Cc 431 oM4S5 ’TIS SIXTY YEARS SINCE, The Passing of the Stail-fed Ox and the Farm Boy. BY GEORGE SHELDON, [Read at the annual meeting of the Pocumtuck Valley Memorial Association at Deerfield, Feb. 22, 1898. ] In giving this paper a title I have fol- lowed the Wizard of the North so far as to say ‘“‘’Tis sixty years since,” but for obvious reasons I shall follow him no farther. Instead of his poetic and ro- mantic flights of imagination, I shall perforce abide in the region of the most prosaic and every-day prose. I may be presumptuous, but my ob- _ servation has led me to believe that peo- ple nowadays are interested in the small- est details of local customs and local oc- cupations which have gone into the do- main of history. Inthe sketch of the artist, while the period may be selected at will, the objects presented inthe fore- _ ground, the middle and the extreme dis- tance must all be on a contemporaneous plane, or the composition lacks harmony. The same is true of an historical sketch, but in a lesser degree, and while my middle ground may be sixty years since, and the perspective show considerable variation, I trust harmony will be pre- served, while the principal features of one of the lost arts of Deerfield are given in detail. Among all the industries of our town none has been more productive or made her more famous than stall-feeding oxen for the Boston and New York markets. In this business Deerfield had rivals in a few down-river towns, but no beef brought higher prices on the foot than that driven from the barnyards of old Deerfield Street. In my boyhood every farmer was engaged in that calling and the capacious barns and sheds still re- maining testify to their generous equip- ments for conducting the business. Stall feeding in Deerfield began at a very early period and flourished until the advent of railroads. These brought Western competition and ruin to the business in the East. Railroads were bread and meat to the Buckeye, the Sucker and the Hoosier, but poison to the Yankee farmer. In vain the sweat of our brows and the acquired skill of generations, when pitted against the virgin soil of the broad prairies, with limitless reaches of pasturage and land which needed only to be tickled with a plow to laugh corn and oats. The West- erners soon undersold us in our own markets. With the great meat staples to be had almost for the asking and the iron horse feeding on fire and water at command, the unequal contest was a short one—the king of the valley was dethroned. In early days it was an unheard of thing for oxen to be ‘‘sent to market” which had not been through a course of stall feeding in some of the valley towns. In the fall of each year the feeders scoured the hill towns on the west and north and picked up the best specimens of oxhood to be found in the rich pas- tures or under theeasy yokes of the farm- ers who reared them for their own needs and ultimately for a market in the valley “ The Root of the Whole Matter. towns. To thecare and comfort of these the winter was devoted, and our farmers grew rich—as riches were then counted —in the process. Stall feeding grew to be an exact science, or perhaps one of the fine arts. Being practically a thing of the past, it will be assumed that a particular description of its more salient features may be of interest; at best. however, it must seem dry and com- monplace, for it is not possible to infuse my notes with the all-pervading spirit of the times. Ihave said that the winter was de- voted to the care of the stock. This word was used advisedly and it ex- presses the fact. It was a devotion al- most akin to worship. Nothing was al- lowed to interfere with the regular pro- gramme of the day. It was a cardinal doctrine of the feeders that the more comfortable and happy the animals were made the better the results. Nothing could be more true, and would that this fact were better understood by those now having the care of domestic ani- mals. In this, humanity and profit are in full accord. Leaving generalities we will now go to the root of the whole matter. One spring when hard times had ruled and the season had been an unprofitable one for feeders, the Hatfield farmer de- clared: ‘‘Well! allI have got to show for my year’s work is a swearing pile of manure!” Now, whatever the feeders got or failed to get, they always got that—a barnyard knee deep with drop- pings and litter, and solid pyramids of excremental matter under the stable windows which were the prime requisites for raising Indian corn and peas-and- oats. These were the deposits upon which the farmers drew for future opera- tions, and these grains, mixed half and half, and called provender, were the staple feed for fattening oxen. The win- ter opened with the cornhouse stuffed to overflowing—one big bay in the barn filled tothe peak with hay and the other crammed with ‘‘peas’noats” in the straw. The latter crop,peas and oats,sown broad- cast together and cut with the scythe, was very bulky and stringent measures were necessary to ‘‘tread down the mow” within a reasonable compass. Man power and horse power were both used. Asa boy I have been many a time up to the ‘‘greatbeams” on horse back in the op- eration. This was fun for the boy, buta hard road to travel for the beast who would be half buried in the straw. There were no power-threshing ma- chines, or corn-shellers sixty years since. All this grain, and the rye for the fam- ily bread was pounded out by the flail in the strong hands of the farmer dur- ing