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Title: Village Improvements and Farm Villages

Author: George E. Waring

Release date: October 7, 2008 [eBook #26801]

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK VILLAGE
IMPROVEMENTS AND FARM VILLAGES ***

Village Improvements
AND
FARM VILLAGES.

By

GEO. E. WARING, Jr.
CONSULTING ENGINEER FOR SANITARY AND AGRICULTURAL
WORKS.

BOSTON:
JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY,
(Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co.)
1877.
Copyright, 1877,
By GEO. E. WARING, Jr.

Franklin Press: Rand, Avery, & Co.,
Boston.

The following papers on Village
Improvements and Farm Villages are
reprinted, with some amendments, from
"Scribners Monthly." These constitute
the more practical part of the book, so
far as villages are concerned.
It has, however, been judged
appropriate to add to them a paper on
Eastern Farming, which originally
appeared in "The Atlantic Monthly,"
and which continues the discussion of
the question of village residence as a
means for mitigating some of the
hardships which beset the lives of
isolated country families.
The wide-spread and growing interest
in the topics considered makes it seem

worth while to give these short essays a
more permanent form.
G. E. W., Jr.
Newport, R.I., June, 1877.

CONTENTS.
Village Improvements 11
Village Sanitary Work 69
Farm Villages 114
Life and Work of the Eastern
159
Farmer

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Fig. 1.--Drainage of Hill-Side Foot-Path 31
Fig. 2.--Section of Road with Drains 44
Fig. 3.--Pipes resting on their Shoulders 73
Fig. 4.--Pipes resting on their Full Length 73
Fig. 5.--Grease-Trap 79
Fig. 6.--Field's Flush-Tank 80
Fig. 7.--The Emerson Ventilator 86
Fig. 8.--Diagram illustrating Manner of Sewage Disposal
97
at Lenox, Mass.
Fig. 9.--Settling Basin 102
Fig. 10.--Arrangement of Absorption Drains, 105
Fig. 11.--Division of Four Square Miles with Central
124
Village
Fig. 12.--division of the Central Village 126
Fig. 13.--Division of the Central Open Space of the
131
Village
Fig. 14.--Present Division and Settlement of Tract in
133
Rhode Island
Fig. 15.--The Rhode Island Tract with its Buildings
135
gathered together into a Compact Village
Fig. 16.--Proposed Arrangement of the Rhode Island
139
Farm Village

VILLAGE IMPROVEMENTS.
It may be because the newness of our country and the fragile character of our
early structures have prevented the accumulation of inferior, ugly, and
uncomfortable houses, as the nucleus around which later building has
crystallized; it may be from circumstances which have prevented the isolated
residence of the better classes of our people; or it may be the result of accident.
Whatever the reason, it is beyond dispute that the United States is par
excellence a land of beautiful villages. North, south, east, and west, there are
plenty of hideous conglomerations of poor-looking houses, with an absence of
every element of beauty; but there are thousands of other villages scattered all
over the land, which are full of the evidences of good taste in their regulation
and in their management.
As a rule, these more attractive features are very much modified by the presence
of badly-kept private places or neglected public buildings, and by a general air
of untidiness. Still, the foundation of attractiveness is there; and nothing is
needed beyond a well-organized and well-guided control of public sentiment, to
remove or to hide the more objectionable features, and to permit such beauty as
the village may possess to manifest itself.
The real elements of beauty in a village are not fine houses, costly fences, paved
roadways, geometrical lines, mathematical grading, nor any obviously costly
improvements. They are, rather, cosiness, neatness, simplicity, and that homely
air that grows from these and from the presence of a home-loving people.
To state the case tersely, the shiftless village is a hideous village, while the
charm which we often realize without analyzing it comes of affectionate care
and attention.
There are villages in New England, in Western New York, and all over the West,
even to the far side of Arkansas, which impress the visitor at once as being
homelike and full of sociability and kindliness; which delight him, and lead him
almost to wish that his own lot had been cast within their shades. These are
chiefly villages where the evidences of public and private care predominate, or
are at least conspicuous. A critical examination would, in almost every case,
develop very serious evidence of neglect, unwholesomeness, and bad
neighborhood.

Within a few years, beginning, I believe, in Massachusetts, the more thoughtful
of those whose affections are centred in their village homes have united in
organized efforts to make their villages more tidy, to interest all classes of
society in attention to those little details the neglect of which is fatal, and to
make the village, what it certainly should be, an expression of the interest of its
people in their homes and in the surroundings of their daily life.
The first of these associations of which I have any knowledge (though, as such
work is unobtrusive, there may have been many before it) was the "Laurel Hill
Association" of Stockbridge, Mass. It takes its name from a wooded knoll in the
centre of the village, which had been dedicated to public use. The first object of
the association was to convert this knoll into a village park. Then they took in
hand the village burial-ground, which was put in proper condition and suitably
surrounded with hedge and railing. Then the broad village street was properly
graded and drained, and agreeable walks were made at its sides. Incidentally to
this, the people living along both sides of the streets were encouraged to do
what they could to give it an appropriate setting by putting their own premises
into tasteful condition and maintaining them so. The organization worked well,
and accomplished good results. The Rev. N. P. Eggleston, formerly of
Stockbridge, in a paper on village improvements written for the "New York
Tribune," thus describes the collateral work and influences of the Laurel Hill
Association:—
"Next followed the planting of trees by the roadside wherever trees
were lacking. The children, sometimes disposed in their
thoughtlessness to treat young trees too rudely, were brought in as
helpers of the association, while at the same time put under a
beneficial culture for themselves. Any boy who would undertake to
watch and care for a particular tree for two years was rewarded by
having the tree called by his name. Other children were paid for all
the loose papers and other unsightly things which they would pick
up and remove from the street.
"Gradually the work of the association extended. It soon took in
hand the streets connected with the main street. Year by year it
pushed out walks from the centre of the village toward its outer
borders; year by year it extended its line of trees in the same
manner; and year by year there has been a marked improvement in
the aspect of the village. Little by little, and in many nameless
ways, the houses and barns, the dooryards and farms, have come to

wear a look of neatness and intelligent, tasteful care, that makes the
Stockbridge of to-day quite a different place from the Stockbridge
of twenty years ago. Travellers passing through it are apt to speak of
it with admiration as a finished place, and, compared with most
even of our New England villages, it has such a look; but the Laurel
Hill Association does not consider its home finished, nor its own
work completed. Still the work goes on. Committees are even now
conning plans for further improvements. By itself, or by suggestions
and stimulations offered to others, the association is aiming at the
culture of the village people through other agencies than those of
outward and physical adornment. It fosters libraries, reading-rooms,
and other places of resort where innocent and healthful games,
music and conversation will tend to promote the social feeling, and
lessen vice by removing some of its causes."
No one can drive through this beautiful old place without realizing the effect of
some influence different from that which has usually been at work in country
towns. One feels that it is a village of homes; that the people who live in it love
it, and that it has no public or private interest so insignificant as to be neglected.
I have cited this instance somewhat at length, because it was the first, as it is the
most complete, that has come to my notice. In other places, more serious work
of improvement has been undertaken in the direction of sewerage, gas-lighting,
&c. In fact, the present writing was suggested by frequent requests for
information and advice on the more practical parts of the subject.
At the outset it is to be said that the organization and control of the village
society is especially woman's work. It requires the sort of systematized attention
to detail, especially in the constantly-recurring duty of "cleaning up," that grows
more naturally out of the habit of good housekeeping than out of any
occupation to which men are accustomed. Then, too, it calls for a degree of
leisure which women are the most apt to have, and it will especially engage
their interest as being a real addition to the field of their ordinary routine of life.
The sort of enthusiasm which has led to marked success in the Dorcas Society
and other organized action outside of the household, for which American
country women are noted, will find here a new and engaging object. This,
however, is only a suggestion by the way, and one which may or may not be
appropriate under varying circumstances.

If we assume, which is not altogether true, that the main purpose of village
improvement is to improve the appearance of the village, we must still
understand that the direct object of the society should not be alone nor chiefly in
the direction of appearance.
What it is especially desirable that a village should appear to be is: a
wholesome, cleanly, tidy, simple, modest collection of country homes, with all
of its parts and appliances adapted to the pleasantest and most satisfactory
living of its people. All improvements should therefore have this fundamental
tendency, and every element of adornment, and every evidence of careful
attention, should be only an outgrowth of the effort to obtain the best practical
results. Costly park railing where no railing is needed, width of roadway greater
than the needs of the community require, formal geometric lines and surfaces
where more natural slopes and curves would be practically better, elaborate
fountains or statuary out of keeping with the general character of the village,
(the gift of a public-spirited, ambitious, and pretentious fellow-townsman,) and
isolated examples, as in a church or schoolhouse, of a style of architecture
which would be more appropriate for a city,—all these are obtrusive and
objectionable, and are consequently in bad taste. In so far as these or any other
elements of improvement are unsuited to the conditions in which they are
placed, they are undesirable; and it would be well for those having the interest
of the village in charge, to adopt an early resolution to accept no gifts, and to
allow no work of construction or embellishment, which is not, first of all,
appropriate to the modest character of a well-regulated country village.
If every public building is sufficient for its uses and suggests no undue outlay
for show alone; if the roads and walks are such as the uses of the people require;
if the fountain suggests a tasteful ornament and centre of freshness and
coolness, rather than a monument of some citizens liberality and ambition; if
the village green or park is a proper pleasure-ground for old and young; and, in
short, if every thing that is done and every dollar that is expended has for its
object only the improvement of the conditions of living,—then there will be
needed only the element of careful keeping to maintain always the best sort of
beauty that is possible under the circumstances.
No satisfactory result can be attained without organization. The work will
necessarily require much money and more time in order to avoid an undue tax
upon individuals. It is desirable, too, that, so far as possible, every member of
the community should be interested in the work, and should contribute in labor
or in money according to his means. This general interest can be secured much

better through the influence of an organization in which all are interested, than
by any individual effort.
The association should become the distributor, not only of the moneys accruing
from membership fees, &c., but of contributions made by citizens, or
subscriptions raised by combined effort for general or specific works of
improvement. It should be, in fact, not only the inciter of public spirit, but the
director of public effort.
The precise form of constitution for such an association must necessarily
depend more or less on circumstances; and I sketch only as a basis for
discussion, the following form suggested by the regulations governing the
Laurel Hill Association of Stockbridge:—

ARTICLE I.

This Association shall be called "The Village Improvement
Association of ——."

ARTICLE II.

The object of this Association shall be to improve and ornament the
streets and public grounds of the village by planting and cultivating
trees, establishing and maintaining walks, grading and draining
roadways, establishing and protecting good grass plats and borders
in the streets and public squares, securing a proper public supply of
water, establishing and maintaining such sewerage as shall be
needed for the best sanitary condition of the village, providing
public fountains and drinking-troughs, breaking out paths through
the snow, lighting the streets, encouraging the formation of a library
and reading-room, and generally doing whatever may tend to the
improvement of the village as a place of residence.

ARTICLE III.

The officers of this Association shall be a President, two Vice-
Presidents, a Secretary, and a Treasurer, who shall constitute the
Executive Committee. These officers shall be elected at the annual

meeting, and shall hold their offices until their successors shall have
been elected.

ARTICLE IV.

It shall be the duty of the President, and in his absence of the senior
Vice-President, to preside at all meetings of the Association, and to
carry out all orders of the Executive Committee.

ARTICLE V.

It shall be the duty of the Secretary to keep a correct and careful
record of all proceedings of the Association, and of the Executive
Committee, in a book suitable for their preservation; to give notice
of all meetings of the Association and of the Executive Committee;
to make all publications, and to give all public and private notices
ordered by the Executive Committee, and to attend to all the
correspondence of the Association.

ARTICLE VI.

It shall be the duty of the Treasurer to keep the funds of the
Association, and to make such disbursements as may be ordered by
the Executive Committee.

ARTICLE VII.

It shall be the duty of the Executive Committee to manage all the
affairs of the Association, to employ all laborers, to make all
contracts, to expend all moneys, and generally to direct and
superintend all improvements which in their discretion, and with the
means at their command, will best serve the public interest. The
Executive Committee shall hold a meeting at least once in each
month, and as much oftener as they may deem expedient.
The Executive Committee shall have power to institute premiums to
be awarded for planting and protecting ornamental trees, and for
doing such other acts as may seem to them worthy of such

encouragement. They shall also encourage frequent public meetings
of the Association and of citizens generally, both with a view to
maintain an interest in their work, and for the general
encouragement of the habit of meeting for discussion and
amusement.

ARTICLE VIII.

Three members of the Executive Committee present at any meeting
shall constitute a quorum for transacting business; and the vote of a
majority of those present shall be binding on the Association.

ARTICLE IX.

No debt shall be contracted by the Executive Committee beyond the
amount of available funds within their control to pay it; and no
member of this Association shall be liable for any debt of the
Association beyond the amount of his or her subscription.

ARTICLE X.

Every person over fourteen years of age who shall plant and protect
a tree under the direction of the Executive Committee, or who shall
pay the sum of one dollar annually, and shall obligate him or herself
to pay the same for three years, shall be a member of this
Association; and every child under fourteen years of age, who shall
pay or shall become obligated to pay as before the sum of twenty-
five cents annually for three years, shall be a member of this
Association.

ARTICLE XI.

The payment of ten dollars annually for three years, or of twenty-
five dollars in one sum, shall constitute a person a member of this
Association for life.

ARTICLE XII.

The autograph signatures of all members of the Association shall be
preserved in a book suitable for that purpose.

ARTICLE XIII.

An annual meeting of the Association shall be held at such place as
the Executive Committee may direct, on the fourth Wednesday of
August, at two o'clock, P.M. Notice of such meeting shall be posted
on each of the churches and at the post-office at least seven days
prior to the time of holding said meetings, and a written notice shall
be sent to all non-resident members. Other meetings of the
Association may be called by the Executive Committee on seven
days' notice as above prescribed.

ARTICLE XIV.

At the annual meeting, the Executive Committee shall report the
amount of money received during the year, and the source from
which it has been received; the amount of money expended during
the year, and the objects for which it has been expended; the
number of trees planted at the cost of the Association; the number
planted by individuals, with the location, the kind of tree, and the
name of the planter; and generally all of the acts of the Committee.
This report shall be entered on the record of the Association.

ARTICLE XV.

Any person who shall plant a tree under the direction of the
Executive Committee, and shall protect it for five years, shall be
entitled to have such tree known forever by his or her name.

ARTICLE XVI.

This Constitution may be amended by the Executive Committee
with the approval of the majority of the members present at any
annual meeting of the Association, or at any special meeting, the
notice of which shall have been accompanied by a copy of the

proposed amendment, with the statement that the amendment is to
be voted on at such meeting.
I have provided, in the above draft of a constitution, for an executive committee
of only five members; for the reason that, while it will be comparatively easy to
secure the services of this number, the duties and responsibilities of a larger
committee would be so distributed that there would be too often occasion for
the application of the old adage: "What is everybody's business is nobody's
business." The Laurel Hill Association has an executive committee of fifteen, in
addition to seven officers. This large committee (twenty-two) serves to secure
the interest of a larger number of citizens; but the same thing may be as well
accomplished by inviting the co-operation of citizens in the work of sub-
committees, the chairman of each of which would be a member of the regular
executive committee. In Easthampton, Mass., there is a board of fourteen
directors, and there are committees on sanitary matters, on setting out trees, on
sidewalks and hitching-posts, &c. It would be prudent to restrict the number of
members of these sub-committees to three; one from the executive committee
and two from outside.
Besides special executive work, a vast deal has been done wherever
improvement societies have been organized, in the way of stimulating citizens
to adorn their private grounds, or at least to keep their grounds and fences in
good order, removing weeds and rubbish from the sidewalk, keeping the grass
well trimmed and free from litter and leaves. What most detracts from the good
appearance of any village is the slovenly look which comes from badly hung
gates, crooked fences, absent pickets, and general shiftlessness about private
places; and it is by encouraging citizens to take a pride in attention to these
minor details, that the association will do its best work. This result may be
accomplished almost entirely without the expenditure of money. It is in
attention to little things and in securing the co-operation of private owners,—a
co-operation which will call for an inappreciable amount of labor,—that the
most telling work of the officers of the society is to be done.
So far as these details are concerned, it is hardly necessary in a paper of this sort
to do more than to call attention to them. They are within the capacity of every
citizen, and they will naturally suggest themselves to any person who would be
likely to undertake the direction of an improvement association. There are other
and really more important objects looking to a certain amount of landscape
gardening and engineering, on which specific instruction may be desired, and

often in cases where it will be impracticable to employ professional assistance.
These are as follows:—
1. The construction of sidewalks.
2. The construction and care of roadways.
3. The supply of water, and the construction of drinking-troughs.
4. The laying-out and adornment of public squares and other open spaces.
5. The establishment of a system of sewerage or sanitary drainage, including the
removal of excessive soil moisture.

SIDEWALKS.

No one thing has more to do with the comfort of those living in country villages
than sidewalks which are good at all seasons of the year. Those fortunate
villages which are built on a gravelly soil, with a perfect natural drainage, need
little more in this direction than such a conformation of the surface as will
prevent water from standing on the footway when the ground is frozen. At all
other times it sinks naturally away into the earth. It is much more often the case
that the character of the soil or subsoil prevents a settling away of water, or that
subterranean oozing from higher ground keeps the earth throughout the spring
and autumn, and after heavy rains in summer, damp, and often sloppy.
Wherever the ground is of such a character as to prevent the rapid sinking to a
considerable depth of all excessive moisture, there is sure to be a disagreeable
condition of the footway whenever the lower soil is locked with frost, and the
surface is thawed. Even with the best drainage, natural or artificial, this
condition will exist for a short time while frost is coming out of the ground; but
with good drainage it is of so temporary a character as hardly to justify any
expensive finishing of the surface, except perhaps in the case of the most
frequented walks.
To overcome occasional sloppiness where the difficulty is not deep-seated, there
is no cheaper nor better device than to dress the surface with coal-ashes. Indeed,
if these are used to a sufficient thickness, they are practically as good as
concrete or the best gravel. When first applied, they are dusty and unpleasant;
but the first wetting lays the dust, and they soon settle to a firm consistency, and
make a very pleasant walk, with the great advantage of being entirely barren,
and preventing the growth of weeds and grass. If the ashes of a village are

collected and screened, the cinders being used at the bottom, and the surface
being smoothly dressed with the finer material, they will make as satisfactory
walks, even where the use is considerable, as any other material. The color is
unobtrusive, and the surface soon becomes hard enough to bear sweeping.
Those who are more ambitious for effect may prefer a walk made of tar-and-
gravel concrete; and this, if well made, is good, durable, and satisfactory. So far
as the improvement association is concerned, it can find many ways for
expending the difference of cost between ashes and concrete, which will
accomplish a much more telling result.
If gravel can be obtained without too much expense, it may be used with
excellent results to a depth of from one to three inches, according to the porosity
of the subsoil,—more being needed where the ground is inclined to become
soft. In using gravel it is best either to screen it, using the coarser parts below
and the finer parts at the surface, or, after applying it, to add a thin layer of
earth, barely sufficient to fill its spaces,—to "bind" it so as to give it a firm and
solid consistency. Loose and rattling gravel makes a handsome walk to look at,
but an unpleasant one to walk upon. Nothing is more agreeable than well-
trodden, dry, root-bound earth, as where grass has been worn away by frequent
use; but this becomes at once objectionable on being saturated with rain or
moistened by melting frost.

