Mr. Johnston, like the Deacon, applies his manure to the corn crop. But the Deacon draws out his fresh green manure in the spring, on sod-land, and plows it under. Mr. Johnston, on the other hand, keeps his manure in a heap through the summer, spreads it on the sod in September, or the first week in October. Here it lies until next spring. The grass and clover grow up through manure, and the grass and manure are turned under next spring, and the land planted to corn.
Mr. Johnston is thoroughly convinced that he gets far more benefit from the manure when applied on the surface, and left exposed for several months, than if he plowed it under at once.
I like to write and talk about John Johnston. I like to visit him. He is so delightfully enthusiastic, believes so thoroughly in good farming, and has been so eminently successful, that a day spent in his company can not fail to encourage any farmer to renewed efforts in improving his soil. “You must drain,” he wrote to me; “when I first commenced farming, I never made any money until I began to underdrain.” But it is not underdraining alone that is the cause of his eminent success. When he bought his farm, “near Geneva,” over fifty years ago, there was a pile of manure in the yard that had lain there year after year, until it was, as he said, “as black as my hat.” The former owner regarded it as a nuisance, and a few months before young Johnston bought the farm, had given some darkies a cow on condition that they would draw out this manure. They drew out six loads, took the cow—and that was the last seen of them. Johnston drew out this manure, raised a good crop of wheat, and that gave him a start. He says he has been asked a great many times to what he owes his success as a farmer, and he has replied that he could not tell whether it was “dung or credit.” It was probably neither. It was the man—his intelligence, industry, and good common sense. That heap of black mould was merely an instrument in his hands that he could turn to good account.
His first crop of wheat gave him “credit” and this also he used to advantage. He believed that good farming would pay, and it was this faith in a generous soil that made him willing to spend the money obtained from the first crop of wheat in enriching the land, and to avail himself of his credit. Had he lacked this faith—had he hoarded every sixpence he could have ground out of the soil, who would have ever heard of John Johnston? He has been liberal with his crops and his animals, and has ever found them grateful. This is the real lesson which his life teaches.
He once wrote me he had something to show me. He did not tell me what it was, and when I got there, he took me to a field of grass that was to be mown for hay. The field had been in winter wheat the year before. At the time of sowing the wheat, the whole field was seeded down with timothy. No clover was sown, either then or in the spring; but after the wheat was sown, he put on a slight dressing of manure on two portions of the field that he thought were poor. He told the man to spread it out of the wagon just as thin as he could distribute it evenly over the land. It was a very light manuring, but the manure was rich, and thoroughly rotted. I do not recollect whether the effect of the manure was particularly noticed on the wheat; but on the grass, the following spring, the effect was sufficiently striking. Those two portions of the field where the manure was spread were covered with a splendid crop of red clover. You could see the exact line, in both cases, where the manure reached. It looked quite curious. No clover-seed was sown, and yet there was as fine a crop of clover as one could desire.
On looking into the matter more closely, we found that there was more or less clover all over the field, but where the manure was not used, it could hardly be seen. The plants were small, and the timothy hid them from view. But where the manure was used, these plants of clover had been stimulated in their growth until they covered the ground. The leaves were broad and vigorous, while in the other case they were small, and almost dried up. This is probably the right explanation. The manure did not “bring in the clover;” it simply increased the growth of that already in the soil. It shows the value of manure for grass.
This is what Mr. Johnston wanted to show me. “I might have written and told you, but you would not have got a clear idea of the matter.” This is true. One had to see the great luxuriance of that piece of clover to fully appreciate the effect of the manure. Mr. J. said the manure on that grass was worth $30 an acre—that is, on the three crops of grass, before the field is again plowed. I have no doubt that this is true, and that the future crops on the land will also be benefited—not directly from the manure, perhaps, but from the clover-roots in the soil. And if the field were pastured, the effect on future crops would be very decided.