the intervals not occupied in car- ing for the stock. The ‘‘peas’noats” straw in the bulk, softened down by the flail, and the rye straw in the bun- dle was stored in the lofts of the cattle sheds, to be dealt out by the boys, as we shall see. The cobs from the corn- house were carried in baskets to the cob bin, which was usually in the chamber over the kitchen. From this reservoir, it was one of the after school chores of the boys to carry great basketfuls for evening use in the big fire-place of the kitchen, which was always the center of the family circle. Aftera generous pile of cobs had been poured out in front of the forestick, the children were never tired of waiting and watching for the crisis when the smoking mass would finally flash into a sudden blaze, each event a new surprise and delight. Fanning up ‘‘peas’noats” was a dis- agreeable process even to the dust-laden thresher, and the pile shoved up to one side of the barn floor was allowed to ac- cumulate until there was a brisk wind from the right quarter to carry off the chaff and dust, or until the provender bins grew lean and like Oliver called for more. In either case the ‘‘peas’noats” were duly fanned and taken in two-bushel bags to the cornhouse. The corncobs now bare and broken into small pieces under the persistent flail were raked out from the golden grain and the cereals Getting into Winter Quarters. 3 carefully mixed. Half a bushel of corn was spread on the floor and a half bushel of ‘‘peas’noats” spread over it, and the process was repeated until the pile grew to be a grist. The constituents were then still further mixed by shoveling over the mass from side to side and then into the half bushel measure; from this it was poured into the home-made meal bag of linen or tow, two bushels to each. A grist was five or six bags forthe cutter, or from twenty-five to fifty for the ox sled, andthe more thriftythe farmer the better stocked in advance were the capacious provender bins. The grist was carried to the Meadow mill two miles away, where every day the busy stones con- verted hundreds of bushels of this mix- ture into provender. The miller was held to a strict account to keep his mill- stones sharp and so adjusted that the provender should come out in exactly the right condition for easy digestion, not too coarse and not too fine. This condition was determined by the trained ear of the miller noting the pitch of the groaning mill-stones, or the feel by the trained fingers of the hot stream of meal spurting from the spout, and woe to the miller if the oats were not well cut, or, on the other hand, the corn was ground into flour. We see that the winter was not, as the poets sing, altogether a holiday time to the Deerfield farmers, especially when we add to the barn work the felling, hauling and preparing fuel fire of twenty or thirty cords of firewood each season. In all matters here treated I know whereof I affirm, being in them and of them. In November the oxen purchased of the hill farmers were brought in small lots, or pair by pair as most convenient, from ten, twenty or even forty miles away. In due time came an operation which required all the skill and patience available. Oxen differ as much in dis- position and temper as men; handling them in ignorance of their character, while under the excitement of their new surroundings would be dangerous and might be fatal. Hence the ability to discern their moods on short acquaint- ance was a prime requisite, and farm boys were early put to school in this study, for such knowledge came only with years of close observation. This operation was the arrangement of the miscellaneous herd into the necessary harmonious relations for their winter quarters. This proceeding was not un- aptly called by ‘‘Uncle Ralph.” “‘seating the meetinghouse.” It may not be known to all that in every herd of horned cattle, whether it be large or small, there is always an absolute grading of rank for each member. With them might makes right, brute force being the only law. The rank is based on strength or skill— in short on the fighting qualities of each. he leader is an absolute monarch. His right once established none dare to dis- pute. The secondin rank isthe one that ‘‘beats” all below the chief and so down to the weakest which must humbly make way for all the others. The mon- arch is often a despot; that depends upon his character. In any event if he have occasion, or makes one, to cross the barnyard he takes a bee line regardless how many of his fellows may be in his path; the others do the same so far as their rank warrants. The element of courtesy seems to be entirely wanting. We must, however, except from this charge the relation of yoke-fellows to- wards each other where this quality is often very prominent. Mated when young they are thenceforth, whether in labor or leisure, under the yoke or taking their food, literally always together, and they usually feel and show a strong at- tachment for each other. This latter fact was always noted by the judicious feeder when preparing for winter quar- ters. ; For a stable of ten stalls, five pairs of cattle are selected and turned loose in the barnyard. As strangers, the ques- tion of rank must be settled at the first meeting and lively times follow. Every 4 Battling for Rank. battle is watched with interest by the owner. For the comfort of the oxen it was desirable that mates should always stand side by side in the stalls. When one ox has prevailed in every encounter and so settled his