FIG. 1.
It is a common impression, that all thoroughly good foot-paths must be dug out
to a considerable depth, filled with loose stones, and dressed at the top with
some good finishing material; but this is not necessary even for the best work.
The great point is to secure a thorough draining of the sub-stratum, so that there
shall be no rising of ooze-water from below, and so that the ground shall be free
from such saturation as to cause heaving during frost. This condition may be
secured by a suitable draining of the ground immediately under the walk, and
by the use of a well-compacted and tightly-bound surface covering of such form

as to shed or turn away rain-water. Figure 1 (p. 31) shows the cross section of a
foot-path six feet wide on slightly sloping ground, where we have to apprehend
an oozing of subsoil water from the land at the highest side. The centre of the
walk is slightly crowning,—say one inch higher than the sides,—so that rain
falling upon it will flow readily toward the grass-border at either side. To
prevent the ponding of water at the sides when the ground is frozen, the surface
of the walk at its edges should be well above the level of the adjoining ground;
but it may be necessary under some circumstances to furnish, here and there, a
channel or surface-gutter across the walk, to allow the accumulation at the
higher side to escape. Rarely will deep gutters at the sides be necessary or
desirable. If the walk is laid at a sufficient height to turn water on to the
adjoining ground instead of receiving water from this, it will be easy to keep it
dry. We will assume that the path in question is to be made over a tenacious clay
soil, with a considerable oozing from the hillside,—the most unfavorable
condition that can be found, especially in cold climates. The first thing to be
secured is the cutting-off of the subsoil water from the hill. This may be done by
digging a trench as narrow as possible,—six inches will be better than more, as
requiring less filling material,—to a depth of three feet. In the bottom of this
drain lay a common land-tile drain, with collars at the joints if these can be
procured, and, if not, with a bit of paper laid over the joints to prevent the
entrance of loose material, and to hold the pipes in place during construction.
The ditch should then be filled with cinders, gravel, or coarse sand. If stones are
to be used, they should be broken to a small size,—not more than one inch in
diameter,—and the loose bits should be mixed with them in the filling. Very
small interstices will be sufficient to allow water to pass freely through, while if
large stones are used, with large interstices, there will be danger of a washing-in
of earth sufficient in time to obstruct both the stonework and the tile. The
smaller the tile, so long as it is sufficient for its purpose, the better; for lengths
of five hundred feet or less, an interior diameter of an inch and a quarter will be
sufficient; from this to one thousand feet, use an inch and a half bore. If
possible, before exceeding this length, secure an outlet for the water in the
roadside gutter or some other channel of exit. The tile-drain, at a depth of three
feet, will remove all subsoil water from under the walk, and all that may be
delivered into the loosely filled trench at its side. The loose filling of the trench
should not be carried nearer than within six inches of the surface of the ground,
and should be covered with fine and well-packed earth to prevent the entrance
of surface-water which would soon carry in silt enough to stop its action.
Whatever covering is adopted for the walk itself, it must be of such a character
as to prevent any thing like a free admission of surface-water. Concrete will do

this perfectly; and either ashes, or gravel dressed at the top with ashes, if well
raked and rolled at the outset to a smooth surface, will soon become so bound
together as to shed pretty nearly all rain falling upon it. The difference in cost
between a walk made in this way, and one dug out for its whole width to a depth
of two feet, and filled first with stone and then with gravel and a suitable
surface dressing, will be very important; and it is safe to say that the cheaper
will be at least as good and durable as the more expensive method. In all
construction of sidewalks, whether public or private, regard must be had to the
surface conformation, and some device must be adopted for preventing the flow
of water upon the walk from the adjoining ground, and for the easy delivery of
storm-water falling upon the walk itself.

ROADWAYS.

The great expense of Macadamizing or Telfordizing puts these systems almost
out of the reach of small communities. Wherever the original expense can be
borne, the subsequent cost of maintenance will be so slight, and the result
generally will be so satisfactory, as to make it always a good investment. The
circumstances under which these costly forms of construction may be adopted
will be greatly extended if we can overcome the prevalent American prejudice
in favor of wide roadways. Against wide streets there is, as a rule, no objection,
though exceptional narrow and well-shaded lanes have a rural charm that will
always commend them to persons of taste. A wide street, that is, broad spaces
between fences, by no means implies a broad roadway. All we need in the
principal thoroughfare of a busy village is such a width as will allow of the easy
passing of vehicles in the middle of the road, and the standing of one vehicle at
rest at each side. This will be accomplished, even in the business street of a
village, by a width of roadway of thirty feet. Under most other circumstances
twenty feet of roadway will be ample. This will allow of the moving of three
vehicles side by side, and will give a leeway of six feet between two vehicles
passing each other.
On both sides of this roadway, except for the necessary sidewalks, the whole
space to the fences should be in well-kept grass, which is the cheapest to secure,
the most economical to maintain, and the most agreeable to see, of all ground
covering. It is not unusual in country towns to find a width of from sixty to
eighty feet devoted to a muddy, dusty, and ill-kept roadway. From one-half to
two-thirds of this width is waste space, which must either remain an eyesore, or
entail an undue cost for maintenance. When both sides of the street are occupied

by places of business, it may be necessary to provide for some occasional
driving close to the buildings for the delivery of merchandise; but this occasion
will rarely be so regular as to cause any serious damage to grass. If the line of
hitching-posts is placed within fifteen feet of the centre of the roadway on each
side, it will be seldom that any one will drive over the bordering grass,
especially if there is, as there generally should be, a well-defined gutter or well-
kept grass with a curbstone border at each side.
In considering the width to be given to roadways, it should be understood that
every form of road is more or less costly to make and to keep in order, and that
the cost of both items is in direct proportion to the width. If to the cost of
making and grading an ordinary roadway sixty feet wide, we add the capital
sum whose interest would be necessary to keep this width in good repair, we
shall have an amount that would go far toward the construction and
maintenance of a road of the very best quality only thirty feet wide.
Furthermore, while it is impossible to estimate such items exactly, and while the
amount thus saved cannot be controlled for the road-making account, the saving
in the wear and tear of vehicles, and in the team force needed to move heavy
loads, constitutes an important argument in favor of the best construction. The
amount thus saved in the short streets of the village, where the principal traffic
is over rough country roads, would not be very great, but it would enable the
road authorities of the township to realize the advantage of first-rate roads and
the degree to which the narrowing of the roadway cheapens construction. As a
result, there would soon be an extension of the improvement over the more
important highways into the country; where a well-metalled width of twelve
feet would accommodate nearly the whole traffic, and where the proper
application of a cheap system of under-drainage would make well-metalled
roads extremely cheap to maintain.
In the island of Jersey, there are many excellent roads only six feet wide. These
are provided with frequent little bays or turn-outs to allow teams to pass each
other. Although such extremely narrow roads are not to be recommended, the
difference in comfort and economy of teampower between these and the
average American dirt road is enormously in their favor. The widest roads in
Jersey, leading from a busy town of thirty thousand inhabitants into a thickly
settled farming region where business and pleasure travel is very active, and
where "excursion cars" carrying thirty or forty persons are constantly passing,
are only twenty-four feet wide; often only of this width between the hedge-
rows, the road itself being an excellent footpath for its whole width. Nowhere
else in the world is the rural charm more perfectly developed than in Jersey, and

no element of its great beauty is so conspicuous and so constantly satisfactory
as its narrow and embowered lanes and roadways.
This, however, by the way, and only as a suggestion, for the sake of variety. As
a rule, we may at least accept much less width than is now usual for our country
and village roads. Wherever it is intended to build expensive stone roads, those
having the work in charge will naturally employ a competent engineer, or will at
least appeal to Prof. Gillespie's work on road-making, or to some other
authority. Space need not be given here to engineering details, which would
require a lengthy elucidation. There is, however, a sort of road-making
materially more costly at the outset than that now in vogue, but much less costly
in the long-run, if we consider the element of practical value and the cost of
maintenance. It depends more on fundamental principles of construction than on
special processes of finishing, and will be more or less satisfactory according to
the character of the soil and of the covering material available.
The great enemy of all roads is excessive moisture; and the chief purpose of all
methods of improvement is to get rid of this, or to counteract its effect. As in the
case of foot-paths, wherever the porous character of the subsoil, and the absence
of higher-lying wet lands, is such that no accumulation of water upon or under
the roadway need be feared, the greatest difficulty is at once set aside. Roads
lying on such a soil may be over-dusty in dry weather. When the subsoil is
temporarily impervious because of its frozen condition, they may become
unduly muddy, or, when the situation is such as to lead hill-water upon them,
they may be badly washed; but they are free from the great difficulties that
beset all roads which for a large part of the year are underlaid by an over-
saturated, compact subsoil. Where such natural drainage is secured, no artificial
under-drainage will be needed. In many more instances, all that will be required
in the way of draining will be to lead away the sources of wet-weather springs,
which break through the road-bed and cause deep sloughs. Where incomplete or
partial artificial under-draining is needed, the need is absolute; and whether we
consider the durability of the road, or the degree to which its traffic is interfered
with by its wet condition, we may be confident that every dollar spent in well-
directed under-draining will be invested to the very best advantage. The varying
conditions of wetness, and the different sources of surplus water, must be
regarded in deciding precisely how much of this work is needed, and how it
should be done. Details cannot be fully considered here; but as a general rule it
may be said, that where the subsoil generally is of an impervious character, and
where the road is more or less wet and weeping after long rains, a continuous
system of under-drains is required. If the trouble is local, here and there in

spots, and is obviously caused by the breaking up of springs from the road-bed,
such partial work may be adopted as will tap the sources of these springs, and
lead their water harmlessly away. Gisborne, one of the best agricultural writers
of England, put the case tersely and well when—objecting to the system of
circumventing springs—he said, "Hit him straight in the eye, is as good a
maxim in draining as in pugilism." It is best not to pass up at the side of a
spring, and so creep around behind it to head off its water; but to drive the drain
straight through it, and far enough beyond it to tap and lead away at a lower
level the water which causes it. These drains, as well as all others intended
simply to remove subsoil water, and not to cut off a weeping stream, are best
made with common drain-tiles laid as before directed, and covered immediately
with well-packed earth. Water enters an under-drain, not from above, but from
below; that is to say, as water, from whatever source, fills the subsoil, it rises
therein until it reaches the floor of the drain, when it enters and is led away, just
as water falling into a cask which stands on end flows off at the under side of
the bung-hole when it reaches its level. Even if the cask be filled to the top with
earth, the rain falling upon it will descend perpendicularly to the bottom, and
will flow off at the bung only when the soil to that level has become saturated.
It will descend through the soil by the straightest course, and will raise the
general level. It will not violate the laws of gravitation, and run diagonally
toward the point of outlet, as seems to be the general supposition when the
perplexing question, "How does water get into the drain?" is first considered.
When we drive a drain through a spring and into the water-bearing stratum
which feeds it, we simply make it easier for the water to escape by the drain
than to keep on at the higher level, and break out at the surface of the ground.
As in the case of the sidewalk illustrated in Figure 1, in cutting off a continuous
weeping or ooze from higher land, it is best to introduce a vertical filling of
porous material through which the water will descend and enter the drain; but,
excepting this single instance, all that we need to do, so far as subterranean
work is concerned, is to furnish an easy and sufficient channel for the removal
of subsoil water.
What constitutes a sufficient drain is something very much less than what is
generally supposed. In ordinary agricultural drainage, where the lines of tiles
are forty feet apart, a well-laid tile an inch and a quarter in diameter is sufficient
for a length of one thousand feet—that is, it is sufficient to remove the water of
filtration from an acre of land. If laid with only an inclination of six inches in
one hundred feet, its delivery will be so rapid as to amount to more than a heavy
continuous rain-fall upon this area. In road drainage, the same rule would hold

true; but, as the soil offers a certain resistance to the rapid descent of water, it is
best to give a means of outlet at smaller intervals; and for the best work in roads
thirty feet wide or more, three drains could be used with advantage. In no case,
however, need the size of pipes be larger than above indicated, if the form of the
tiles is true, and if they are well joined together at their ends. Tiles of less
perfect form had better be an inch and a half or even two inches in diameter;
but, as a rule, they should not be of a larger size, for the reason that the amount
of water that they may be expected to carry will not be sufficient to keep them
prop erly freed from silt unless the flow is concentrated within a narrow
channel.

FIG. 2.
Figure 2 shows the cross section of a country road thirty feet wide, with three
lines of tile-drain laid at a depth of about three feet below it. Except in case of
necessity, these drains should have an inclination of not less than six inches in
one hundred feet. There is no objection to their having more than this wherever
the lay of the land permits or requires it. They may often have considerably less
in case of need; but, the smaller the rate of inclination, the greater the care
needed in securing a true grade. The water of these drains should be collected
into a single drain, and led away at intervals of from five hundred to one
thousand feet. It may be delivered into a roadside gutter, or into a collecting
under-drain, according to the requirements of the situation.
It is now possible to procure drain-tiles at reasonable cost in almost all parts of
the country; and these are not only very much better than any form of stone
drain, but they are also much cheaper in construction,—the labor of preparing
and handling the stone, and of excavating the wider trench that stone requires,
amounting to more than the cost of the tile, even with a high charge of
transportation added. Incidentally it is proper to say that where tiles cannot be
had, a mass of gravel or fine cinders, six inches wide and six inches deep,
placed at the bottom of the drain, and covered with well-packed soil, is
preferable even to broken stone or any other form of channel that would permit
of the rapid running of water and the washing into the drains of even a slight
amount of silt.

The removal of excessive subsoil moisture being secured, attention should next
be given to the surface of the road, which should be finished with the firmest
material at hand,—with the common earth of the subsoil where nothing better
can be afforded,—and which should be brought to a true grade, with a very
slight slope from the centre to the edge. For a road thirty feet wide, the elevation
of the centre above the level of the edges should not be more than four to six
inches, and the grade should be made on a straight line rather than on a curve. If
the road is made as flat as the turning-off of surface-water will permit, it will be
travelled upon in all its parts; while if it is crowned to a high arch, as is often
the case, it will soon be found that the best place to drive is in the middle of the
road, and foot-tracks and wheel-tracks will soon form slight channels or ruts
which will lead water lengthwise along the road, and which will cause an undue
amount of wear and washing. A road may be actually flat to the eye, and equally
convenient for travel at every part of its width, and still have enough lateral
slope to cause water to run off from it.
It is especially desirable that no surface-water flowing from the roadside (above
all, when frost is coming out of the ground in the spring) be permitted to run on
to the road. This should be effectively prevented by the formation of sufficient
gutters, with such outlets as will prevent ponding at the sides of the road. When
it is necessary to carry the water of the gutters from one side of the road to the
other, culverts should be provided; and wherever the slope of the road is
sufficient to cause water to flow along it lengthwise,—that is, wherever the
inclination is more than about one in fifty,—there should be frequent slight
depressions from the centre diagonally toward the gutters to carry the flow
away before it can accumulate sufficiently to form a washing current.
If it can be done without hauling additional material, it is always well to raise
the road-bed somewhat above the level of the adjoining land, and this may
usually be accomplished by throwing upon it the subsoil of the gutters. In no
case should surface-soil sods or fine road-mud be used for repairs. The most
serious objection to the absurd system of road-mending so common in this
country lies in the fact that the annual repairing is little more than the ploughing
up and throwing back upon the roadway of the soft and unsuitable material
which has been washed into the gutters.
What is said above applies especially to country roads; but it is appropriate, so
far as it goes, to the better-made and better-kept roads of a village. In the case of
these latter, except where the soil is naturally dry and firm, some attention
should be given to the improvement of the surface; and it is to be considered

whether to adopt the expensive process of covering with broken stone road-
metal, or to use gravel. One or the other of these is desirable in all cases where
there is much tendency to sloppiness in wet weather; but any form of artificial
covering is so costly that the early efforts of the improvement association will
produce a more telling result if applied in other directions. The necessary cross-
walks may be satisfactorily made with coal-ashes.
It is even more easy in a village than in the country, to have the grades of all
roadways so regulated as to shed rain-water falling upon them, and to have
them so furnished with side gutters so as to prevent water from the roadside
from running on to them. The simplest way to effect this, and the neatest way
too, is to make gutters outside of the line of the road, say six inches deep and
eight feet wide, these being at once sodded or sown with grass and grain to give
an early protection against washing; made on such a shallow curve, they will
afford no obstruction to any system of mowing that may be adopted, while their
great width will give them sufficient capacity to carry away the water of
considerable storms.
The work of construction having been duly attended to, it is no less important to
provide for regular and constant care. Any rutting that comes of heavy traffic in
bad weather should be obliterated either by raking, or, better still, by filling the
ruts with gravel or ashes. If such work is attended to immediately on the
occasion for it arising, the amount of labor required will be very slight; for it is
especially true with reference to roads, that "a stitch in time saves nine." If the
filling of ruts and wheel-tracks be done in time, the serious damage that comes
from guttering flows of water lengthwise along the road may be almost entirely
avoided.
The mere cleaning work of both the roadway and roadside grass spaces, it will
be easy to induce children to perform for slight rewards and encouragement.
The daily removal of bits of paper and other rubbish will have an excellent
effect on the general appearance of the village. In the autumn the removal of the
fallen leaves will call for something more than children's work; but ordinarily
this source of cheap labor will be found sufficient if properly directed.

PUBLIC WATER SUPPLY.

