The fields that have been threshed have turned out pitifully and I am in despair. I hear on every side that the price is very low. Nearly all the planters have already announced that they will not plant any rice next year, which no doubt is wise, but what will become of the country with no money crops? For the first time I put a mortgage on the place this year and borrowed $1000. Marshfield at Casa Bianca (25 acres) has often put that much in the bank and sometimes more; so I felt justified in doing it, but now—!
I am trying to cut and cure some pea-vine and crab-grass hay, but it is very uphill work. Every one is so ignorant of hay making and I cannot tell them with authority because I know nothing myself except what common-sense dictates. The putting up and starting of the mowing machine was very difficult, but now it is working fairly well, and the weather is perfect for the purpose. The stacking I cannot get properly done—they are accustomed to pile straw in heaps and they will only pile the hay instead of making a compact stack.
October 11.
Digging potatoes at Cherokee, eight women with hoes; but they make slow progress. I insisted on having Jim open some with the plough, but Bonaparte said the plough covered up too many, and as he has been superintending this work a long time, and has the banking and storing of the potatoes, I thought it the part of wisdom to let him do it in the way which he assured me would secure the greatest number of potatoes for my use.
October 13.
Still digging potatoes, though only one and three-quarter acres were planted, and they are not turning out as well as usual; they generally yield over one hundred bushels to the acre. The hay making goes on pretty well. Jim is getting to run the mower and rake very skilfully, but the man I have stacking the hay is very obstinate. As long as I stand and look at him the stack is packed and properly formed, but as soon as I leave he just tosses the hay lightly on the pole and a rain would ruin it.
October 23.
The potatoes are all in and the hay nearly so. The other evening I was superintending the stacking of the hay when five children came to ask me to let them go in the potato field and "hunt tetta." I let them go, as I always do, for my heart is tender to children and I like to see their delight over the potatoes they find. I was so much interested in getting a perfect stack that I went up the ladder to the top to see if it was well packed, while the wagon went for another load. It was so lovely up there that I sat a long time. The sun was nearing the end of its journey, and the slanting rays glorified the fields with their borders of bright colored leaves, the ruddy brown of the cypress giving its rich tone to the landscape. I saw from my vantage point nearly the whole upland, and in the foreground the children in the potato patch. They all had hoes and it struck me they were digging very regularly in rows and not here and there, as they generally do, and I watched them more closely. In the little time that they had been there the boys had each about a bushel in their bags, and I realized that the women had systematically covered up potatoes in the rows as they dug them. I did not stop the children, but let them go on every afternoon, with the result that they each got about ten bushels of potatoes. Another year I will not employ the women on the place to dig them, but will get hands from outside, for whom the temptation will not be so great to hide the potatoes for their own children to find. I like the children to glean, for their parents are so careless and improvident that very few make a crop of potatoes, though they have every opportunity to do so, and children always love potatoes; but when it comes to having the best ones covered up for them I feel it is time to call a halt. One year I superintended the digging very closely myself, and there was no chance for covering up. The crop turned out finely and I was pleased, but after the potatoes were banked in the barn-yard they were stolen, so that I have since left it entirely to Bonaparte.