place as ruler, it was best that his companion should beat all the other eight that the pair be not sep- arated, and when he had locked horns with a rival for the second place, a little judicious urging of the mate to his as- sistance, or a sly diversion on the flank or rear of the rival with a pitchfork, al- ways in hand, usually made it seem ex- pedient for the latter to retire from the combat and give up beaten. A victory gained the first day, albeit sometimes in this questionable manner, was rarely again contested. This process continued until the rank of each ox was established and noted. It was generally a lively time for the man as wellas for the beast, since two or three contests might be in progress at the same time. Occasional- ly some more intelligent animal having faith in his own prowess, and realiz- ing that he had been unfairly beaten, would rise above the demoralizing effect of defeat, watch an opportunity when his victor had nothing but his own pluck and muscle to back him, and challenge him to another combat. From the re- sult of this contest there was never any appeal. The necessity of ascertaining the rank of each ox will appear when the usual manner of fastening them in the stalls is understood. The stalls were about three feet wide, separated only by studs on the stable side of the manger. The studs were boarded up some two and a- half feet, and above at the height of the oxen’s neck, was pinned a stout manger- pole running the whole length of the stable, to keep the animals from step- ping into the manger. The manger had no partitions. Each ox was fastened by a strong rope about his horns to the stud next above him. He thus had liberty to move his head freely in every direc- tion but one; he could not reach the ox below him and dared not molest the one above him. It was no easy task, nor one devoid of danger to break these ten animals into their new quarters. They were strangers ina strange place, and the stalls and the fastenings were en- tirely different from those to which they had been accustomed. One by one, the autocrat first, the ten were inducted in- to their respective stalls by such kind of handling as their character seemed to call for, the essential thing being to in- spire them with confidence in their new masters, and in their new surroundings. By gentleness and patience each was at length tied up in his own piace, and the ‘‘meeting-house was seated.” Had the dispositions of the new comers been as well known as afterwards, the task would have been much simpler. It be- came easier at each repetition, and per- haps within a week all trouble was over. In a short time each ox knew his own stall, and would pass by all the tempt- ing fodder lylng by his path to it, well knowing when he would find his own awaiting him. As arule mates were so courteous to each other that it was often impossible to find out which beat; but this kindness could not be presumed upon when ar- ranging them in the stalls; something might occur to arouse the temper of the ruler, when if misplaced, trouble would follow; the buyer, therefore, always asked the seller, ‘‘which beats?” unless it was apparent. Attacks of home-sickness were not uncommon among new comers, and in such cases the most vigilant watch over doors, gates and fences was necessary to frustrate their persistent efforts to escape. Once free, the exiles would make tracks pointing straight towards the home of their early oxhood, and with a fair start would get there; for the cow-boy and the lasso were not of the Connecticut Valley, and the farm horse was no match for the excited run- aways. It may not be amiss to make note of a single case. One day I had Homesickness. 5 turned into my well fenced barn-yard a large pair of oxen just down from Ver- mont. Not long after I happened to see one of the strangers, with a spring as light as a deer, clear the top barat a bound. The mate did not feel equal to this feat, but he proposed to show that some things can be done as well as oth- ers; so after giving one look round for a vulnerable point, he walked up to the bars, bent his head deliberately down, adjusted his horns carefully to the rails and lifted both posts bodily out of the ground, quietly laid the whole down flat without misplacing a bar and walked out over the prostrate structure. But with all their active determination and prodigious power they acknowl- edged the mastership of man. I had no difficulty in stopping them in a lane leading to the highway, and so saving a world of trouble to all concerned. On this display of agility, ingenuity and strength, the homesick pair were con- demned to close confinement, and for many weeks were not allowed the liber- ty of the yard, it not being safe to as- sume that this first break for liberty would be the last. Asarule, however, the strangers would soon settle down to the new order of things, and make the most of this, the happiest period of their lives, having perfect rest and the best food possible to repietion. In a short time, when the stable door was opened. all would march in like a file of soldiers and take their places in regular order; they always found awaiting them a measure of the sweetest provender. or the most fragrant hay they ever ate. Thenceforth for them, life ran in easy channels, disturbed only when some of their number were sold to the drover and strangers introduced in their places. Then the scenes of the fall wore gone over again. In these cases the old stock usually combined against the new