As a field for encouragement, rather than as an object for the expenditure of the
association's funds, the furnishing of an ample supply of water is entitled to
very early consideration. Not only is the question of public health very seriously

involved in the water problem; but as a mere beautifying element an abundance
of water, to be obtained without labor, will have a very telling effect by the
facility it gives for preserving the fresh appearance of lawns and shrubbery, and
for the cultivation of flowers and vines.
Regarded from the horticulturist's point of view, the climate of pretty nearly the
whole of this country is simply detestable. We may arrange to withstand very
well the severity of our northern winters; we expect an entire shutting-up of all
garden industries, and long cold seasons are an accustomed matter of necessity:
but we have never yet learned to accept with patience the almost annual
destruction of our lawns and gardens and flower-beds by scathing drought. No
public water supply available for an ordinary village would suffice to overcome
the effects of a dry season over the whole of even a small homestead; but we
may hope to secure enough to keep one or two small sprinklers flowing steadily
through the hot months, and so keep a little grass measurably green, and
preserve a semblance of life and beauty in flower-beds and delicate shrubbery.
It is very rarely that it will be possible to supply water enough in a whole week
to equal in its effect a half-hour's rain; but the difference between towns where
even the small amount of water is available for the garden and those which are
hopelessly given over to drought shows how much may be accomplished in this
direction even with limited means.
As in the case of road-making in any thing like a complete and thorough
manner, the providing of a water supply must necessarily be directed by
professional advice. Although the simpler principles of hydraulics are
sufficiently understood, and although it would be quite within the ability of a
number of the more intelligent men of any village to secure and distribute a
satisfactory amount of water, the cost of doing such work in an experimental
way by persons unaccustomed to its details, as compared with the cost of doing
it under the direction of an engineer whose natural judgment and capacity are
supplemented by experience and skill, would be without doubt far beyond the
fee demanded for his services. In this case, as in many others connected with
public and private works, it is always bad economy to save the cost of proper
knowledge. Very likely—perhaps indeed very generally—the actual
performance of the work, the buying and laying of the pipe, and all that, can be
as cheaply done under home direction as under that of a public contractor; but
the making of the plans—the deciding upon the source of the supply, upon the
means for securing a sufficient head, the sizes of the pipes, the location and
construction of fire-plugs, and all the minor details of the work—will be more

or less economical, according to the skill, experience, and capacity of the person
who directs it.
The sources from which water may be obtained are various. Often enough water
of the best quality may be procured by driven, dug, or artesian wells; but,
whenever this course is adopted, the wells should be located far enough away
from the village, or on land sufficiently high, to make it impossible that there
shall be any fouling of the water-bearing strata by the filtration from barn-yards,
privy-vaults, or cesspools. Generally, water so secured will have to be raised to
an elevated reservoir by some mechanical force. If the demand is to be a large
one, and if the community can afford the cost, the most reliable plan will be to
use steam-power for pumping; but in smaller places, and where economy is a
great object, wind-power may serve an excellent purpose.
If a stream of pure water is available at a sufficient height, it may be led directly
to the reservoir, or its current may be used to drive a water-wheel sufficient to
do the pumping. In a majority of cases there will be found at no great distance a
stream capable of supplying the water needed throughout the dryest season of
the year, but not entirely free from organic impurities. In such cases it is often
feasible, by excavating a filtering sump or pump-well at a little distance from
the side of the stream, and at a sufficient depth below the level of its bed to
secure a supply tolerably purified by filtration through the intervening earth.
The distance at which this sump should be placed from the bed of the stream
will depend on the character of the soil. The more porous this is, the greater
should the distance be. This question as to the source from which the water is to
be taken is one which, more than any other, calls for experienced judgment.
Frequently the conformation of the surrounding country is such that, even
where there is no constant stream, it is possible by the construction of dams to
pond an amount of water, to be furnished by surface washing, sufficient to
supply the demands of the longest drought. In this case, as in all others where
reservoirs are used, it is important to have a good depth of water, and not to
allow, even toward the edges, any considerable shallow area. So far as possible,
the depth should be everywhere great enough to prevent vegetation, and in all
the shallower parts the surface soil should be entirely removed. As a rule, there
should be a depth of at least fifteen feet of water, except near the very edges of
the pond, and as much more than this as circumstances will allow.
The distribution of water for private use is a simple question of construction;
but, as a matter of taste, too vehement a protest cannot be entered against the

common misconception as to what is desirable in the way of public fountains.
An instance in point is furnished by the public drinking-fountain in Newport.
Some years ago there stood at the foot of the Parade a grand old stone bowl,
hewn out of a solid block of granite, and filled by a pipe leading from a copious
spring. This was a good, sensible, substantial drinking-trough, perfectly adapted
to its use, unpretending and handsome. Later, a public-spirited gentleman,
desiring to leave a monument of his regard for the city, gave a considerable sum
to be used in providing a suitable drinking-fountain at this point. Those who had
the control of the fund lacked either the good taste or the courage to refuse to
expend it. The result is that this granite horse-basin—one of the best of its sort
—has been removed to an obscure position; and there has been erected in its
place a wretched cast-iron combination of bad architecture and bad statuary,
such as form a conspicuous defacement of the public squares in Philadelphia,
where they serve the double purpose of furnishing water to the people, and
advertising a cheap clothing establishment. The one compensation for the
violation of good taste inseparable from these constructions is to be found in the
fact that they must, sooner or later, lead the public to realize the absolute
unfitness of cast iron for monumental and decorative uses. With the artistic
influences which are now so active in the instruction of the American people, it
is not perhaps unreasonable to look forward to the day when all of these piles of
pot-metal shall be relegated to the scrap-heap, and when less offensive
fountains shall take their place. We may even hope to see the iron statue and its
stove-like support which supplies water to the horses of Newport condemned to
the foundry, and its solid old predecessor restored to the position which it
ornamented for so many years.
A wide margin may be allowed for the exercise of taste in the arrangement of
village fountains; and where private munificence enables the expenditure of a
considerable sum, a good amount of exterior decoration may be admissible: but
it should always be borne in mind that so much of the outlay as is needed for
the purpose should go to secure a good artistic design. Especially should the use
of cast iron be avoided, as being from every point of view, and under all
circumstances, whether in the shape of cast-iron dogs or deer, or attempts at the
divine human form, absolutely and entirely inadmissible for artistic uses. Better
a dug-out log horse-trough, overflowing through a notch in its side, as an
ornament to the best-kept village green, than the most elaborate pitcher-spilling
nymph that was ever cast in an iron-foundry. So far as the mere construction
work of public drinking-fountains and horse-troughs is concerned, not much
need be said except in connection with the overflow. In cold climates, there is

apt to be from all such structures a spilling of water which covers the ground for
some distance with ice. This may be avoided by carrying the overflow by a
vertical pipe descending through the body of the water by some well-protected
channel directly into a drain in the ground, at a depth beyond the direct action of
frosts. If the stream is constant, this depth need be nothing like that to which
frost penetrates into the soil,—for the constant movement of the water will
prevent its freezing, even if covered only a foot deep, though to something more
than this depth it will be desirable to have the metal pipe enclosed in a larger
pipe of earthenware, giving a space of enclosed air.

Where there is no public supply of water, it is better in most cases (considering
the nearness of wells in villages to cesspools and privy-vaults), to depend
entirely upon cisterns. In our climate, where rain is abundant during a
considerable portion of the year, the water falling upon the roof of any house, if
properly collected and stored, is ample for the whole supply of the family which
that roof shelters. This water as it falls is ordinarily free from any impurity that
can affect its taste, and from every source of serious fouling; though, after a
long-continued drought, it is well to divert and discharge upon the surface of the
ground the first ten minutes' flow of a shower, so that the impurities of the air
and the dust of the roof may first be removed. After this first dash, lead to the
cistern all that follows. Even with this precaution, the water will be more
agreeable for use if filtered. There are numerous systems for making filters in
cisterns, but no other is so simple nor so durable and satisfactory as the
separation of that part of the cistern from which the suction-pipe leads by a wall
of brick and cement. It is simply necessary to build a wall of brick set on edge
(two and a half inches thick), so as to include about one-quarter of the area of
the bottom, sloping it back so as to terminate against the side of the cistern at a
height of from four to six feet. This wall should be so well cemented at its joints
that water can only pass through the material of brick, and for strength its form
should be slightly bulging. A wall of this sort, measuring say six feet at its base,
and rising to a height of six feet at its highest point, will transmit an amount of
water sufficient to supply the demand of the most constant pumping that any
domestic use can require.

SQUARES AND PUBLIC SPACES.

As a rule, the open spaces in a country village are subject to no other criticism
than that of neglect; but the exceptions are not rare where an attempt at
improvement has resulted in a sort of cemetery look that gives any thing but a
cheerful, pleasure-ground aspect.
There is not much danger that persons who are enthusiastic for the improvement
of the town in which they live will err on the side of too great simplicity. The
public squares and parks of large and wealthy cities are regulated and
maintained at great cost and under skilful and artistic management; and they
cannot fail to strike country visitors as being in all ways desirable. So indeed
they are. They are a chief element of the city's beauty, and, from an æsthetic
point of view, their influence is the best to which its people are subjected. But
their beauty and their æsthetic influence are both the result of a well-directed
expenditure of large sums of money. It is quite natural that an enriched
manufacturer or merchant, proud of his native village, should be ambitious to
perpetuate the memory of his benefaction by providing for some corresponding
decoration of its public green, and that he should attempt to reproduce there, on
the smaller scale proportionate to the circumstances, the sort of magnificence
that he has seen in the city park. If left to his own sweet will,—as he often is if
he is willing to spend money for the public benefit,—he will, unless a rich man
of the rarer sort, succeed only in producing a conspicuous imitation.
A park-railing of artistically-worked wrought-iron will be represented by a cast-
iron substitute of much more elaborate device; and there will probably be "piled
on," here and there, an amount of cheap ornamentation which at the first glance
will have a certain imposing effect. In the matter of planting there may be an
amount and variety of foreign shrubbery and sub-tropical plants, which, under
proper care, would be of great value and beauty, but which, with the neglect to
which they are doomed in their village home, are quite certain to abort. In fact,
we may expect to see, what indeed we may now see, in painful degree, in many
of our smaller towns, a halting attempt at the outside show of the city park,
which, in the absence of those elements of artistic selection and appropriateness
to the conditions which are to prevail, develop, as time goes on, into an
ignominious failure.
The trouble is, that, in all expenditures of this sort, we are apt to begin at the
wrong end. In the making of a park, every step that is taken, whether the park be
large or small, is a costly one; and, if taken in their reverse order, every step is a
wasted one. The chief reason why the final decoration of a city park is so
satisfactory is that it is only the crowning work of many processes which have

had the best and most careful attention from the outset. The wrought-iron grille,
the architectural fountain, the bronze statue, the delicate trees and shrubbery,
and the smoothly-finished walks and drives, depend for their success upon a
vast amount of costly fundamental work, and a provision for constant skilful
care, which have cost a deal of money, and which look to a large permanent
outlay. The elaborate fence must stand on no unstable foundation; the fountain
must be only the ornamental central point of artistic and well-kept lawns and
approaches; the statue must stand amid appropriate surroundings; and all but the
simpler native vegetation must have its suitable soil, and be insured its needed
protection and care at all seasons. The degree to which these more ornamental
features may be given to the village green with any hope of satisfaction will
depend almost entirely upon the thoroughness with which it has been prepared
to receive them. Could the enthusiastic members of the improvement
association be brought face to face with the cost that is needed for quite hidden
fundamental work in order to prepare their green for the more elaborate artistic
decoration, they would be deterred at the outset from attempting any thing so
ambitious. Could they know the cost of the mere work of grading and subsoil
cultivation, under-draining, manuring, laying the deep foundation for foot-
paths, and securing that perfect growth of grass without which all park-like
ornament is robbed of half its value, they would set their faces resolutely
against all propositions on the part of public-spirited citizens to veneer their
unprepared grounds with misplaced exterior adornment.
If money enough can be provided to do the work thoroughly well from its very
foundation, then of course nothing more is needed than that its direction be
placed in accomplished hands; but unless this is fully assured, if—as is nearly
always the case,—economy is the first thing to be considered, then the rule of
action is fully stated in two words, simplicity and thoroughness.
Avoid all fantastic ornament, and all decoration of every sort, that would be
appropriate only to work of a more complete and substantial character. Let
whatever is done be done in the most thorough way. If the ability is only enough
to secure good grass, then do every thing that is necessary to furnish the best
conditions for the growth of grass, make suitable provision for its care, and
attempt nothing further. Good lawn-like grass surfaces, crossed only by foot-
worn pathways over the turf, will be more beautiful and more satisfactory than
will poor grass and cheaply made and ill-kept walks.
If something more than securing the best grass is possible, then let the next
expenditure be in the direction of paths, applying to the construction of these

the principles set forth in what has hitherto been said about sidewalks. In the
case of level walks, with imperfect means of drainage, it is often desirable to
secure the better foundation that is given by filling in to the depth of a foot or
more with small stone.

Whatever may be the natural character of the soil, unless always well drained
by a porous subsoil, the first step toward establishing a good lawn is to secure
perfect underdrainage. Establish a good outlet at the depth of three and a half or
four feet below the surface at the lowest point of the area to be drained, and
then, selecting the necessary lines for main drains, lay out parallel lines (thirty
feet apart at a depth of three and a half feet, or forty feet apart at a depth of four
feet) to include the whole area, and on these lines lay well-constructed drains of
small open-jointed tiles. Cover these tiles with the most compact earth that has
been excavated, and, after filling to a depth of one foot, tramp or ram this earth
tightly. Then fill the rest of the trench, heaping over the lines any excess of
material that may need the settling effect of heavy rains to work it into place.
The next step is to reverse or thoroughly mix the whole soil to a depth of at
least fifteen inches. This work can be completely done only with the aid of
hand-shovelling, but the aid of the plough will greatly facilitate it. Its purpose is
to secure such an admixture of the organic matter of the surface soil with the
more compact material of the subsoil as will make it sufficiently porous and
fertile for the easy penetration of roots. It is best that this work should be done
in autumn; and, if the land is level, that the freshly raised subsoil should be left
exposed in its rough and lumpy condition—without harrowing—to the frosts of
winter. If washing is to be apprehended, then sow the ground thickly with rye,
harrowing in the seed only roughly. If the seed is sown early enough, the growth
will be sufficient to protect the surface from washing. During the winter, let the
whole surface be heavily covered with stable-manure,—the more heavily the
better, as there is no limit to the amount of coarse manure that may with
advantage be used for the establishment of permanent grass. In the spring, as
soon as the ground is dry enough to work easily, plough in the manure with as
shallow furrows as will suffice to cover the most of it; then harrow repeatedly,
bringing the surface to as true a grade as possible, and sow it heavily with a
mixture of Rhode Island bent grass, Kentucky blue grass, and white clover. As
soon as the seed is well sprouted, showing green over the whole ground, roll the
area repeatedly and thoroughly until it is as smooth and hard as it is possible to

make it. As soon as the grass has attained the height of three inches, let it be cut
with a lawn-mower, and let the cutting be repeated at least weekly throughout
the season of rapid growth, and as often as necessary until the end of autumn.
If paths are to be made, it will simplify matters to make them after the grass has
become well established, supposing only a good surface footway of ashes or
concrete to be needed; for the small amount of excavation necessary under
either of these systems may be scattered over the grass spaces without injury.
But if the more thorough system is adopted of underlaying the walk with a foot
or more of stones, then the work, except the final dressing of gravel or ashes,
should be done in the autumn, or, in any case, before the final preparation of the
soil for seeding.

Concerning trees and ornamental shrubbery for parks and open spaces, it is not
possible to give detailed directions here, beyond recommending, as in the case
of roadside plantations, that, unless the work is to remain permanently in the
charge of an experienced gardener, with the necessary appliances for the care
and protection of the more delicate specimens, the arrangement and the
selection should be confined to the more hardy and vigorous trees and shrubs
which experience has shown to be adapted to the climate and soil of the locality.
For roadsides, and largely in parks and village greens, the world offers no tree
that can compare in dignity and grace with the broad-spreading American elm;
though, for the sake of variety, and for the sake of an earlier effect, many other
trees may be added.

VILLAGE SANITARY WORK.
It is a recently recognized but an old and universal truth, that human life
involves the production of refuse matters, which, unless proper safeguards are
taken, are sure to become a source of disease and death. The danger is not
confined alone nor chiefly to that element of household waste which is most
manifestly offensive, but in almost equal degree to all manner of organic refuse.
It is true that fæcal matters are often accompanied by the inciting agent of the
propagation of infectious diseases. For convenience, and as indicating the more
probable means for disseminating infection, we may call this agent "germs." It
has not yet been demonstrated with scientific completeness that a disease is
spread by living germs whose growth in a new body produces a corresponding
disorder; but all that is known of the circumstances of infection, and of the
means for preventing it, may be fully explained by this theory. Typhoid fever,
cholera, epidemic diarrh[oe]a, and some other prevalent diseases, are presumed
by the germ theory to be chiefly, if not entirely, propagated by germs thrown off
by a diseased body. So far as these ailments are concerned, there is therefore a
very serious element of danger added in the case of fæces to the other evil
effects which are produced by an improper disposal of any refuse organic
matter. That any one or all of these diseases can originate from the
decomposition, under certain circumstances of fæcal matters, is not clearly
determined. There is, however, good reason for believing that one common
effect of the gases arising from improperly treated matters of this kind is to
debilitate the human system, and so to create a disposition to receive contagion,
or to succumb to minor diseases which are not contagious.
The same debilitating effect and the same injurious influences often result from
the neglect of other organic wastes. The refuse of the kitchen sink is free from
fæcal matter; but it contains, in a greater or less degree, precisely the kind of
organic material which has gone to make up the more offensive substance. If its
final disposition is such as to contaminate the water that we drink or the air that
we breathe with the products of their decay, the danger to life is hardly less than
that from the decomposition of fæcal accumulations.
It is proposed now to set forth, in the simplest way and without much discussion
of principles (which may be studied elsewhere), the methods and processes by
which village households and communities may be protected against the

influences that come from an excess of soil-moisture, from damp walls, and
from imperfect removal or improper disposal of organic filth.
We will assume that a village has a water supply sufficient to admit of the use of
water-closets in all houses, and to furnish a good flushing for kitchen sinks, &c.
A necessary complement of this work—indeed, it should properly precede it—
is the establishment of a system of sewers by which all of this liquid outflow
may be carried safely away. It would be out of the question in a small or
scattered community, especially where roadways are unpaved, to establish any
system which should include in its working the removal of surface water. The
moment we undertake to make sewers of sufficient capacity to carry away the
storm water of large districts, then we enormously increase the scale and cost of
the work.
So far as the removal of house sewage alone is concerned, the work need by no
means be very costly. If a tolerable inclination can be given to the line of
sewers,—say a fall of one in two hundred,—a six-inch pipe will have a capacity
quite up to the requirements of a village of two thousand inhabitants using one
hundred gallons of water per day per head. It will, however, be safe to use a
pipe of this size only when it is true in form and carefully laid, so that there
shall be no retarding of the flow at the joints from the intrusion of mortar, or
any other form of irregularity. Unless the joints are wiped quite smooth, the
roughness remaining will serve as a nucleus for the accumulation of hair, shreds
of cloth, and other matters which will hold silt and grease, and form in time a
serious obstruction. Nothing smaller than six-inch pipe should be adopted for a
street sewer. Unless the work is to be most carefully done, for all but the branch
lines, for a population of five thousand, or less according to the fall of the
sewer, it will be safer to use eight-inch pipes. These pipes must be laid with
great accuracy as to grade and direction. All corners should be turned with
curves of large radius and regular sweep, and with an additional fall to
compensate for the increased resistance of curves. The weight of the pipe
should not be supported upon the sockets (see Figure 3), partly as a question of
strength, and partly because any irregularity of form or thickness of the socket
would change the inclination of the sewer. The bottom of the trench being
brought exactly to the required grade, let there be dug out a depression greater
than the projection of the socket, the pipe resting upon its finished bottom for its
whole length. (See Figure 4.) Too much care cannot be given to the thorough
filling with cement of the space between the socket and the pipe inserted into it;
the whole circle being well flushed and wiped, so that there may be no
possibility of leakage.

FIG. 3 PIPES RESTING ON THEIR SHOULDERS.

FIG. 4. PIPES RESTING ON THEIR FULL
LENGTH.
The objection to leakage is twofold: sewage matters escaping into the soil might
contaminate wells and springs; and it would also rob the flow through the pipes
of water needed to carry forward the more solid contents. The continued
efficiency of these small drains for carrying away the solid or semi-solid
outflow of the house is dependent very largely upon the presence of sufficient
water to create a scouring current. While eight-inch pipes are admissible as a
safeguard against imperfect laying, they are liable to the grave objection, that,
where the service to be performed is greatly less than their capacity, the stream
flowing through them will not be sufficiently concentrated to carry forward the
more solid parts of the sewage. Up to the limit of their capacity, six-inch pipes
properly laid are greatly to be preferred, as insuring a deeper stream which will
more generally attain the velocity of three feet per second, needed to move the
heavier constituents of the sewage. The difference in cost between six-inch and
eight-inch pipes will be sufficient to cover any extra cost of the most careful
workmanship. However much attention may be given to the cementing of the
joints, it will be impossible to prevent the running into the pipes of a certain
amount of mortar; and the workman should have a swab or a disk of India
rubber of the exact size of the bore of the pipe, with a short handle attached to
its middle, to draw forward as each joint is finished, and so scrape away any
excess of mortar before it hardens.
Wherever it is, or may probably become, necessary to attach a house-drain or
land-drain, there should be used a length of pipe having a side branch, oblique
to the direction of the flow, to receive such connection. The location of these
branches should be accurately indicated on the plan; and they should be closed
with a flat stone or a bit of slate, well cemented in place.

