, I would give it a dressing of air-slaked lime, and plow it deeply late in the fall, leaving it unharrowed so as to expose as much of the soil as possible to the action of frost. Early in the spring, as soon as the ground was dry enough to work and all danger of frost was over, I would harrow in buckwheat and plow it under as it came into blossom; then sow a second crop and plow that under also. It is the characteristic of buckwheat to lighten and clean land, and the reader perceives that it should be our constant aim to impart lightness and life to the heavy soil. Lime, in addition to its fertilizing effects, acts chemically on the ground, producing the desired effect. It may be objected that lime is not good for strawberries. That is true if crude lime is applied directly to the plants, as we would ashes or bone-dust; but when it is mixed with the soil for months, it is so neutralized as to be helpful, and in the meantime its action on the soil itself is of great value. It must be used for strawberries, however, in more limited quantities than for many other crops, or else more time must be given for it to become incorporated with the soil.
The coarse green straw of the buckwheat is useful by its mechanical division of the heavy land, while at the same time its decomposition fills the soil with ammonia and other gases vitally necessary to the plant. A clay soil retains these gases with little waste. It is thus capable of being enriched to almost any extent, and can be made a storehouse of wealth.
Where it can be procured, there is no better fertilizer for clay land than the product of the horse-stable, which, as a rule, can be plowed under in its raw, unfermented state, its heat and action in decay producing the best results. Of course, judgment and moderation must be employed. The roots of a young, growing plant cannot feed in a mass of fermenting manure, no matter what the soil may be. The point I wish to make is that cold, heavy land is greatly benefited by having these heating, gas-producing processes take place beneath its surface. After they are over, the tall, rank foliage and enormous fruit of the Jucunda strawberry (a variety that can scarcely grow at all in sand) will show the capabilities of clay.
Heavy land is the favorite home of the grasses, and is usually covered with a thick, tenacious sod. This, of course, must be thoroughly subdued before strawberries are planted, or else you will have a hay-field in spite of all you can do. The decay of this mass of roots, however, furnishes just the food required, and a crop of buckwheat greatly hastens decomposition, and adds its own bulk and fertility when plowed under. I think it will scarcely ever pay to plant strawberries directly on the sod of heavy land.
While buckwheat is a good green crop to plow under, if the cultivator can wait for the more slowly maturing red-top clover, he will find itfar better, both to enrich and to lighten up his heavy soil; for it is justly regarded as the best means of imparting the mellowness and friability in which the roots of strawberries as well as all other plants luxuriate.
There are, no doubt, soils fit for bricks and piping only, but in most instances, by a judicious use of the means suggested, they can be made to produce heavy and long-continued crops of the largest fruit.
These same principles apply to the small garden-plot as well as to the acre. Instead of carting off weeds, old pea vines, etc., dig them under evenly over the entire space, when possible. Enrich with warm, light fertilizers, and if a good heavy coat of hot strawy manure is trenched in the heaviest, stickiest clay, in October or November, strawberries or anything else can be planted the following spring. The gardener, who thus expends a little thought and farsighted labor will at last secure results that will surpass his most sanguine hopes, and that, too, from land that would otherwise be as hard as Pharaoh's heart.
Before passing from this soil to that of an opposite character, let me add a few words of caution. Clay land should never be stirred when either very wet or very dry, or else a lumpy condition results that injures it for years. It should be plowed or dug only when it crumbles. When the soil is sticky, or turns up in great hard lumps, let it alone. The more haste the worst speed.
Again, the practice of fall plowing, so very beneficial in latitudes where frosts are severe and long continued, is just the reverse in the far South. There our snow is rain, and the upturned furrows are washed down into a smooth, sticky mass by the winter storms. On steep hillsides, much of the soil would ooze away with every rain, or slide downhill en masse. In the South, therefore, unless a clay soil is to be planted at once, it must not be disturbed in the fall, and it is well if it can be protected by stubble or litter, which shields it from the direct contact of the rain and from the sun's rays. But cow-peas, or any other rank-growing green crop adapted to the locality, is as useful to Southern clay as to Northern, and Southern fields might be enriched rapidly, since their long season permits of plowing under several growths.
Lime and potash in their various forms, in connection with green crops, would give permanent fertility to every heavy acre of Southern land. In my judgment, however, barnyard manure is not surpassed in value by any other in any latitude. If one owned clay land from which he could not secure good crops after the preparation that has been suggested, he had better either turn it into a brick-yard or emigrate.
Sandy Ground.—Suppose that, in contrast, our soil is a light sand. In this case the question of cultivation is greatly simplified, but the problem of obtaining a heavy crop is correspondingly difficult. The plow and the cultivator run readily enough, and much less labor is required to keep the weeds in subjection, but as a rule, light land yields little fruit; and yet under favorable circumstances I have seen magnificent crops of certain varieties growing on sand. If sufficient moisture and fertility can be maintained, many of our best varieties will thrive and produce abundantly; but to do this is the very pith of our difficulty. Too often a sandy soil will not retain moisture and manure. Such light land is generally very deficient in vegetable matter; and therefore, whenever it is possible, I would turn under green crops. If the soil could be made sufficiently fertile to produce a heavy crop of clover, and this were plowed under in June, and then buckwheat harrowed in and its rank growth turned under in August, strawberries could be planted as soon as the heat of decay was over, with excellent prospects of fine crops for the three succeeding years. Did I propose to keep the land in strawberries, I would then give it another year of clover and buckwheat, adding bone-dust, potash, and a very little lime in some form. The green crop, when decayed, is lighter than clay, and renders its tenacious texture more friable and porous; it also benefits the sandy soil by supplying the absent humus, or vegetable mould, which is essential to all plant life. This mould is also cool and humid in its nature, and aids in retaining moisture.
With the exception of the constant effort to place green vegetable matter under the surface, my treatment of sandy ground would be the reverse of that described for clay. Before using the product of the horse-stable, I would compost it with at least an equal bulk of leaves, muck, sods, or even plain earth if nothing better could be found. A compost of stable manure with clay would be most excellent. If possible, I would not use any manure on light ground until all fermentation was over, and then I would ratherharrowthan plow it in. This will leave it near the surface, and the rains will leach it down to the roots—and below them, also—only too soon. Fertility cannot be stored up in sand as in clay, and it should be our aim to give our strawberries the food they need in a form that permits of its immediate use. Therefore, in preparing such land, I would advise deep plowing while it is moist, if possible, soon after a rain; then the harrowing in of a liberal top-dressing of rotted compost, or of muck sweetened by the action of frost and the fermentation of manure, or, best of all, the product of the cow-stable. Decayed leaves, sods, and wood-ashes also make excellent fertilizers.