It will at times be necessary to use larger conduits than even an eight-inch pipe.
Up to a diameter of fifteen inches, it is cheapest to use pipes, but for eighteen
inches or more, brick-work is cheaper; and at that size—a considerable regular
flow of water being insured—the slight roughness of brick-work offers no
serious objection. The use of oval or egg-shaped sewers will rarely be necessary
under the circumstances that we are considering; but there may be exceptional
conditions where the covering-in of a brook, or storm-water course, cannot be
avoided; and in such cases the volume of water may vary so greatly that there
will at times be a mere thread of a stream, and at times a torrent. Here the oval
form is the best, as concentrating a small flow within a narrow and deep
channel, and still giving the capacity needed for exceptionally large volumes.
All bricks used for sewers, man-holes, &c., should be of the very hardest
quality, and true in form. The general rule is to be kept in mind, that the
thickness of the wall of a brick sewer should not be less than one-ninth of the
inner diameter; that is to say, that up to a diameter of three feet the thickness of
the wall should equal the width of a brick,—four inches. This applies to circular
sewers only: the oval form, being less strong, calls for a wall of a thickness
equal to one-eighth of the largest diameter.
Connecting drains leading from houses to the sewer are to be made at private
cost; but they should be made in accordance with plans furnished by the public
authority, and by a workman acceptable to that authority.
The householder might be permitted to take the responsibility of the finishing of
his drain, but for the fact that the working of the public sewer calls for the
largest amount of water in proportion to the amount of solid matters that it is
possible to secure, and thus makes it imperative that this drain should be
absolutely tight, so that the liquid parts of the house outflow shall not trickle
away through its joints, leaving only the more solid parts to flow into the public
sewer.
Properly graded and smoothly jointed, a four-inch pipe will carry more water
than even the largest boarding-house or country hotel is likely to discharge.
There is, however, a tendency in all house-drains to become filled in the early
part of their course by the accumulation of grease and solid matters caught in
the grease. Where no form of grease-trap is used, there is a certain argument in
favor of the use of six-inch pipes for the upper part of house-drains. The use of
a grease-trap, however, should always be insisted upon; and with its aid these
obstructing matters will be retained, and the outflow may be perfectly carried by
a four-inch pipe.

So far as the public sewer is concerned, it makes little difference what is the
size of the house connection drain through the greater part of its course; but the
junction with the sewer should, under no circumstances, where six-inch sewer-
pipes are adopted, be more than four inches. I should even insist on four-inch
connections with an eight-inch sewer. Through neglect, or by reason of
improper management, many kinds of rubbish find their way into house-drains;
and a four-inch opening will admit as many of these into the sewer as it will be
able to carry away. If, by reason of bad construction or neglect, an obstruction is
to be caused at any point, it should be in the drain, which the person responsible
for it must cleanse or repair.
The grease-trap referred to above may be any form of reservoir which will
retain the flow from the kitchen sink until it has time to cool, when its grease
will be solidified, and will float at the surface. The outlet from this trap should
be at such a distance below the surface of the water, that there will be no danger
of its floating matter passing in with the discharge. A very simple device for this
purpose is shown in Figure 5. From a trap of this sort the flow is constant
whenever additions are made to its contents.

FIG. 5.—GREASE-TRAP. I,
Inlet; V, ventilator; O, outlet.
Figure 6 shows the invention of an English engineer, Mr. Rogers Field, which
has the effect of retaining all of the outflow from the kitchen sink until it is
entirely filled,—say thirty gallons. When filled, any sudden addition of a few
quarts of water, as from the emptying of a dish-pan, brings into action a siphon
whose entrance is near the bottom of the tank; and this siphon rapidly
discharges all of the contents above its mouth in a flow having sufficient force
to carry forward not only any solid matters which it may contain, but also any
ordinary obstructing accumulations in the drain below. The soil-pipe, carrying
the discharge of water-closets, should not be delivered into the flush-tank, but at
a point farther down the drain, so that any solid matter it may deposit shall be

swept forward by the next action of the flush-tank. The more often the flush-
tank is filled, and the greater the proportion of its water to its impurities, the
more efficient will be its action. Therefore the slop closet waste leading from
the upper story, and even the outlet pipes of bathing-tubs, may with advantage
be delivered into it.

FIG. 6.—FIELD'S FLUSH-TANK. A, Receiver;
B, grating; C, ventilator; D, siphon; F, entrance
to drain; I, delivery from sink.
Although the flush-tank may receive no fæcal matter, and even though the
housemaid's sink may not deliver into it, it will contain in the discharge from
the kitchen alone an amount of organic matter which will produce offensive and
dangerous gases by its decomposition. To provide for the safe removal of these
gases, a ventilating pipe should be carried up to some point not near to any
window or chimney-top.
From the time the sewers are ready for service no accumulation of fæcal matter
or other organic household waste should be allowed to remain in the village. All
old vaults and cesspools should be filled with earth, and disinfected by the
admixture of lime with the upper layers of the filling. The use of water-closets
in all houses should be made imperative; and the construction and arrangement
of soil-pipes and of all outlets should be regulated by the health authorities.
It is not worth while here to discuss the details of the construction of water-
closets and other interior plumbing work, except with reference to soil-pipes

and such drains as may deliver the outflow of soil-pipes to the public sewer. The
soil-pipe should be of cast iron, carefully jointed with lead, not less than four
inches in diameter, and carried by the straightest course possible up through the
roof and generally higher than the ridge-pole. Its open top must not be near any
window, and if within ten feet of a chimney it should be at least one foot below
the level of the top of that chimney. There should be no trap in the soil-pipe, and
no trap in a private drain between the outlet of the soil-pipe and the sewer. The
reasons for this rule are twofold:—
1. No matter what amount of water may be used for flushing out the soil-pipe,
its sides will always be more or less coated with organic filth; and, however
slight this coating, there will be a certain amount of decomposition. The
decomposition of all such matters must be rapid and complete, not slow and
partial. A necessary condition of complete destructive decomposition is an
abundance of atmospheric air to supply the oxygen which complete
decomposition demands. If the soil-pipe is closed at its top, or if it is obstructed
by a trap in the lower part of its course, there can be no such circulation of air as
safety requires.
If there is an opportunity for the free admission of air from the well-ventilated
sewer to feed the upward current almost constantly prevailing in a soil-pipe
open at both ends, the gases resulting from the decomposition will be of a
different and less injurious character than where the air is confined,—and by the
mere volume of air passing through the pipe they will be so diluted that even
were they originally poisonous their power for harm will be lessened.
The gases formed by the decomposition of organic matter in the sewer itself, or
in the soil-pipe, have a certain expansive force which is greatly increased by the
elevation of temperature, caused, for example, by the discharge of hot water
into the pipe or sewer. If the soil-pipe is open at its upper end this expansion
will be at once relieved; but if the top of the pipe be closed there will always be
danger of the forcing of the feeble barrier offered by the ordinary water-seal
trap of a branch pipe leading from a wash-basin or sink. Then, too, the sealing-
water of the trap readily absorbs any foul gases presented at its outer end,
toward the soil-pipe, and gives it off in an unchanged condition at the inner or
house end. Such traps retard, but do not prevent, the entrance of sewer gases
into the house. Water-seal traps which are unused for any considerable time are
emptied by evaporation, and thus open a channel through which the air of the
soil-pipe may find its way into the house.

It is usual in modern plumbing to relieve the pressure of gas in the soil-pipe by
what is called a "stench-pipe." This is a pipe from one to two inches in diameter,
leading from the highest point of the soil-pipe to the outside of the roof, where
it is bent over to prevent the entrance of foreign matter, or is closed at the top
and perforated with holes to allow the gas to escape. This small stench-pipe is
inadequate for the necessary work. It is very important that there be the freest
possible channel for the movement of air; and nothing will suffice for this save
the continuing of the pipe, at its full size, to its very outlet. Indeed, angles and
bends in a pipe by increasing friction form a serious obstruction.
The arrangement of the soil-pipe here indicated, although excellent and
efficient, is susceptible of further improvement by the use of a ventilating cowl
or hood at its top. There are many forms of such cowls in use which are
effective whenever there is a sufficient current of wind; but most of them
require a certain force to bring them into action, and when this force is absent
they usually retard the flow they are intended to increase. This is true of a recent
invention known as "Banner's ventilating cowl," which so long as the wind
blows is a most effective device. When the air is perfectly still, however, it
offers by its curved air-way a certain resistance to the current, and in the case of
baffling winds and flaws the air may blow directly into its opening.
Among the various inventions of this sort nothing seems so free from objection
as the old arrangement known as the "Emerson" ventilator, shown in Figure 7.
This gives a straight outlet, protected by a disk far enough above it not to
prevent its delivery of air; and it becomes an effective suction cowl, with the
least movement of the wind from any side or from above or below. No eddy
caused by the angles of gable roofs can give it a backward draught; and if a pipe
armed with it be held toward the strongest gale a puff of smoke blown into its
other end will be instantly drawn through. As the patent for this invention has
run out, it is competent for any tinsmith to make it, and it is a common article of
manufacture.

FIG. 7.—THE EMERSON
VENTILATOR.
2. What is said above concerning the ventilation of the soil-pipe from end to end
relates to the interest of the private owner. The interest of the public gives an
equally strong argument in its favor. The sewer should be as far as possible
removed from the condition of an "elongated cesspool." There must be no
halting of its contents, and no deposit of filth or silt at any point. Within the
shortest time possible, every thing received into the sewer must be passed on
and delivered at its outlet. Still, however perfectly this may be accomplished,
there will always be a certain adhesion of slime to the walls of the sewer; and
this slime must always be in a state of decomposition, a constant source of
offence and possible danger. The only way to avert this danger is to give the
sewer such a thorough ventilation that the decomposition shall be rapid and
safe, and that the resultant gases shall be at once diluted with fresh air.
This may be measurably accomplished by the simple ventilation of the sewer
itself, through open-topped man-holes; but such ventilation is less effective in
the case of small sewers than of large ones. In the case of either large or small
sewers, it will be vastly increased if we compel every householder who makes a
connection with the sewer, to carry a drain and soil pipe, nowhere less than four
inches in diameter, from the point of junction with the main line to the open air
above the roof. Where houses are near enough to make the use of a public sewer
advisable, the aggregate of these soil-pipes, having almost constantly an upward
current, will make such a draught upon the sewer, to be supplied by a downward
current through the man-hole covers, as will maintain a perfect and continuous
ventilation.

Important as it is to secure the proper arrangement and construction of sewers
and house-drains, it is still more important to provide for the safe disposition of
the sewage.
We must begin at the outset with the understanding that all sewage matters not
only are of no value to the community, but that it will cost money to get rid of
them.
There is hardly an instance, after all the efforts that have been made, of the
profitable disposal of the outflow of public sewers. The theoretical value of the
wastes of human life is very great, but the cost of any method for utilizing them
seems at least equally great. The question of cost is so much more important (to
the community) than the question of agricultural value, that the practical thing
to do is to make such disposition as will cost the least, while fully meeting the
best sanitary requirements.
So far as village sewage is concerned, there are three means open for its
disposal: to discharge it into running water or into deep tide-water, to use it for
the surface irrigation of land, or to distribute it through sub-irrigation pipes
placed at little distance below the surface of the soil. Experiments are being
made with more or less promise of success in the direction of the chemical
treatment of this liquid so as to purify its effluent water, and retain in a solid
form, and in combination with certain valuable added ingredients, all of its
undissolved impurities. None of these processes can as yet claim consideration
in regulating public works.
The cheapest way to get rid of sewage is to discharge it into a running stream or
into tide-water. So far as the community itself is concerned, this is often the best
way; but there will very often arise the objection that the community has no
moral or legal right to foul a stream of which others make use in its further
course. Where the amount of water constantly flowing is very large, and where
the discharge is rapid,—any given part of the sewage reaching the open air
within a few hours from the time of its entering the pipes,—and where it flows
in moving water for a considerable distance before reaching others who may
have occasion to use the stream, no practical danger is to be apprehended. But
where the sewage is more foul, more sluggish, or exposed in the open current
for a shorter time, the danger may be serious. The pouring of sewage into tide-
water is always admissible where floats show that there is no danger of a return
and deposit of solid filth; but the delivery at all stages of the tide, in the

immediate neighborhood of salt marshes and mud flats, and in land-locked
harbors, is to be avoided.
Where an unobjectionable natural outflow cannot be provided, the irrigation of
agricultural lands affords the best relief. The action of vegetation, the oxidation
which takes in the upper and well-aërated layers of soil, and the well-known but
not yet fully explained disinfecting qualities of common earth, are effective in
removing the dangerous and offensive impurities, and in converting them into a
more or less important source of fertility. Precisely how far this system may be
available during winter, it is not easy to say. While the earth is locked with frost,
there must be very little, if any, infiltration; but, as an offset, the action of a low
temperature upon the sewage matters will clearly be antiseptic; and it is only
necessary to provide against an undue washing away of the surface of the
ground during thaws, and against the flowing of the sewage beyond the proper
limits.
Generally in the neighborhood of villages it will be easy to find lands over
which the delivery may be carried on throughout the year without objection.
The sewer, or some form of covered channel, should lead far enough from any
public road to avoid offence. From this point it may be led by open gutters to
the land over which it is to be spread,—or rather through such a system of
surface gutters as will enable us to deliver it at different parts of the field,
according to the requirements of the crops, and so as to use fresh land at
frequent intervals, leaving that which has been saturated to the purifying
processes of vegetation and atmospheric action.
The gutters having been made, it is easy, by the use of portable dams,—of thin
boiler-iron, like broad shovels,—which may be set in the course of the flow, to
divert the current into any branch channel, or to stop it at any desired part of this
channel. All the gutters having sufficient descent to lead the sewage rapidly
forward, it is usual to set a dam near the far end of the gutter, and allow the
sewage to overflow and run down over the surface until it has reached as far as
the formation of the ground and the quantity of the liquid will allow it to spread.
This portion having received its due amount of the liquid, the dam is moved to a
higher point, and the overflow is allowed to spread over a second area. In this
way, step by step, we irrigate all that may be reached by a single gutter. Then
the moving of the dam in the main line turns the water into another gutter, and
this is proceeded with in like manner. In practice it is found best to begin the
overflow at the farthest end of the lowest-lying gutter, working back step by
step until the higher parts of the field are reached. It would be better that there

should be land enough to require the irrigation of any given area not oftener
than once in one or two weeks. The amount required for a given population
cannot be determined by any fixed rule,—so much depending on the amount of
water used per capita, and on the absorptive character of the irrigated soil. In
the case of villages, one acre to each five hundred of the population would
generally be found ample.
There are several instances of the successful use of a much smaller area than is
here indicated, by the use of intermittent downward filtration. The most noted
success in this direction is that at Merthyr-Tydvil in Wales, a large mining town,
where the allowance is only one acre to each two thousand of the population.
There are two filter-beds of light loam over a gravelly subsoil thoroughly
underdrained with tiles at a depth of six feet. One of these beds is cultivated
with some crop like Italian rye-grass, which bears copious irrigation; and the
other by some crop like wheat, which, in the absence of irrigation, will thrive on
the fertility left over from the previous season. The volume of sewage is very
great, but the action of the six feet of earth in removing its impurities seems to
be complete; the water flowing out from the drains having been proved by
analysis to be really far purer than the standard fixed by the Rivers Pollution
Commission.
It is an important condition of this system that the sewage, where its quantity is
small, shall be stored in tanks until a large volume has accumulated, and that it
then be rapidly discharged over the soil. There is no objection to an actual
saturation of the ground, provided the soil is not of such a retentive character as
to be liable to become puddled, and so made impervious. The tanks being
emptied, the flow ceases until they are again filled. During the interval, the
liquid settles away in the soil, by which its impurities are removed. Its descent
is followed by the entrance of fresh air, and the oxidizing action of this,
accompanied during the growing season by the purifying effect of the growing
crop, leads to an entire decomposition or destruction of all organic matters.
The third system—the distribution of sewage through irrigation-pipes laid at a
depth of ten or twelve inches below the surface of the ground—has its
efficiency attested by numerous instances in private grounds. I have adopted
this system for disposing of the sewage of the village of Lenox, Mass., where
there was no other means available short of cutting an outlet, at great expense,
through a considerable elevation. This method is an extremely simple one, and
is available in every instance where even a small area of land lying slightly
below the level of the outlet is to be commanded. The arrangement of the sub-

irrigation pipes is easily made: Suppose that in land having an inclination of
about one in two hundred, occupied by grass or other growth, a trench be dug
twelve inches deep, that there be laid upon the bottom of this trench a narrow
strip of plank to insure a uniform grade, and that upon this plank is laid a line of
common agricultural land-drain tiles, say two inches in diameter. However
carefully these tiles may be placed, there will be at their joints a sufficient space
for the leaking out of any liquid they may contain; the tiles being laid either
with collars around the joints, or with bits of paper laid over them, to prevent
the rattling in of loose earth during the filling. The excavated earth is to be
returned to its place, well compacted, and covered with its sod. Suppose this
drain to have a cross-section equal to three square inches, and a length of one
hundred feet, its capacity will equal about sixteen gallons, or a half-barrel. If
this amount of liquid be rapidly discharged into the drain, the inclination being
slight, it will at once be filled or nearly filled for its whole length, and the liquid
will leak away in tolerably uniform proportion at every joint along the line, and
will saturate the surrounding earth. The plan adopted at Lenox, and
recommended for all small villages which cannot secure a better outlet, is
simply a multiplication of these drains to a sufficient extent.
A description of the manner in which the Lenox work is arranged will illustrate
the adaptation of the system to its circumstances. As circumstances vary, the
adaptation must be modified. (See Figure 8.)
The main outlet sewer delivers at a distance of about one-half mile from the last
junction with a branch sewer. It is a six-inch pipe five feet below the surface of
the ground, and it delivers into a flush-tank like that shown in Figure 6, but
having a capacity of about five hundred cubic feet. This tank stands at the upper
side of a field having an inclination of seven in one hundred. There is a branch
from the main sewer, above the tank, supplied with a stop-cock, by which, in
case of need, the sewage may be carried on down the hill without going into the
tank. The outlet from the chamber below the siphon leads off in another
direction down the hill, and has a stop-cock and a branch which will allow its
flow to be diverted. The discharge of this diverted stream and the discharge
through the branch of the main above the tank, both deliver into a horizontal
surface gutter to be well grassed, and lying at the top of the land to be irrigated.
By this arrangement, should repairs become necessary in the tank, the flow may
be turned into the gutter; or, should it be desired for any reason to use the
outflow of the tank for surface irrigation, the second branch outlet will deliver it
into the same gutter, where, the outflow being uniform along the whole length
of five hundred feet, the stream will pass in a thin sheet off on to the descending

ground. The hill-side, immediately below the gutter, is brought to a true grade
and covered with grass. As its inclination is much greater than would be
admissible for sub-irrigation drains, these are laid obliquely in parallel lines at
intervals of six feet from one end to the other over the whole graded slope.
These drains are connected at their upper ends with the direct outlet-pipe
leading from the siphon chamber. They have an aggregate length of about ten
thousand feet. The method of operation is as follows:—

FIG. 8.—DIAGRAM ILLUSTRATING MANNER OF SEWAGE
DISPOSAL AT LENOX, MASS.
The capacity of the tank is supposed to equal about two days' discharge, or
about thirty-five hundred gallons; and the whole capacity of the drains is about
half that of the tank, so that the rapid emptying of the whole volume into them
will insure their being pretty thoroughly filled from end to end. This
arrangement will provide for the saturation of the soil about once in two days,
and will leave a sufficient interval between the periods of saturation for the
thorough dispersal and aëration of the filth.
The extent to which this system will be interfered with by frost, it is impossible
to say. This will probably be less than would be supposed, for the reason that
the ground would often be covered with snow, and that the sewage will have
sufficient warmth to exert considerable thawing influence. Whenever the

discharge of the liquid through irrigation pipes is shown to have become
obstructed by freezing, it will only be necessary to divert the flow, and turn it
into the surface gutter to be distributed over the ground.
It is possible that in this case, as in the one which has been under my
observation for six years past, there will be no interruption of the working
because of cold; but, should the interruption become serious, I shall propose the
planting of evergreen trees in parallel rows midway between the drains. The
protection that would thus be afforded, both by the trees and by the drifting
snow which they would gather, would probably keep the ground free throughout
the winter. Incidentally to the chief advantage of this system, there will be, so
long as the land is in grass, quite an addition to its product.

There are hundreds of villages, with and without a water supply, where the
houses are too scattering and the street lengths too great to make it advisable
that the cost of any form of public sewerage should be assumed. In all such
villages, the public authority or the active influence of the village improvement
association should be exerted to secure a regular and systematic adoption of
some more perfect system for the private disposal of household drainage than is
usual. Fortunately, the best system is the cheapest.
No form of cesspool, no leaching vault, and no cemented tank, should be
allowed under any circumstances. Neither should there be permitted any form
of the old-fashioned out-of-door privy with a vault. Every household should be
supplied with water-closets or well-arranged earth-closets, to which reference
will be made below.
The foul water discharge of kitchen sinks, or of whatever form of slop-sink is
used for the water of bedrooms, should discharge into a flush-tank, and should
be led from this by a tightly cemented four-inch drain to a tight settling basin in
the ground beyond. If water-closets are used, the soil-pipe should deliver into
the drain between the flush-tank and the settling basin. The settling basin should
be constructed as shown in Figure 9; and this, as well as the flush-tank, the soil-
pipe, and the connecting drains, should be amply ventilated. The outlet from the
settling basin should be carried by well-cemented vitrified pipes (four-inch) to
the connection with the subsoil irrigation pipes. The flush-tank discharging at
each operation of its siphon about thirty gallons of liquid, two hundred feet of

drain, unless the soil is very compact, will dispose of the whole discharge with
sufficient rapidity. The tank being emptied, the flow ceases; and within a very
short time the drain becomes empty of its contents, which are absorbed by the
sponge-like action of the earth, and are subjected to the combined influence of
the roots of plants, and of the concentrated oxygen contained among the
particles of the soil. They will soon have their character entirely changed, so
that the earth will become purified, and will be ready to receive the next
discharge from the tank. In the case of my own drains, after five years of
unremitted use, the gradual accumulation of bits of grease and more solid
matters obstructed the drains, and there appeared undue moisture about their
upper ends. All that was then necessary was to re-open the trenches, and
remove, wash, and replace the tiles. This operation cost, for a length of two
hundred feet, less than three dollars.

FIG. 9.—SETTLING BASIN.
For any ordinary household of six or eight persons, where the water-closet is
not used, two hundred feet of drain of this sort will be sufficient. If there are
water-closets, it may be well to duplicate the length; and, to provide for the
necessary connections to lead the liquid to the drains, we may assume that in all
five hundred feet of length will be required. The cost of two-inch tiles at the
works, in small lots, and where collars are furnished, is about three cents per
foot; and we will suppose that transportation will increase the cost to five cents
per foot, making the cost of this item twenty-five dollars. The strips of board
(three inches wide) will cost, at a very liberal estimate, five dollars more, and

the cost of digging and laying not more than another five dollars; so that the
establishment of this means of disposal, under the most liberal allowance of
prices, will not exceed thirty-five dollars. Ordinarily, especially where
neighbors combine to buy their material in larger quantities, it will hardly
exceed one-half of this amount. This, be it understood, is for a complete and
permanent substitute for the expensive and nasty cesspool now so generally
depended upon in the country.
A piece of ground fifty feet square, having ten rows of tile five feet apart and
fifty feet long, will suffice for even a large household with an abundant water
supply. For the better illustration of the arrangement of this system, I give in
Figure 10 a plan for the work in the case of a lot fifty feet wide, with a depth of
open ground behind the house of somewhat more than fifty feet. The leaching
drains may safely begin at a distance of even ten feet from the back of the
house, requiring for the whole a clear area of only fifty feet by sixty feet. With
small households, the length of drain may be very much shortened. In my own
case, where water-closets are not used, the total length of irrigation drain is, as
before stated, only two hundred feet.

FIG. 10.
The earth-closet was invented by the Rev. Henry Moule, vicar of Fordington, in
England, more than ten years ago. Its progress in England has been
considerable, and its introduction there has resulted in a profit to the company
undertaking it. In this country it has met with less general favor. Two companies
with large capital, after expending all their resources, have been obliged to
abandon their attempts to build up a profitable business. Having been actively
interested in the enterprise from its inception, and having given constant
attention to the merits of the system, I am to-day more than ever convinced that
the solution of one of the most difficult problems connected with country and
village life is to be sought in its general adoption. The public reports of sanitary
officers in England, who have investigated the subject to its foundation, fully
confirm every thing that has been claimed by the advocates of the earth-closet,
unless perhaps in connection with the incidental question of the value of the
product as a manure.

The only thing which now deters the authorities of some of the larger
manufacturing towns of the North of England from adopting the dry-earth-
system as a means of relief, under the sharp exaction of the law that prohibits
their further fouling of water-courses, is the belief that the labor of bringing into
the town the enormous amount of earth required to supply such an immense
number of closets, and the labor of removing the product at frequent intervals,
would be so great as to constitute an insurmountable obstruction.
Prof. Voelcker, in a paper published in the Journal of the Royal Agricultural
Society, shows pretty conclusively that even the use of the same earth four or
five times over, although perfectly successful in accomplishing the chief
purpose of deodorization, fails to add to it a sufficient amount of fertilizing
matter to make it an available commercial manure. Extended experience in
small villages and public institutions seems to confirm his view, that, if the
earth-closet is to be adopted by towns, they cannot depend either on farmers
buying the manure, or undertaking the labor of supplying and removing it. It is
estimated, that, for a population of one hundred thousand persons, there would
be required seventy-five tons of earth per day, to say nothing of heavy refuse
matters which would be thrown into the closets, and would increase the amount
to be removed. Even the quantity required for a village of a few hundred
inhabitants, if it were to be brought in and carried out, would entail a
considerable cost for handling.
I have recently concluded an experiment of six years' duration, the result of
which seems to show that this objection to the adoption of the earth-closet
system may be set aside, or at least reduced to such proportions as to make it
unimportant. In the autumn of 1870 I had brought to my house, where only
earth-closets are used, two small cart-loads of garden earth, dried and sifted.
This was used repeatedly in the closets; and, when an increased quantity was
required, additions were made of sifted anthracite ashes. I estimate that the
amount of material now on hand is about two tons. We long since stopped
adding to the quantity, finding that the amount was ample to furnish a supply of
dry and decomposed material whenever it becomes necessary to refill the
reservoirs of the closets.
The accumulation under the seats is discharged through simply arranged valves
into bricked vaults in the cellar. When these vaults become filled,—about three
times in a year,—their contents, which are all thoroughly decomposed, are piled
up in a dry and ventilated place with a slight covering of fresh earth to keep
down any odor that might arise. After a sufficient interval these heaps are ready

for further use, there being no trace, in any portion, of foreign matter nor any
appearance or odor differing from that of an unused fresh mixture of earth and
ashes. In this way the material has been used over and over again, at least ten
times; and there is no indication to the senses of any change in its condition.
A sample of this material has recently been analyzed by Prof. Atwater, at the
Connecticut Agricultural Station at Middletown. The analysis shows that it
contains no more organic matter than Prof. Voelcker found in fresh earth
prepared for use in the closet,—say about two hundred pounds,—nearly all of
which organic matter it undoubtedly contained when first made ready for use. In
my case, there was an addition, at a moderate calculation of at least, 800 pounds
of solid dry matter during the six years' use by an average of four adult persons.
Prof. Voelcker's analysis showed that the unused earth contained about twelve
pounds of nitrogen. Prof. Atwater's analysis shows that my two tons contained
only about eleven pounds of nitrogen. By calculation, the 800 pounds of solid
dry matters added in the use of my material contained 230 pounds of nitrogen.
Doubtless the constitution of Prof. Voelcker's sample was somewhat different
from the original constitution of my own; but practically, except perhaps for the
addition of a trifling amount of residual carbon remaining after the
decomposition, they were about the same; and, after being used ten times over,
the whole of the 800 pounds of organic matter added, including 230 pounds of
nitrogen, seem to have entirely disappeared.
It becomes interesting and important to know what has become of this added
matter. That it was absorbed into the particles of the earth, is a matter of course;
and the result proves that after such absorption it was subjected to such a
chemical action of the concentrated oxygen always existing in porous dry
material as led to its entire destruction. Porous substances condense gases—air,
oxygen, etc.—in proportion to the extent of their interior surface. The well-
known disinfecting action of charcoal—the surface of the interior particles of
which equal from fifty to one hundred square feet to each cubic inch of
material, and all of which surface is active in condensing oxygen—is due not
simply to an absorption of foul-smelling odors, but to an actual destruction of
them by slow combustion, so that the same mass of charcoal, if kept dry and
porous, will continue almost indefinitely its undiminished disinfecting action.
The earth used in the closet is a porous material, sufficiently dry for the free
admission of air or of oxygen. The foulest materials when covered with dry
earth at once lose their odor, and are in time as effectively destroyed by

combustion (oxidized) as though they had been burned in a furnace. The
process is more slow, but none the less sure; and it is clear that in the case of my
dirt-heap the foul matters added have thus been destroyed. The practical
bearings of this fact are of the utmost importance. Earth is not to be regarded as
a vehicle for the inoffensive removal beyond the limits of the town of what has
hitherto been its most troublesome product, but as a medium for bringing
together the offensive ingredients of this product, and the world's great
scavenger, oxygen. My experiment seems to demonstrate the fact that there is
no occasion to carry away the product from the place where it has been
produced, as after a reasonable time it has ceased to exist, and there remains
only a mass of earth which is in all respects as effective as any fresh supply that
could be substituted.
The quantity necessary to be provided can be determined only by extended trial.
My experiment proves that the amount needed does not exceed one thousand
pounds for each member of the household, and that this amount once provided
will remain permanently effective to accomplish its purpose.
With a suitable public supply of water for the purpose, and with a suitable
means of disposal, nothing can be better and nothing is more easily kept in good
condition than well-regulated and properly ventilated water-closets. Where
these are available, with enough water for their flushing, their use is to be
recommended. Where there is not sufficient water, there a well-regulated
system of earth-closets seems to be imperatively demanded. By one process or
the other we must prevent the fouling of the lower soil, and the consequent
tainting of wells and springs, and the ground under houses and adjoining their
cellars. With a system of sub-irrigation pipes which deliver foul matters into
earth that is subject to the active operation of oxidizing influences, we need fear
no contamination of the deep and unaërated soil. It would be better, however,
where this system is used for the disposal of the outflow of soil-pipes, to avoid
the use of wells. As a general rule, it is safer not to use for drinking purposes the
water of any well near a house or a stable: practically, it is better not to use
wells at all as a source of water for domestic supply. Filtered cistern-water is
greatly to be preferred.

FARM VILLAGES.
"God made the country, and man made the town."
Cowper's view of the charm of country life as compared with life in the town is
a very natural one. The same view suggests itself to every cultivated denizen of
the city who finds himself in the country on a beautiful June morning, or under
a warm September sun, or during the time of brilliant autumn foliage, or when
the sun sets with a warm glow, gilding the clean, bare boughs of November
trees, or when the whole countryside is covered with spotless snow, or when
grass and leaves and buds and birds first feel the awakening warmth of spring.
The scene is full of a charm and a novelty which appeal to him most strongly;
and he believes, for the moment at least, that nothing could make him so
entirely happy as to spend his life away from the noise and confusion of the
town, and amid such scenes of rural peace and beauty. Filled with this
enthusiasm, one builds with reference to a magnificent view, and without regard
to the practical inconveniences of the site, fancying that true happiness requires
only a continuance of the novel charms which have enraptured him.
The cultivated countryman, too,—one who has learned to use his eyes, and to
see what nature has to offer him,—appreciates even more thoroughly, if not so
keenly, the never-ending and ever-changing interest by which he is surrounded.
His admiration and enthusiasm, however, are tempered by familiarity with some
disadvantages of country life,—just as the romantic house-builder finds on
closer acquaintance that, magnificent though a hill-top view may be, a hill-top
residence is not without its grave drawbacks, nor free from annoyances and
practical objections which too often throw a veil over the most majestic
outlook.
A blue-sided, white-capped mountain, reflected in a broad, placid, shimmering
lake, and framed between fleeting clouds, graceful trees, and verdant lawn, is
beyond compare the strongest inducement and the best reward one can offer to a
visiting friend; but vile roads, distant neighbors, discontented and transitory
servants, and all the thousand and one obstructions to the machinery of
domestic life, soon blind the eye of the unhappy householder to the beauty
which lies ever before him, until at last the one great good thing which

commands his constant thought is that romantic and pecunious friend who shall
come some happy day to purchase his estate.
There is another class, and a very large one, whose opinion concerning the
godlike character of the country it is our especial purpose to consider here. The
farmer and the farmer's family may or may not be cultivated persons.
Cultivation does not come by nature; and the incessant and increasing duties of
farm life leave one, however well disposed, but little time and but scant strength
for æsthetic study. The farmhouse is the centre of the home life and of the
homely thought and feeling of its inmates. The farm on which one has been
born and bred is the centre and standpoint from which he regards the world
without. All those more tender emotions which are common to our nature, and
which attach themselves to the home, find their development on the farm as
well as in the town. Sentimentally considered, it matters little whether the object
of these emotions be on the farm, in the wilderness, in the village, or in the city.
Fortunately, man is by no means a creature of emotion alone; and the
satisfaction and good of living are less a matter of feeling than of activity,
industry, and intelligence. The place in which one lives is more or less
satisfactory in proportion as it facilitates and encourages the better and more
useful living.
Just as the citizen feels the attractions of the country, which are so novel to his
town-bred taste, so the countryman finds a charm in the novelty of the town. As
one is led toward the quiet and solitude of the fields and woods, so the other is
drawn by the life and interest of the community.
As a rule, at least in America, where the facilities for pleasant country living are
far less than in England, the countryman who goes to town is less likely to wish
himself back on the farm than is the town-bred farmer to long for the comforts
and conveniences of his former condition.
"Man is a social animal," and the aphorism is especially true of his wife and
daughter. As the lives of the wife and daughter are much more confined to the
immediate surroundings of the domicile than is that of the man himself, so the
question as between town and country should be considered more especially
with reference to them.
There is a certain amount of truth on both sides of every question; and the one
which we are now considering is not to be answered by a decision in favor of
the heart of a great city, or of the entire solitude of an outlying farm. As is so
often the case, its solution lies between the two extremes. If one may be

permitted to imagine the conditions best suited to the perfect physical,
intellectual, and social development of the human being, one would naturally
think of a small town or a large village where society is sufficient, where the
facilities for instruction are good, where communication with the large centres
is easy, where the conveniences and facilities for household economy are
complete, and where the country with its beauty and quiet and freshness is close
at hand,—where one feels on this side the influence of a complete social
organization, and on that the sweet breath of mother earth.
Unfortunately, these imaginings can never be freed from the practical bearing of
the bread-winning and money-making interests. Men must live, not where they
prefer to live, but where their interests compel them to live. The town and the
country have their mutual economic duties by which their life must be
controlled. All that we can hope to do is, on one hand, to ameliorate the
hardness and solitude of country living, and, on the other, to bring the citizen
into nearer relation with the invigorating fields and woods and boundless air of
the country.
Devising no modern Sybaris, where all possible good of life may follow from
the unaided operation of a perfect social and industrial organization, I propose
to confine myself to the simple question of the best practical development of
village life for farmers. The village or its immediate vicinity seems to me to
offer the urbanist the nearest approach to the country that is available for his
purposes; and in like manner village life, so far as it can be made to fit his
conditions, offers to the farmer as much of the benefit of town life as the needs
of his work will allow him to obtain. If those who now seek the pleasures of
retirement in costly and soul-wearying country-seats would congregate into
spacious and well-kept villages, and if those who now live in the solitary
retirement of the mud-bound farmhouse would congregate into villages, we
should secure far more relief from the confinement of the town and a wider-
reaching attractiveness in agricultural life; this latter leading to the improvement
of our farming by a solution of that long-mooted problem, "How to keep the
boys on the farm."
Nearly everywhere on the Continent of Europe those who are engaged in the
cultivation of the land live in villages. An observation of the modes of life and
industry of these villages has led me to consider whether some similar system
might not tend to the improvement of the conditions of our own farmers, and to
the amelioration of some hardships to which their families are subjected.

In Europe, as here, the methods of living have grown from natural causes. There
it was a necessary condition of agricultural industry, that those who tilled the
soil should be protected by the military power of their lord or chief; and their
houses were clustered under the shadow of his castle wall. The castles have
crumbled away, and the protecting arm of the old baron has been replaced by
the protecting arm of the nation.
The community of living, which grew from necessity, having proved its fitness
by long trial, is still maintained; but there seems to have been no general
tendency toward the formation of such little communities here. Save in a few
exceptional cases,—as in the old villages of the Connecticut Valley, where
protection against Indians or safety from inundation compelled the original
settlers to gather into communities,—the pioneer built his cabin in his new
clearing, and, as his circumstances improved, changed his cabin for a house,
and his small house for a larger one, and finally established his comfortable
home in connection with his fertile fields. This method has been adopted
throughout the whole country; and the peculiarly American system of isolated
farm-life has become almost universal throughout the length and breadth of the
land.
I am not so enthusiastic as to believe that a radical change from this universal
system is to be hoped for at any early day; but I believe that it is worth while for
farmers to consider how far they may, without permanent harm to the interests
for which they are working, secure for themselves, and especially for their
families, the benefits of village life.
To this end are adduced the following examples, both of which are of course
purely imaginary. The first has reference to a new settlement of wild land,
where, by the Government's system of division, the boundaries are rectangular,
and where the political subdivisions are of uniform measurement. The second
relates to the necessary change of conditions now existing in the longer-settled
parts of the country.

For this latter, the illustration is taken from an actual accurate survey[1] of a
purely agricultural district in Rhode Island, showing the roads, houses, and field
boundaries as they now exist, followed by a suggestion as to the manner in
which the same division of estates might be made to conform to the assembling
of their owners into a village.

[1] A map of the United States Coast Survey.

The Government division is into townships six miles square. It is proposed
to divide each township into nine settlements, giving to each a square of
two miles, or 2,560 acres. Each of these settlements should have its whole
population concentrated in a village at its centre. A suitable method of
division would be that indicated in Figure 11, where a public road crosses
the middle of the tract north and south, and east and west. The outside of
the tract, for the width of half a mile all around, is laid off in farms of 80
acres and 160 acres. These are bounded on the inner sides by a road. Inside
of this road again is a series of smaller farms (40 acres), and inside of these
a tier of still smaller places (10 acres), separated from the central village by
a narrow road. The village itself occupies 40 acres.
The division of the agricultural land is as follows:—

4 farms of 160 acres 640
16 " 80 " 1,280
12 " 40 " 480
12 " 10 " 120

in all, 44 tracts, aggregating 2,520 acres, and averaging nearly 60 acres
each, the most distant being less than a mile from the village green. This
division is arbitrary; in practice, the more industrious members of the
community would buy land from their less industrious neighbors, and the
size and arrangement of the farms would vary. Often, too, the division
would be into farms averaging more than sixty acres. In such cases there
would usually be about the same population, as the larger holders would
employ more workmen.

FIG. 11.—DIVISION OF FOUR SQUARE MILES
WITH CENTRAL VILLAGE.
What is attempted is chiefly to show how four square miles of land may be
so divided that its occupiers may be conveniently gathered into a village;
and it may fairly be assumed, that, except in the more remote grazing and
grain-growing regions, the population (including laborers) would generally
be about one household for each sixty acres. In the more thickly settled
regions, this limit is exceeded now; and, as population increases, this
condition will extend. In any case, the principle advanced remains the same,
whether there be thirty households or sixty.
A suitable division of the village is shown in Figure 12. Its centre is
occupied by a public square at the intersection of the main roads. The road
surrounds a piece of ornamental ground, containing about one acre. North
and south of the square are the sites of two churches, a schoolhouse, and a
store and public house. This is again arbitrary; the purpose is to have these

spaces occupied by somewhat important buildings, which it will not be
necessary to enclose by fences, so that an appearance of more size may be
given to the central feature of the village.

FIG. 12.—DIVISION OF THE CENTRAL VILLAGE.
The spaces set apart for these buildings, as well as the village green, should
be surrounded by regularly planted trees, such as will grow to a large size,
like the American elm. But the whole open space should remain otherwise
free from planting. Smooth, well-kept grass, and large trees planted in
formal lines, with an entire absence of fences, posts, chains, bushes, and all
decorations, will give a dignity and character which an excess of
ornamentation would spoil. A certain amount of judicious bedding would be
permissible, but it would be best that even this should be confined to private
places. Any fund available for embellishing the village green will be best

used in keeping its grass cut and its walks clean,—entire neatness and
simplicity being its most effective characteristics.
On the streets leading east and west from the green there are shown sixteen
lots 100 X 250 (one-half acre), eight 50 X 250 (one-quarter acre). These
lots all open on narrow lanes at the rear. On the streets leading north and
south there are twelve lots 50 X 650 (three-quarters acre), and eight lots 100
X 650 (one and one-half acres). These are the village lots proper, but the
twelve ten-acre tracts which front on its surrounding street would be the
residences of their owners; and these semi-detached houses—the most
distant not a quarter of a mile from the green—would form a part of the
village, and come within the operation of its rules of association. Probably
the blacksmith, the wheelwright, and the builder would occupy these
outlying places, with an "annex" of farming to supplement their trades.
The village lots proper are all large enough for a kitchen-garden, barn, barn-
yard, &c.; and all have means of access from the rear, so that their street
fronts may be kept for ornamental purposes.
It would be a good rule that no house should stand nearer to the street line
than thirty feet, and that no fence should be made nearer to the street than
sixty feet. This would add very much to the largeness of appearance of the
whole village; would decorate every street with the ornamental fronts of the
houses and with their plants and shrubbery, and would, at the same time,
shut off from the ornamental parts every thing belonging to the working
department of the village life. Even the baker and the shoemaker should
conform to this rule, and their shops should be made to help the neatness of
appearance of the village.
The larger farmers, having the most cattle, would occupy the largest lots,
which would readily accommodate their larger needs. The more ambitious
of them would probably buy land, for night pasture or for cultivation, from
a ten-acre neighbor opposite their rear line.
The village population would be somewhat as follows: two clergymen, one
doctor, one teacher, one baker, one shoemaker, one tailor, two store-keepers,
one carpenter, one wheelwright, one blacksmith, one dressmaker, one
innkeeper, forty-four farmers: total, fifty-eight heads of families. Probably,
including hired laborers and servants, the average would be six persons to

each household. This would make the population of the village about 350.
No part of the whole scheme is more arbitrary than this arrangement of its
human element; and no part of it would be more modified in different cases
by the element of human nature. Still, this sketch of the industrial division
of the community would probably be approximated in any purely
agricultural village of this size,—with such changes in the detail as would
come from individual enterprise or indolence.
Taking the whole area at 2,560 acres, and the population at 350 persons, we
have an area of about 7⅓ acres to furnish the support and home of each
member of the community,—an amount ample for the purpose.
Figure 13 suggests the arrangement of the central open space of the village,
—all of which should be in well-kept grass, except where roads and paths
are needed. Paths should be reduced to the least amount that will furnish the
necessary accommodation, and they should be kept in neat condition. If no
provision can be made for this, it will be better to leave the people to beat
their own tracks across the grass as their needs direct. These beaten foot-
paths are never unsightly (in small villages), for the reason that they are
never large, and that they are only of such width as their regular use will
keep clean: the grass maintains its effort to spread, and grows always close
up to the necessary foot-way. Even in Hyde Park (London), where the
people have made short cuts across the broad lawns, the paths thus marked
out, and receiving no attention, are not only unobjectionable, but are a
charming feature of that beautiful pleasure-ground.

FIG. 13.—DIVISION OF THE CENTRAL
OPEN SPACE OF THE VILLAGE.
The foot-path indicated for the village green will be demanded by the more
ambitious village improvers; but were I making an ideal village for
moderate and tasteful people, the road surrounding the green should enclose
only a level, close-cropped lawn, neatly trimmed at its edges, surrounded by
fine and simple trees, and traced here and there with the foot-paths that
honest use had marked out and made, and by the suggestive diamond-
shaped track and bases of the village base-ball club. It should be perfect in

grade, in outline, in regularity of planting, and in mowing; but it should be a
perfect lawn plus the wear of constant use and frequent pleasure.

The second example is taken from existing conditions in my own
neighborhood. The United States Coast Survey has furnished all the
necessary details save the farm boundaries. The field boundaries and roads
are exact.
The tract is of the same size with the one just considered,—two miles
square. Its centre is in one direction about two miles from a small village,
and in the other about seven miles from a large town which furnishes the
chief market for its agricultural products, and is the source of all (or nearly
all) of its supplies.

FIG. 14.—PRESENT DIVISION AND SETTLEMENT
OF TRACT IN RHODE ISLAND, TWO MILES
SQUARE.
Figure 14 shows the present settlement of this area, the houses, about sixty
in number, being scattered over the whole tract, with no near approach to a
"neighborhood" at any point. These are practically all farmers' houses, some
trade being carried on here and there in connection with the farm-work. A
few of the houses belong to farms which lie mainly outside of my lines.
Deducting a fair proportion for this, and others for the wheelwright,
blacksmith, &c., we shall have about the same number of farmers as in the
former instance, say forty-four; and, taking the same area for the village, we
shall have the same amount of farm and village property for their support.
Figure 15 shows a suitable division of property and the location of the
village, on a short cross street running from one to the other of the main
public roads, and extending a short distance up and down these roads.
It would be a necessary condition precedent, that the whole property taken
for the village should be set apart for the purpose. This requirement and the
cost of moving buildings from the farms to the village would doubtless be
an serious obstacle to the immediate carrying out of the plan. And thus the
theory must long remain a theory only. No sudden change of the sort could
be made in practice.

FIG. 15.—THE RHODE ISLAND TRACT, WITH ITS
BUILDINGS GATHERED INTO A COMPACT
VILLAGE.
It would not be impossible, however, to bring about the end in time, if a few
of the larger proprietors could secure possession of the village tract by
exchange, and would dedicate it to the purpose, agreeing at any future time
to sell small lots for building at a fixed low rate. In the instance under
consideration, the village tract is thinly settled, and so situated as to be
available at moderate cost. If a church, a schoolhouse, and a store could be
established as a nucleus of the village, the young couples of the
neighborhood might incline to settle there; and in time the settlement could
be made so attractive—as compared with the outlying farmhouses—as to
lead to the concentration of the whole population.
This part of the subject is, however, foreign to the present purpose. If the
desirability of village life for farmers can be established, the ways and

means may safely be left to those interested in securing it. The influences
now at work to make the farmers' children seek a better social condition,
together with the necessity which confines them to some form of
agricultural work, must be depended on to secure the relief suggested,
unless some better relief can be found.
In this case, as in every other of village construction, the original plan
should include some quality or feature, which, while appropriate to the
modest end in view, will give character to the place.
Every village has in its situation, its uses, or its origin, some characteristic
which may be developed into a leading and an attractive feature. Especially
when the work is to be begun from the foundation, and when there are no
buildings to be torn down or removed, a consistent and dignified result may
be planned for at the outset.
The characteristic feature of the village we are now considering is that it is
to consist of a single long, straight street cut off at each end by other roads.
After removing one unimportant house, there remains no obstacle to the
laying-out of one straight street two hundred feet wide, with either two or
four rows of spreading elms. This street, two thousand feet long, mainly in
well-kept grass, with only the necessary width of road and the requisite
paths,—having perhaps a well-kept and home-like private place opposite
each of its ends,—would stamp the village at once with an attraction which
would have a constant civilizing effect on those living under its influence.
Such a village street, entirely without costly ornamentation, and requiring
only the simplest care, would soon take on a look of appropriate neatness
and freshness; and, as the trees grew, it would acquire a dignity and beauty
which could in no other way be so well secured.
The church and the schoolhouse, being placed in broad recesses opposite
the central point of the street, would gain importance from their position;
and, these main features being attended to, the character of the village
would be fixed, and it would be difficult to make any arrangement of its
private places which would spoil its beauty. Neatness and a reasonable care
in the matter of house-gardening, the planting of flower-beds, vines, etc.,
are all that would be needed.

With so wide a street, it would be as well to bring all house-fronts to the
street line, completing this line with simple fences, and paying some
attention to the ornamentation of the enclosed yards.
In this village, as in the other, all meretricious ornamentation should be
avoided, whether public or private. All money available for such
improvement should be spent in securing perfect neatness. In fact, the two
radical requirements of good taste in all such cases are an absence of
obvious money-spending, and the evidence of constant care and attention.
"Showiness" is common in every trumpery village in the land. What we
should seek in our farm-villages is the most modest simplicity, shining with
the polish of an affectionate care. Every spot should breathe of homely
influences and moral peacefulness.

FIG. 16.—PROPOSED ARRANGEMENT OF THE
RHODE ISLAND FARM VILLAGE.
Figure 16 shows the general plan of the village. If other public buildings are
needed, they might very well be placed opposite the ends of the main street.
It is not possible, in remodelling an old farming district, where boundaries
and roads are irregular, to apportion the division of land among the
population with especial reference to its distance from the village; so, for
example, that the small farmers, who have little team-force, shall not have
so far to go as the larger ones who are better equipped; but, even in this

case, the most distant farm will be rarely a mile from the village, where all
the farmers, their families, and their work-people, and their flocks and
herds, would be gathered together, under the best circumstances for getting
out of their lives as much good as the need for earning a living by arduous
work will allow them to get anywhere,—more than they could hope to get
in the isolation of the distant farmhouse.
Having now considered the methods by which farmers may congregate
their homes and their farm-buildings, and live in villages, let us take up the
more important question of policy.
Which would be better for a young man, just starting in life with a young
wife,—to go to a distant farmhouse to found his home, or to settle in a well-
ordered farm-village under substantially the conditions described above?
There is much more to be said, on both sides of this question, than there is
room to say here; but certain points are worthy of consideration.
There is no doubt that in a strictly money-making aspect there is an
advantage in having the animals on the land from which they are fed, and
the men on the farm which they are to work. It is certain, also, that the men
and the women must be near the stables, that the early and late work of
feeding and milking may be promptly and regularly performed. If the
family is to live in the village, the cattle must live in the village too. This
involves the hauling home of all the hay and grain, and the hauling out
again of all manure,—no slight task. If the work is all concentrated on the
farm, under the immediate supervision of the farmer, there will be a certain
convenience and economy of time.
The same principle holds true in all other relations. The merchant would
find a certain advantage in living at his warehouse, the engine-builder at his
factory, the cotton-spinner at his mill, the carpenter at his shop, and the
grocer at his store. All of these have found that, so far as may be, they get
certain other and greater advantages in living away from their business. One
and all carry to their homes, at least occasionally, books, papers, and plans
for work that needs attention out of the regular business hours.
The farmer alone—and in this country especially—disregards the benefits
of living away from his shop, and passes his whole life—day and night—in

close contact with his field of operations. He might, if he chose, make his
home nearer to other homes, taking with him so much of his work as is not
necessarily confined to the farm.
For his own sake, it does not make so much difference; but for the sake of
his wife and children it makes all the difference between life and stagnation.
The business needs which call him to town, and the habit he has of passing
his evenings at "the store," give him a certain amount—and a certain kind—
of social intercourse which keeps him from absolute rust. The amount of
society available for his family is not usually great, and the dulness and
confinement of farmhouse life need no description.
The main reason for preferring village life is principally because it is better
for the women and children; but there are reasons, in the same direction,
why better social conditions would give the farmer himself decided
benefits. The life, too, would be more attractive for both boys and girls, and
would be divested of that naked and dismal gloom and dryness which now
drive so much of the best farmer blood of the whole country to work-
benches and counters,—to any position, in fact, which promises relief from
the stifling isolation of the country.
While conceding that, just as a cabinet-maker would make more money if
he lived in his back shop, and had little thought from early dawn until late
evening except for his work, so the farmer may make more money if he
lives on his farm than if he lives at a distance, still it must be said that the
difference in profit is by no means so great as would be supposed.
It may be fairly assumed, that, at least in the more thickly settled farming
regions at the East, the average distance at which farmers live from the
nearest centre of population that supplies their "shopping," and from
church, is not less than three miles. The visiting acquaintance of the family
is nearly or quite as remote; and there is, altogether, so much driving to be
done, as to make it necessary to keep a decent carriage and horses, and to
supply a certain amount of extra horse service. Indeed, among those who
are tolerably well off it would be moderate to set down the total services of
one good horse as needed to supply the family's demand for transportation.
Then, too, the need of the farmer himself to go to town to sell and to buy, to
get repairs and information, and (a much more generally gratified taste than

he would always care to confess to his wife) to satisfy his craving after
intercourse with his kind,—who shall estimate the aggregate of all this
travel, or even of that part of it which, under the pretext of business, is
really only an habitual going for gossip? All of this driving is confined to no
season; it is perennial,—in good weather and in bad,—and it costs an
amount of time and money that few farmers would like to put down in
black and white, and charge to their expense accounts. It would form one of
the most serious items of their budget.
Did the farmer live in a pleasant and attractive village, among neighbors
and friends, nearly all of this driving would be saved. The appliances for the
family's pleasure-driving might be entirely done away with, for the wife and
daughters would gladly exchange the means for occasional visiting and for
distant shopping, for an agreeable circle of friends near at hand and a good
village store and post-office within five minutes' walk. In such a settlement
as is contemplated, most of the business needs of the farmer would be
amply supplied, and he would find the companionship at hand even more
satisfactory, because more familiar, than that which he now finds in the
town.
It is not worth while to calculate the cash saving that would come of this
reduction of road-*work. It is enough to consider it as an important offset to
the cost of carrying men and manure to the field and of bringing crops to
the village.
Under the present system the women have the worst of it. They have the
confinement and seclusion and dulness. Under the village system the men
would have the discomfort, and this is why it will be less easy to secure its
adoption; for the men control, and prefer not to have the heavy end of life's
log to carry.
Under either of the plans given herewith, the greatest—not the average—
distance from the house to the farm would be about one mile, and it would
have to be travelled only during the working weather of the warmer months,
and during the good wheeling of winter. In summer, all hands would have
to set off early, and come home late, often carrying their dinner with them
as mechanics do; but when field-work did not call them out, as during rains,
or when the ground is too wet to be disturbed, their barn-work and shop-

work would be at home; and, all the winter through, the only road-work to
be done would be to send the teams to haul out the manure, and to bring
home the hay, which would be best stored under "Dutch hay-barracks" in
the fields when it was made. This work would be systematic and simple;
and it may fairly be questioned whether it would not, in many cases,
amount to less than the cost of the "driving" that is now done, and which in
the village might be foregone. Especially would this be the case when all
the heavy farm-work is done by oxen, which when idle, instead of eating
their heads off like horses, are accumulating valuable flesh. With sufficient
ox-power to do the work easily, the whole transportation of tools and men,
and all the hay-tedding and hay-raking, would be easily done by one horse,
with leeway enough to allow for a fair amount of business or pleasure
travel.
So far as the presence of the farmer himself is concerned, it is to be
considered that if his farm and cattle are near his house in the village, he
will be within easy reach of them very often at times when his visits to the
distant town would take him away from them if they were on the farm. In
the village, during the whole winter, and in bad weather at other seasons, he
would have little necessity or temptation to absent himself from home.
Indeed, those who have had an opportunity to watch the life of the
exceptional farmers whose houses and barns and stables are in a village
cannot have failed to notice how much more home-like and engaging is the
whole farm establishment than it usually is in the country. It is hardly too
much to say that the few instances that we have, as in the farm-villages of
New England, show that these village-living farmers are apparently more
attentive to their home duties than are their isolated brethren, at least in the
matter of tidiness.
To complete the comparison with the merchant or manufacturer, who takes
his papers or plans home with him for work out of regular hours, one might
say that the farmer who lives at a distance from his land, with his flocks and
herds gathered about his homestead, has such of his work as needs early
and late attention close at hand, while his regular workshop, the farm, calls
him away for certain regular hours and regular duties.
It is not worth while here to enter into the details of the question. They are
of serious moment, and involve among other things the driving of animals

to and from pasture, versus the raising of soiling crops to be fed in the stall
or yard. All of these questions have been satisfactorily solved in the
experience of many exceptional cases in this country, and of the almost
universal conditions obtaining in Europe. They present no practical
difficulty, and need constitute no serious objection to the general plan.
The items of economical working and money-making being fully weighed,
the more serious considerations of the mode of life, and the good to be got
from it, demand even greater attention. It may seem a strange doctrine to be
advanced by a somewhat enthusiastic farmer, but it is a doctrine that has
been slowly accepted after many years' observation, a conviction that has
taken possession of an unwilling mind, that the young man who takes his
young wife to an isolated farmhouse dooms her and himself and their
children to an unwholesome, unsatisfactory, and vacant existence,—an
existence marked by the absence of those more satisfying and more
cultivating influences which the best development of character and
intelligence demand. It is a common experience of farmers' wives to pass
week after week without exchanging a word or a look with a single person
outside of their own family circles.
The young couple start bravely, and with a determination to struggle against
the habit of isolation which marks their class. But this habit has grown from
the necessity of the situation; and the necessities of their own situation
bring them sooner or later within its bonds. During the first few years they
adhere to their resolution, and go regularly to church, to the lecture, and to
the social gatherings of their friends; but home duties increase with time,
and the eagerness for society grows dull with neglect. Those who have
started out with the firmest determination to avoid the rock on which their
fathers have split, give up the struggle at last, and settle down to a
humdrum, uninteresting, and uninterested performance of daily tasks.
In saying all this,—and I speak from experience, for I have led the dismal
life myself,—it is hardly necessary to disclaim the least want of
appreciation of the sterling qualities which have been developed in the
American farm household. But it may be safely insisted that these qualities
have been developed, not because of the American mode of farm life, but in
spite of it; and, as I think over the long list of admirable men and women
whose acquaintance I have formed on distant and solitary farms, I am more

and more impressed with certain shortcomings which would have been
avoided under better social conditions. If any of these is disposed to
question the justice of this conclusion, I am satisfied to leave the final
decision with his own judgment, formed after a fair consideration of what is
herein suggested.
If American agriculture has an unsatisfied need, it is surely the need for
more intelligence and more enterprising interest on the part of its working
men and women. From one end of the land to the other, its crying defect—
recognized by all—is, that its best blood, or, in other words, its best brains
and its best energy, is leaving it to seek other fields of labor. The influence
which leads these best of the farmers' sons to other occupations is not so
much the desire to make more money, or to find a less laborious occupation,
as it is the desire to lead a more satisfactory life,—a life where that part of
us which has been developed by the better education and better civilization
for which in this century we have worked so hard and so well, may find
responsive companionship and encouraging intercourse with others.
It so happens that the few farm villages to which we can refer—such as
Farmington, Hadley, and Deerfield—have become so attractive by means of
their full-grown beauty, or have been so encroached upon by the wealth that
has come over the district to which they belong, that they are no longer to
be taken as types of pure country villages; nor do I recall a single village in
the land which is precisely what I have now in mind.
Assuming that a farming neighborhood—two miles, or at the utmost three
miles, square—had been so arranged as to have all of its buildings (with the
exception of hay-barracks in the fields, and cattle-shelters in the pastures) in
a village, let us consider what would be the advantages in the manner of
living which it would have to offer.
The social benefits, and the facilities for frequent neighborly and informal
intercourse, are obvious. To say nothing of the companionships and
intimacies among the young people, their fathers and mothers would be
kept from growing old and glum by constant friction with their kind; and, in
so far as a more satisfactory social relation with one's fellow-men gives
cheerfulness and the richness of a wider human interest, in that proportion
would the village life have a wholesome, mellowing effect that is not to be

found in the remote farmhouse, nor even in the sort of neighborhood we
sometimes find in the country where several farmhouses are within a
quarter of a mile of each other. The habit of "running in" for a moment's
chat with a neighbor is a good one, and it gets but scant development
among American farmers. This view of the case will suggest itself quite
naturally on the first consideration of the subject.
If the first need of the rising generation—the men and women of the future
—is education, then the village beats the farm by long odds. The country
school-district, sparsely settled and chary of its taxes, is apt to obey the law
in the scantiest way possible. Three months school in winter and three
months more in summer, under the supervision—it can hardly be called the
instruction—of a young miss who is by no means well educated herself, and
who is entirely often without training as a teacher, gathers together all of the
school-going children of a wide neighborhood. Big and little, boys and
girls, are huddled together in a sort of mental jumble, where the best that
the most skilful manager can hope for is to regulate the instruction and the
discipline to suit the average of the scholars. The best result attainable is to
secure a good amount of schooling: the word "education" would be quite
misapplied here.
In the village, the number of scholars would be sufficiently large to warrant
the establishment and to bear the maintenance of one good school, with
one, if not more, teachers, regularly employed, and worthy to be called
teachers rather than "school-marms." Pupils would be graded according to
their ages and acquirements, and a due use could be made of the stimulus of
competition. A real school, a real instrument of education, would take the
place of the noisy congregation of uncontrolled boys and girls, who, in the
country district-school, are apt to acquire less of valuable learning than of
the minor viciousness that prevails among country children.
In this connection, I was forcibly struck with the announcement of a
German farmer once in my employ, whose reason for leaving me, after his
children had reached the ages of seven and eleven, to return to his little
village in Germany, was that it was impossible in this country—and this, be
it remembered, was in New England—to secure satisfactory instruction for
them. He thought that in their experience at school here they had gained
little beyond a familiarity with English, and with a large admixture of "bad

words" at that. At home they would have, within the elementary range of a
primary-school education, a thorough training and a severe drilling which
he could not hope for here, and without which he was unwilling that they
should grow up. I have seen his village school in Germany, and the cloud of
tow-headed children who fill it; and I am prepared to believe that his
preference was not without foundation. Of course we have all the material
for as good or better schools in this country. What we need is longer terms,
better trained and educated teachers, graded classes, and better books and
appliances. These cannot be afforded in the small country school-district.
They can be had in their perfection in even a small village; and this
consideration alone, even if this were all, should be a controlling argument
in favor of village life.
But this is by no means all. Another great benefit is to be found in the post-
office near at hand, with its daily mail as an encouragement to
correspondence and to interest in the affairs of the outside world. A village,
such as is here pictured, could afford its weekly or semi-monthly public
lecture, furnishing a means for instruction and entertainment, and for
frequent gatherings. The church, too, would probably be conducted in a
more satisfactory way than is usual in the country; and the conditions would
be the best suited for fostering that interest in the collateral branches of the
church, the Bible-class, the Sunday school, and the Dorcas society, by
which the women of the community get, aside from the other good that they
receive and do, advantages of a character somewhat corresponding to those
which men get from their clubs.
I should hope further, as an outgrowth from the community of living, for a
modest village library and reading-room. Indeed, if I could have my own
way, I should not confine the attraction and entertainment of the village to
strictly "moral" appliances. It would probably be wiser to recognize the fact
that young men find an attraction in amusements which our sterner
ancestors regarded as dangerous; and I would not eschew billiards, nor
even, "by rigorous enactment," the milder vice of social tobacco. Better
have a little harmless wickedness near home and under the eye of parents
than to encounter the risk that boys, after a certain age, would seek a pretext
for more uncontrolled indulgences in the neighboring town.

One might go on through the long range of incidental arguments—such as
lighted streets, well-kept sidewalks, winter snow-ploughs, and good
drainage, and a wholesome pride in a tidy, cosey village, until even the
most close-fisted of all our class would confess that the extra cost would
bring full value in return, and until he would recognize the fact that the
attractions of such a home as the village would make possible would be
likely to insure his being succeeded in his wholesome trade by the brightest
and best of his sons,—a result that would surely be worth more than all it
would cost.
But my purpose has been only to suggest a scheme which seems to me
entirely, even though remotely, practicable, and in which I hope for the
sympathy and help of the country-bound farmers' wives and daughters,—a
scheme which promises what seems the easiest, if not the only, relief for the
dulness and desolation of living which make American farming loathsome
to so many who ought to glory in its pursuit, but who now are only bound to
it by commanding necessity.

LIFE AND WORK OF THE EASTERN
FARMER.
We are all familiar with the lavish praise bestowed—especially when votes
are to be secured—upon the "bone and sinew of the country;" but the
farmers themselves are very far from accepting as true, even if sincere, the
estimate of their qualities which the editor and the public speaker so loudly
profess.
The average farmer is precisely what any other average man would be who
had grown up under the same conditions. There is no mysterious charm
belonging to his occupation which removes him beyond the reach of the
influences by which all mankind are controlled. Coming from the same
original stock and inheriting the same peculiarities of race, he is essentially
the same as men in other vocations. The character of his work, the
necessities of his financial condition, and the social surroundings amid
which he has been reared, have had the same influence in moulding his
character that similar conditions have had in moulding the characters of
others.
Farming is in a certain sense the basis of all individual and national
prosperity; but the case would be more fairly stated were we to say that
farming happens to be the first step in an industrial process, many steps of
which are alike essential to civilization. The farmer produces raw material,
and without raw material the world must come to a stop; but the butcher,
the baker, the spinner, the weaver, and every artisan, render as essential
service in the development of this raw material into the forms demanded by
modern life, as does the farmer in growing it.
As a member of the farmer class, I hasten to disclaim for it any especial
consideration given it because of its contribution to the welfare of mankind.
We are as useful as any other hard-working people, no more and no less. We
claim no higher appreciation for muscular effort exerted in swinging the
flail than for that applied to the wielding of the hammer.

The controlling motive of a farmer in performing his work and carrying on
his business is the hope of material gain. He works for the money that he
expects to earn, and not with any conscious reference to the service he is
rendering to the world. In this capacity as a farmer he is neither a
philanthropist nor a patriot, only a man of business. If we wish properly to
estimate his character and his value as a factor of modern civilization, we
must not be misled by sentimental considerations as to his relation with
nature and his "noble" occupation.
The conditions of Eastern farming and of Eastern farm life are the true
index, as they are the true cause, of the character of the Eastern farmer.
These conditions are constantly varying, and their effect is always modified
by individual qualities.
It may be possible to strike such an average as shall afford a tolerably good
suggestion of the real character and condition of the farmer, and a hint as to
his future; that is to say, certain prevalent influences tend to mark the type,
and certain modifications of these influences may lead to its improvement.
Any attempt to portray the class as a whole would be met by such a list of
exceptions as would seriously affect the result; but the following may be
considered true in a large number of cases, and applicable, with minor
changes, to many more.
Let us take the case of an outlying farm in New England, of one hundred
acres,—a farm that has been in cultivation from the earlier settlement of the
country, and which is of the average degree of improvement, with the usual
division into arable, mowing, pasture, and wood land. It lies two or three
miles away from a considerable town or village, and its chief industry is the
selling of milk in the town. With an allowance of two acres per cow for
summer pasture, and of one and a half acres of mowing-land for winter
feeding, the cows it keeps number about a dozen. For team-work on the
farm and for road-work and pleasure-driving, there are kept two horses and
two oxen. In addition to these there will be a greater or less amount of
young stock and the usual swine and poultry, and perhaps a few sheep. The
farmer himself is the chief workman on the place, and he has the regular
help of a hired man or a grown son. An extra hand during the working
season is usual; but in winter the farmer and his one assistant will do all of
the work of feeding, milking, delivering the milk, hauling out manure, etc.

A few years ago the housework was done almost entirely by the mother of
the family and her daughters, or by a girl taken to "bring up;" but latterly
the more troublesome element of an Irish girl in the kitchen has become
general, for the daughter of the farmer has aspirations and tastes which
disqualify her for efficient household drudgery. In spite of all modern
appliances, much of the work of the farmer's household must be so
characterized. The life of American farm women is, however, not now
under discussion: the subject is a fruitful one, and has important bearings
upon the development of the race; but what we are to consider here is
simply the work and condition of the farmer himself. The milk-selling
farmer—and this industry is one of the most wide-spread in Eastern farming
—is more regularly employed than any other. Winter and summer his cows
must be milked twice a day. Evening's milk must be cooled and safely kept
until morning; and morning's milk must be ready for early delivery. It is
usual for the farmer to rise at three every morning, winter and summer, to
milk his cows,—with one assistant,—and to start as early as five o'clock to
deliver his milk. Returning about the middle of the forenoon, he is able to
attend to the details of barn-work in winter and field-work in summer, until
half-past two or three o'clock in the afternoon, less the brief interval needed
for the consumption of food. Early in the afternoon the cows must be again
milked, and the cans of milk must in summertime be set in spring water for
cooling. Then comes the feeding of the stock and the greasing of axles, the
mending of harness, the repairing of tools, and the thousand and one odds
and ends of the farmer's irregular work. In the winter, save for the early
rising and the work of cold mornings, life is by no means hurried; and after
a very early supper there is often a stroll to the corner store or to a
neighbor's house, for a little wholesome idleness and gossip,—the latter not
invariably wholesome. At about the hour when the average reader of "The
Atlantic" has finished his after-dinner cigar, all lights are extinguished, and
the farm household is wrapped in heavy slumber; for such early rising as
the milk-farmer is condemned to must needs trench upon the valuable
evening hours for requisite rest and sleep.
In summer the conditions of life are immeasurably hardened. The farmer
himself is necessarily absent several hours every morning with his milk-
wagon; but, although he cannot lend a hand at the early field work, this
work must go on with promptness, and he must arrange in advance for its

proper performance. From the moment when he has finished his late
breakfast until the last glimmer of twilight, he is doomed to harrowing and
often anxious toil. There is no wide margin of profit that will admit of a
slackening of the pace. Land must be prepared for planting; planting must
be done when the condition of the ground and the state of the weather
permit. Weeds grow without regard to our convenience, and they must be
kept down from the first; and well on into the intervals of the hay-harvest
the corn-field needs all of the cultivation that there is time for. Regularly as
clock-work, in the late hours of the night and the early hours of the
afternoon, the milking must be attended to; and the daily trip to town knows
no exception because of heat, rain, or snow. At rigidly fixed hours this part
of the work must be done; and all other hours of the growing and of the
harvest seasons are almost more than filled with work of imperative need.
These alone seem to make a sufficient demand on the patience and
endurance of the most industrious farmer; but, aside from these, he is
loaded with the endless details of an intricate business, and with the
responsibility of the successful management of a capital of from fifteen to
twenty thousand dollars, upon the safety and the economical management
of which his success entirely depends; he must avoid leakage and waste,
and make every dollar paid for labor, or seed, or manure, or live stock,
bring its adequate return.
Probably no occupation in the world can compare with farming in the
opportunity that it offers for the losing of money. Nothing is so enticing as
slate-and-pencil farming. Ten acres of land can be ploughed, manured, and
planted with corn, and the crop can be well cultivated and harvested for so
many dollars. Such land with such manuring and cultivation may be trusted
to yield so many bushels of corn to the acre; and, after making due
allowance for chance, the balance of the calculation shows a snug profit. In
like manner we may figure out a corresponding return from the hay-fields,
from the root-crops, from two or three acres of potatoes, and from a patch
of garden-truck for which the neighboring village will furnish a good
market. Then the poultry will return a profitable income in eggs and in
"broilers;" and altogether it is easy for an enthusiastic person to show how
interest on invested capital and good compensation for labor are to be
secured in agriculture.

But when the test of practice is applied to our well-studied and proven
scheme; when we see how far our allowance for "chances" has fallen below
what is needed to cover the contingencies of late springs, dry summers,
early frosts, grasshoppers, wire-worms, Colorado beetles, midge, weevil,
pip, murrain, garget, milk-fever, potato-rot, oats-rust, winter-killing, and all
the rest; when we learn the degree of vigilance needed to keep every minute
of hired labor and team-work effectively employed; and when we come
finally to the items of low markets and bad debts,—we shall see how far
these and similar drawbacks have undone our arithmetic, and how often our
well-contrived balance must be taken into the footings of the other column
of figures.
The regular work of the farmer, as indicated in the foregoing sketch of his
occupations, and as perceptible to the summer boarder who watches his
work from the piazza, although arduous and exacting, may be quite
compatible with a happy life; and, when we estimate the promise of the
occupation as offering a pleasant livelihood, no able-bodied man need be
deterred by it. But when we add this long list of contingencies, and consider
the ceaseless anxiety that they bring, we may well hesitate before adopting
such a life for ourselves or desiring it for our children. No true estimate of
the developed character of the farmer can be formed without giving due
value to this uncertain factor in the calculation.
Instances are hardly exceptional where a clear natural intelligence, an
indomitable courage, and great industry, have turned themselves into a real
source of mental and moral strength. Success achieved in spite of such
drawbacks is all the sweeter and all the more inspiriting because of them.
But if we take the case of the average farmer with average human
weaknesses, we cannot fail to see, that, however well he may have borne up
against the more obvious requirements of his work, he has been warped and
cramped, and often made in many ways unlovely, by the hard and anxious
toil through which his halting success has been attained.
In nearly every other occupation than farming, the hardest worker finds a
daily relief from his toil, and from the suggestion of toil, in a home that is
entirely apart from his industry. However arduous and anxious and long-
continued the work, there comes a time when it is laid aside, and when the
workman goes into a new sphere, where the atmosphere is entirely changed.

His home is a place of rest and pleasure, or at least a place of change. The
pen and the hammer are left in the counting-room and in the shop; and,
however far the home may fall below his desires and ambition, it is at least
free from the cares of the day's occupation.
The American farmer has no such relief. His house is a part of his farm; his
fireside is shared by an uncongenial hired man, his family circle includes
too often a vulgar and uninteresting servant; and from one year to another,
his living-room being the kitchen and work-room of the busy farmhouse, he
rarely knows what it is to divest himself of the surroundings of his labor
and business, and to give himself over to the needed domestic enjoyment
and recreation. It is this feature of his life, more than any other, which
seems objectionable. If it is objectionable for him, it is infinitely more so
for his wife and daughters, who, lacking the frequent visit to the town or
occasional chat with strangers, and the invigorating effect of open-air work,
yield all the more completely to depressing cares. They become more and
more deficient in the lightness and cheerfulness and mental gayety to which
in any other occupation the chief toiler of the family would look for
recreation at his own fireside.
So far as interest in his business is concerned, the farmer's condition is in
every way elevated when he devotes himself to some improved form of
agriculture, or to some special industry which gives him better
compensation for his work. This benefit by no means generally results from
an attempt at "scientific" agriculture, nor is the adoption of a special
industry by any means generally successful. Failure in either of these
directions is disheartening and discouraging to those who are watching his
example. There are many well-tried improvements upon the old methods of
our fathers which are universally adopted, especially in the direction of the
use of better implements and more judicious care in the application of
manure. But the average agricultural newspaper, while doing great good,
has naturally led enthusiastic men to see a chance for ameliorating their
condition by the adoption of processes which are not suited to their
circumstances, or which they themselves are not qualified to carry out. It is
this that has led to the outcry—much more prevalent a generation ago than
now—against "book-farming." On the whole, whatever may have been the
influences of agricultural writers upon the fortunes of their early converts,

they have vastly modified and improved all modern farm-work, and have
greatly benefited the more recent farmer.
The conditions of the industry are hard, chiefly because the business of
farming is a laborious one, and one in which an enormous population is
working, with dogged industry, for a moderate reward. However
enterprising and intelligent a farmer may be, when he goes to market to sell
his crops he finds himself in active competition with men who are working
for their bare subsistence.
Much is said about the competition of the farmers of the rich West as a
serious obstacle to success at the East. This is the case only in so far as the
Eastern farmer attempts to compete with the Western in the production of
crops which will bear storage and long transportation. As a business
proposition, it seems clear that this drawback is to be overcome only by the
cultivation at the East of such products as it is not within the power of
Western competition to supply, or only such as our situation and the good
quality of our land will enable us to produce at low cost. Milk, fresh butter,
and hay are the three most promising staples, for which so large a demand
exists as to furnish employment for the whole farming population. Hay
from its bulk does not bear a very long transportation. Milk will always
bring a higher price when produced near to the point where it is to be
consumed. Butter-making is not an especially profitable industry if we
depend upon the average grocery-store demand; but it is possible for any
farmer at the East, who will take the trouble to make and to retain a good
reputation for his dairy, to secure a price enough higher than that of the
regular market to constitute a good margin of profit.
So far as relief in Eastern farming is to be achieved with no material change
in the character of life and work, it must apparently be sought in these
directions. In his relation to Eastern civilization, past, present, and
prospective, it may fairly be questioned whether the influence of the
Eastern farmer is increased since the general introduction of railroads; and
we are justified in looking with some anxiety to the relative position which
he is to hold hereafter.
There are well-known influences at work which are not promising. The
desire of the sons and daughters of the farmer to obtain some other means

of livelihood, and the too frequent yielding to this temptation on the part of
the more intelligent of these young persons, is the most obvious danger to
the future of the industry.
Much has been said of the dignity and independence which come of the
ownership of land; but it is possible that this influence has been over-
estimated, and that our ideas of it have been derived more or less from our
European traditions. Perhaps, after all, we ought to and do attach the most
importance to that which is the most rare. In England, where the ownership
of land carries with it a certain social dignity, and where the mere
possession of money has a less marked influence in this direction, there is
no doubt that the title-deeds to broad acres constitute a certain sort of patent
of nobility. In this country, where land is plenty and cheap and where large
fortunes are rare, a farmer gets consideration less for the amount of land
that he himself owns, than for the sum-total of the mortgages which he
holds upon his neighbors' land. That is to say, it is better to be rich in money
than in land; and instances are comparatively rare, even among those who
are cultivating their ancestral acres, where the farm would not be gladly
sold for a sum of which the income would secure a better and easier mode
of life. The farm is not regarded with especial affection: it is mainly
regarded—along with its stock and tools—as an instrument for making
money.
The American farmer is distinguished from the English farmer chiefly by
having his capital invested in the land which he cultivates, rather than in the
tools and live stock and working capital needed to carry on his business. As
a general rule the farmer's whole fortune is invested in his land. Often his
farm is mortgaged, and he has little loose money with which to improve his
system of work. The necessity for making a living and paying interest,
without sufficient capital for the best management, makes the life of the
farmer too often a grinding one. If he is skilful and industrious and prudent,
he may hope with certainty to free himself from debt, and to accumulate a
respectable support for his old age.
When we consider any class of working people, as a class, this is perhaps
all that we can hope for under any circumstances. The unhopeful thing
about it all is that while farmers work less hard than their fathers did, and
while they get a better return for their work, the surroundings of their life

have not improved as have those of men engaged in other industries, so that
although actually much better off than their ancestors were, they are
relatively less well off in the more attractive conditions of other classes of
workmen; and this deficiency is driving away the children on whom they
ought to depend for assistance and for succession.
In the abstract, farming is a dignified occupation, and in proportion as it
borrows aid from science it becomes more dignified. So far as the casual
observer can see, it combines more of what is desirable than does any other
pursuit. While it promises no brilliant reward, it insures a steady, reliable,
and sufficient return for the capital and labor invested in it. It promises a
sure provision for old age, and it secures the wholesome pride that comes of
the ownership of visible property. Indeed, look at it and argue about it as we
may, it is not easy to see why it is not the best occupation for a wholesome
and intelligent man.
Those who know the condition of the art intimately, and who have studied
the influences of its work and its life upon those who are engaged in it,
recognize serious drawbacks which must in some way be removed unless it
is to fall away still more from its original character, and is to be given over
to German and Irish immigrants, who, during one or two generations, will
be contented with what it has to offer. It is difficult even to theorize as to
the means of relief, if farming must be considered, first of all, as a means
for obtaining a livelihood and for making money; and no effort to improve
the situation of the farmer will be successful which does not keep this prime
necessity always in view. It is easy to see how the condition of any farmer's
family might be improved by a large additional income; but there is no
obvious source from which this increase is to be drawn, nor will he adopt
any scheme that will endanger the income that he now receives.
If we could convert the farmer into a chemist and physiologist, and give
him the satisfaction that comes of controlling the combinations of physical
and chemical materials according to laws which he understands, and of
securing his results with scientific accuracy, we should accomplish our
purpose; for no man with such scientific knowledge, realizing its relation to
his daily work, could fail of an enthusiastic fondness for his profession. But
the worst of it is that all efforts in this direction have generally ended in
producing a "smatterer," whose theories are baffled by constant

disappointment, and whose worldly prosperity is lessened by his mistaken
experiments.
Successful farming implies, first of all, steady and dogged hard work,
coupled with prudent and watchful skill. When the hopes of enthusiastic
agricultural reformers are considered with the practical eye of cold common
sense, they must inevitably be condemned to disappointment. In so far as
they constitute an incentive towards improvement, they work great good;
but the success of the future is to be attained too often through the
distressing failure of the present. The art is an experimental one, and the
temptations to extend experiments are enticing. Unfortunately, novel
processes depend for their success upon contingencies which are likely to
be disregarded at the outset; and, however much any improvement may be
destined to prosper after its application shall have been practically tested
and modified, it is altogether likely that its first introduction will result in
failure. The mere money losses coming of these failures are not so serious;
but the discouragement and disappointment that they entail exert the gravest
influence where what is chiefly needed is the encouragement of success.
It is something to know the direction that improving effort should take; and
it seems to be generally conceded that what American agriculture needs, at
the East and at the West, but especially at the East, is an improvement in the
character of its personnel. There is everywhere ample opportunity for the
profitable and successful introduction of modified processes and of new
industries. There is, too, hardly an instance where the processes and
industries now pursued are not susceptible of great improvement of detail.
There are few farms so well managed and so successful, that if given into
the hands of better, more intelligent, and more enterprising farmers, they
would not produce better results. The father is working according to his
light, and is directing his work by such intelligence as his natural capacity
and his training have given him. His brighter son, with more natural
intelligence, with a better education, and less trammelled by traditions and
prejudices, might so modify the same industry as to make it more certain,
more profitable, and in every way more satisfactory.
The change that is now taking place, especially in New England, is toward
the greater economy of living, and the harder work and closer management
of business, that comes with immigrant proprietorship; and this element is

by no means to be depended upon for the improvement of our farming. It
may result in a more money-making agriculture, but it will supplant our
best political element by the introduction of what has thus far seemed to be
one of the worst.
Look at this question as we will, it is difficult to see how else than by
improving the race of American farmers we are to accomplish any result
whose good effect will be radical and lasting. This brings us around to that
threadbare subject of the vague discussion of agricultural writers: "How to
keep the boys on the farm."
The devices recommended for accomplishing this result have thus far failed
of their object. The average farmer boy is not a sentimentalist, and he is not
likely to be moved by the sort of talk so often lavished upon him. To use a
vulgarism, he has an extremely "level head." He fails to realize the
attraction and the dignity which are implied by what he is told of the
nobleness of his father's calling, of the purifying and elevating influences of
a daily intercourse with nature. He is not to be caught with this sort of chaff.
His cultivation has not been of that æsthetic character that he has an
especial drawing toward nobleness, or purity, or elevation. Nature, as he
knows it, shows at times an unattractive side; and he fails to recognize
precisely what is meant by Mother Earth as a source of dignity. To him
Mother Earth is an exacting parent, calling for constant and regular toil, and
whipping him on day by day with weeds to be hoed, dry gardens to be
watered, snowdrifts to be shovelled, and an almost endless round of
embarrassments to be overcome. As for the purity and simplicity of the
farmer's life, he knows very much better than to pin his faith to it. To him
the farmer's house is too often a place where the mother is overworked,
tired, wearied with constant annoyance, and made peevish and fretful. The
conversation of hired men and young neighbors and brothers is not marked
by refined delicacy and simplicity, as he understands these terms. At the end
of all our preaching he will say, at least to himself, that this is probably the
sort of talk that we consider appropriate to the occasion, but that, if we
knew what he knows about farming, we should see how little effect it is
likely to have. If he sought our motive in saying it, he would conclude that
we were interested in keeping up the supply of farm labor; and that so far as
he was concerned, since he must work for a living, he would work at some

other industry if he could get a chance, and leave those who were less
fortunate to work on the farm.
The more sentimental and more influential considerations governing in this
matter were very well set forth by Dr. Holland in a paper on Farm Life in
New England, published in "The Atlantic Monthly" some twenty years ago.
While acknowledging the frequency of bright exceptions to the rule, he
does not hesitate to set it down as a rule that the life described is in every
way a hateful one; where every member of the family, from father to child,
is driven by the lash of stern necessity, and where many conditions which
are deemed requisite in the life of all other classes of the same wealth are
comparatively rare; where the expectant mother of the child is worked
without stint to her last day, while the mother of the colt is relieved from all
hard toil and treated with consideration throughout the last months of her
time; where, in short, whether from interest or from a mistaken idea of
necessity, hard work long hours, poor food, and dismal surroundings are the
rule of the farmer's household.
Since that time there have been noticeable modifications, involving the
introduction of more or less tastefulness, because of the cheap literature and
cheap music of these later days. But, much as these have done to affect the
individual characters of the younger members of the family, they have only
aggravated the evil, so far as farm-work is concerned, by creating a desire,
born of knowledge, for the pleasanter manner of life which the town has to
offer. The young girls whom one now sees about railway stations in the
most distant part of the country are dressed after the instructions of
"Harper's Bazar" and "Peterson's Magazine;" and they know more than their
older sisters did of the difference between their own life and that of their
city cousins. They are certainly not to be blamed if they long for some
vocation in which they can more freely indulge their growing ideas of
luxury, and gratify their growing desire for better dress and more interesting
companionship.
All that has here been said is seriously true and important. The
circumstances described are so generally prevalent as to constitute, with
constant minor variations, an almost universal rule. Where we are to look
for relief, is the most serious problem. Relief must be found, or the
character of our farming class must assuredly degenerate. In one way or

another we must change, in a radical degree, the conditions of the farmer's
life. We can perfectly understand why it should be distasteful to any young
person of ordinary ambition or intelligence; and we know, from the constant
flocking of farmers' sons and daughters to even the least attractive
employments of the town or village, that this distaste is everywhere a
controlling one.
It is easy to say that the farmer's life must be made more cheerful,
attractive, and refined, and less arduous; but it is by no means easy to see
how the improvement is to be brought about. The cardinal defect is the
loneliness and dulness of the isolated farmhouse. Intelligent and educated
young women, brought up among the pleasantest surroundings, marry
young farmers, and undertake their new life with the determination that, in
their case at least, the more obvious social requirements shall be met.
During the earlier years after marriage they adhere to their resolution, and
are regular in attendance at the church and public lecture; and they keep up,
so far as possible, social intercourse with their neighbors. But as time goes
on, as the family increases, as toil begins to tell on health and strength and
energy, they drop out, little by little, from the habit of going abroad, until
often for weeks together they never exchange a look or thought with any
human being outside of their own households. Aside from the overworked
members of their own families, their companionship is confined to hired
men who smell of the stable, and to hired girls with whom they are yoked in
the daily round of household duties.
Having given much consideration to the subject, I have come to believe that
the agriculture of Continental Europe is far more wisely arranged than ours;
for there, almost as a universal rule, isolated farm-life is unknown. The
reward of the cultivator is less, and his labor is at least as great. The people
are of a very much lower order, and are lacking in the cultivated
intelligence which distinguishes so many of our own farming class. Women
and even young girls perform rude labor in the field and in the stable; and
those aspirations which are born of a universal diffusion of periodical
literature are almost unknown. At the same time, when the hard and long
day's work is over, there comes to all the inexpressible relief and delight of
the active social intercourse of the village, where the tillers of the country
for a mile around have gathered together their homes and their herds, and
where the most intimate social life prevails.

Observation even indicates that the habit of out-of-door labor has had no
injurious effect upon the women of these villages. The "nut-brown maid"
grows too fast into the wrinkled-brown woman; but better a sunburnt and
weather-beaten cheek than that pallor that comes of anthracite and in-door
toil. Better the broad back and stout limb of the peasant mother than the
hollow chest and wasted energy of the American farmer's wife.
I by no means intend to say that our own farming class is not far superior to
the peasantry of Europe; but I do believe that if a good system of village life
for farmers could be adopted here under the modifying influences of the
more refined and intelligent American character, we should have gained a
most important step in advance. We have in New England many villages
almost exclusively of farmers,—villages where the old-time settlers
gathered together for defence against the Indians, and for the protection of
houses and stock and store from river floods. These villages are as different
as it is possible to conceive from the ordinary European cluster of
unattractive cottages, lining both sides of a street which is filled for one-half
of its width with manure-heaps. It may be naturally assumed that any
adaptation of the village system among us would be governed by the same
refining influences which have made our few existing agricultural villages
so beautiful and attractive.
That which most distinguishes American people is the general spread of
education among them; but it is, after all, an education which soon reaches
its limit, and, so far as the district-school of a sparsely-settled country
neighborhood is concerned, it goes little beyond the simplest rudiments. An
inexperienced young miss holds school for not more than one-half the year
in an unattractive and inconvenient room, in which are gathered together
most of the boys and girls of the school-going age from all the farms about.
The books and other appliances of instruction are inadequate. There is no
grading of the pupils, and the frequent change of teachers prevents the
possibility of experienced instructions. Even in the meanest peasant village
of Germany, a village always prolific in children, an inexorable law
compels all between the ages of five and fourteen to attend regularly the
teaching of a master, an officer of the state, who has generally adopted his
profession for life, and who adds to a certain specified degree of capability
the advantages of long experience.

No thoughtful person can fail to be convinced, after a due consideration of
the argument in its favor, that, if the social influences inseparable from
village-life could be secured to the American farmer, the greatest drawback
of his life would be done away with. It remains, unfortunately, a serious
question, how far such a radical change is practicable. There is little doubt
that the family would naturally drift into some more costly style of living;
and the necessity for hauling to a distant home all the crops of the fields,
and of hauling out the manure made at the homestead, would add somewhat
to the expenses of the business.
In the case of the individual farmer now cultivating land upon which he
lives, it is not unlikely that he would find a certain pecuniary disadvantage
in the change. But, as a broad question of the future benefit of our
agriculture, it must be conceded that whatever will tend to make the
occupation more attractive cannot fail, by enlisting the services of more
intelligent minds, to insure its very decided improvement. As the case now
stands, the farmer's son will become a clerk or a mechanic rather than
remain a farmer, because clerks and mechanics live in communities where
there is more to interest the mind, and where, too, the opportunities for
enjoyment and amusement are greater. The farmer's daughter will marry the
clerk or the mechanic rather than a farmer, because she knows the life of a
farmer's wife to be a life of dulness and dearth, while she believes that the
wife of the clerk or mechanic will be condemned to less arduous labor, and
will have much more agreeable surroundings. I have no means of judging
what may have been the experience in Deerfield, Mass., for instance; but I
am confident that many a mechanic's daughter, and indeed many young
women of much higher position in life, would consider her lot a fortunate
one in becoming the wife of a farmer whose homestead lay on the beautiful
street of this old village.
All that is here said is, to a certain extent, mere theory; but the subject is
one that has not thus far met any practical solution, and in which, therefore,
nothing except theorizing is possible. The broad fact is that the farming
class in this country is degenerating by the withdrawal of its best blood; and
still more serious injury is being done to it by the introduction of the lower
class of foreigners. It may well be doubted whether it is possible so to
modify the manner of life of the isolated farmhouse as to make it materially
more attractive to American boys and girls. All that can be done is to rob it

of its isolation by withdrawing its people, and placing them under better
conditions of life.
In a word, the only way that seems to offer to keep the boys on the farm is
to move everybody off of the farm, bringing them together into snug little
communities, where they may secure, without abandoning the manifest
advantages of their occupation, the greater social interest and stimulus
which they now hope to enjoy by going into other callings whose natural
advantages are less. That such a course as this would restore the farmer to
his former position as a leading element in Eastern civilization, cannot be
questioned. That he will retain even the relative influence that he exercises
to-day, unless some radical change is made, is at least very doubtful.
In considering the questions here suggested, we must never lose sight of the
fact that the controlling element is economy. The farmer exists because he
is needed. The world demands the products that he produces, and the world
must needs pay him a living compensation for them. No change will be
possible which disregards this; and all who know the present circumstances
which control the reward of the farming class know that these
circumstances would be inadequate to maintain him in a life of greater ease,
while calling for greater expense. This gives the added embarrassment that
we must not only change the mode of life, but must also increase the ratio
of profit, if this is possible. This is possible only through a reduction of the
area cultivated, the cultivation of this reduced area in a more thorough and
profitable way, and the turning of farming industry into channels better
adapted to securing a profitable return.
To discuss a modification of the whole system of farming would involve far
more detail than is possible in this paper, since such a discussion must
include the consideration of features which would change with changing
locality; but, by way of illustration, we may take the previously supposed
case of a farmer owning one hundred acres of land, and milking a dozen
cows, selling the milk as before in the distant town. Assume that he and his
neighbors within a radius of about a mile are living in a central village,
from which his land is one mile distant. During the working season, say
from the middle of April until late in October, he must, with his teams and
assistants, spend the whole day on the land. The cows are milked and all
stable work done before breakfast, and some one drives them out to pasture.

The men remain a-field until an hour before sunset. They must be content
with a cold dinner, as is the usual custom with mechanics and laborers. The
cows are driven home in time for the evening milking, and are put into the
barnyard at night with green fodder brought home by the returning teams.
After the "chores" are done, and a hearty and substantial supper is eaten,—
the principal meal of the day,—all hands will be too weary for much
enjoyment of the evening, but not so weary that they will not appreciate the
difference between the lounging places of a village and the former dulness
at the farm. Other farmers in the neighborhood will, many of them, also be
milk producers; and, as the stables are near together, they will naturally co-
operate, sending their milk to market with a single team, employing the
services of a single man in the place of five or six men and teams heretofore
needed to market the same milk. I have recently received an account of this
sort of co-operation, where the cost of selling was reduced to a fraction over
eight cents for each hundred quarts.
This arrangement will have the still further benefit of allowing the farmer to
remain at home and attend to his more important work, leaving the detail of
marketing to be done by a person especially qualified for it and therefore
able to do it more cheaply than he could do it in person. During the working
season there will be enough rainy weather to allow the work of the stable,
the barnyard, and the woodshed to be properly attended to. There will of
course be sudden showers and occasional storms, and other inconveniences,
which will make the farmer regret at times that he lives at such a distance
from his field work; but he will find more than compensation in the
advantages that come naturally from living in a village.
For his wife and children the improvement will be absolute; and it will be
no slight argument in favor of the change, that both in doors and out of
doors a better class of servants will be available, because of the better life
that can be offered. It will be easier to secure the services of laborers who
are married and who live in their own houses, and so avoid the serious
annoyance to the household that attends the boarding of hired men.
To make this radical change in any farming neighborhood as at present
constituted, would be impracticable. It would probably take a generation to
convince the farmers of a community of its advantages; it would cost too
much, even if not entirely impracticable, to move the house and stables to

the central point; and it would involve such a change of habits of labor and
of living as must necessarily be the work of time. However, if the principle
commends itself to the leading men of the neighborhood, and especially to
young men about to marry, the nucleus of a village may be established, and
sooner or later the present or the coming generation will find a way to come
into the fold.
If we assume that by this or some other means the more intelligent of the
young men are induced to remain farmers, it is interesting to consider in
what way their greater intelligence is to be made to tell on their work so as
to secure the necessary improvement. It would not be unreasonable to
suppose that young men of the class we have in mind, those who now seek
occupations which afford a better field for their intelligence, and who seek
them because of their intelligence, would establish such centres of
discussion and interest in improved farming as would not only mitigate the
worthless gossip now so common at the country store, but would awaken a
real enthusiasm in better processes and systems.
Not only would there be this tendency toward improvement; but where
farmers are close neighbors, and are able to conduct their interests in such a
way as to help each other, there would naturally grow up some sort of co-
operative business. By the establishment of a butter-factory or cheese-
factory, or by the common ownership of a milk-route, or where tobacco is
grown by the undertaking of its manufacture as an employment for winter,
or by the raising of honey or of poultry, or by the establishment of some
valuable breed of live stock with a reputation for excellence that will cause
it to be sought for from abroad, or by some other combination, they would
secure profitable business.
Of course all the farmers in New England cannot within the next ten years
move into villages; but what is suggested is that the farmers of some one
community should try the experiment. Their success might induce others to
follow the example; and little by little, in proportion to the promise of a
good result, more and more would seek the advantages which the system
would offer, so that sooner or later the benefits which are now experienced
in village life in Europe might be felt here in the higher degree which
greater intelligence and greater freedom would be sure to produce.

While advancing these suggestions, with much confidence in their practical
value, I would by no means confine the outlook for Eastern farming to this
single road to success. Co-operative industry may be largely adopted among
farmers living at some distance from each other. The cheese-factory has
become an institution. The better quality of the product when made in large
quantities, and the better price that its quality and the improved system for
marketing have secured, constitute a very decided success in our
agriculture. Butter-factories are coming into vogue with a promise of
equally good results.
A very good substitute for the co-operative management of a milk route is
in very general adoption throughout New England, where some single
farmer who devotes himself to selling milk buys the product of his
neighbor's dairies for a certain fixed price, taking upon himself the labor,
the risk, and the profit of marketing. The co-operative breeding of live stock
cannot as yet be said to have become well established, but its possibilities
of success are considerable. A community can afford to buy and keep a
thorough-bred horse, or bull, or boar, or buck, which would cost far too
much for the means of a single owner, and thus gradually give to the stock
of the whole neighborhood a superiority that will secure it a wide-spread
reputation and insure good prices. Let us keep always in view the important
principle of making two blades of grass grow where but one grew before;
but let us remit no effort which may tend to make one blade worth what two
were worth before.
Incidentally, there may be combinations to secure good outlet drainage for
tracts of land belonging to different owners, and later a provision for the
general irrigation of these lands.
It is not to be hoped, that, either as a whole or in its details, agricultural
improvement is to be advanced with any thing like a rush. Farmers are
generally "conservative" in the worst sense of the term. They have during
the past generation adopted many improvements and modifications in the
methods of their work, the mere suggestion of which would have been
scouted by their fathers; but they are themselves as ready as their fathers
were to scout any further new suggestion, and it is only by iteration and
reiteration that the shorter steps of tentative experiment can be urged upon
their acceptance.

In reviewing what is written above, the thought arises that the one
impression that it will surely produce will be that its writer fails to
appreciate the better influences that cluster around the better class of
farmers' homes. Such an inference would be quite unjust. Knowing as I do
the intrinsic worth and the charming qualities of very many of these
households, I appeal to the best of the thoughtful men and women whom
they include, to confirm my statement that they find many elements of their
life to be pinching and hard, and that however admirable they may now be,
they would be in no way injured, but in many ways improved, by more
frequent intercourse with their equals, and especially with their betters.
That the picture I have sketched of the average farmer's family is not
overdrawn, I appeal to every country clergyman and physician to bear
witness. The truths suggested are patent to all. They are set forth in no spirit
of hypercriticism, and with no other view than to help to ameliorate the
condition of those to whom they refer. Knowing the farmer more intimately
than does the average editor or orator, I am confident that my estimate of
his character and of his life will strike him as being more just, if not more
honest.

BY THE SAME AUTHOR.

A FARMER'S VACATION.
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WHIP AND SPUR. Papers reprinted
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