comers, forcing them into the lowest ranks. Here a good deal of hu- man nature came out. Those who had so far found place at the foot of the herd, backed by their fellows, would revenge on the intruders their own pre- vious humiliation, and the life of the latter was made a burden, untilthe love of ease in their tormentors outgrew their love of domination. The system of feeding here was uni- form. The fattening oxen were never kept in the stableexcept to be fed, always sleeping in the open air, their only pro- tection being sheds opening to the south. They were ‘‘put up” at daylight and always found a savory mess in the manger. After the daily routine had become settled, they were let into the stable as fast as they could walk, and were tied up from the front; thus they were loose in their stalls for a minute or two. At such times traits of character were occasionally shown, which proved that hoggishness was not confined to the sty orto the human race. There being no partitions in the long manger, the unscrupulous scamp, seizing this momentary liberty, would stretch his neck to reach the pile of the ox next be- low him and would gobble up the big- gest mouthful he could before touching his own, and would goon the same errand a second time if possible before he was tied up. There being usually fast eaters and slow eaters, When all were tied, the boy with his broom kept each mess as compact as possible, and each ox took his time to finish it, safe from depreda- tion. The boy’s knuckles often suffered from getting between the broom handle and the horns of his impatient custom- ers. The provender being disposed of, hay froma narrow kench of the solid mow, and well shaken up by hand, was fed to the oxen little by little until they could eat no more. No pitchfork was allowed in this process, for fear the cattle’s noses might be pricked, or the hay get into the manger in lumps, the aim being that the hay should fall as light as snowflakes on the sod, so, it more easily reached its destination. The pampered beasts were not allowed to wait a moment between feeds; if their 6 Midday Rest. heads were seen above the manger, breakfast bell would ring in vain until they were all served with another batch ofhay. If it should chance that some streak in the hay-mow was for any rea- son not quite up to standard, so that the epicures turned up their noses at it, it was not, ‘‘take that or nothing;” on the contrary, the manger was at once cleared, the contents relegated to a less particular grade, and replaced by a sat- isfactory quality. When stuffed to re- pletion, the oxen were let out to drink, one pair at a time, beginning of course at the foot of the stable; they were gently driven to the corner of the yard, where stood the watering trough brim- ming with water freshly drawn from the warm deep well, with the old oaken bucket. Here they were kept until they understood they were expected to take their fill. Under the new condi- tion of things it was sometimes hard to make it clear to the dull-witted ones why they were thus held, and occasion- ally a pair would not avail themselves of the opportunity for a day or two. Unpleasant experience, however, soon brought them to terms, for as soon as all who would had drunk, the trough was cleared to prevent an accumula- tion of ice; and in a few days it be- came a matter of course for each pair as they were turned out to go straight to the trough and drink their fill. Mean- while the stable was being cleared, and the next pair was waiting without impa- tience for their turn, as a matter of routine. When the head pair had taken their drink, they selected their camp- ing place for the day on the clean beds of straw under the shed. If one earlier out had ventured to lie down before his betters had provided themselves, the spot he had selected was usually want- ed and he forced to vacate. This condi- tion of things was soon understood, and the weaker ones waited and watched their chance for a bed. When all were settled for their midday rest, the barn yard became forbidden ground to chil- dren and strangers. It was a grave of- fence in anybody to ‘‘scare up the cat- tle.” Access to the barn was usually through the cattle sheds, and after a little, the feeder could thread his way unnoticed, among the huge piles of beef, chewing the cud in sweet and calm con- tent. But let his wife or daughter at- tempt to follow, their deference to the sex was at once manifest; at the first step inside the gate they would rise to an ox. At midday the barn was hardly morea playhouse for the children than the meetinghouse. There was no hunting of hens’ eggs or jumping from the great beams on to the mow of ‘‘peas- mnoats” straw. It was one of the morning chores for the boys to rake up the walks, the va- cant part of the bay and the barn floor, and all the scattered hay found was put with the orts and fed to a lower grade of stock; the orts being anything left in the manger when the epicures were turned out. After the orts were taken out the manger was swept as clean as broom could make it. The barn was kept about as orderly as the kitchen, and the food well cared for. Atno time were the children allowed to play on the hay mow, or indulge in the delight of tumbling in the pile ‘‘thrown down” for immediate use. ‘‘How would you like to have folks walk on your bread and but- ter?” was the standard query, and the keynote for all employed about the barn; and that neatness which was true econ- omy prevailed in every part of the prem- ises. .A slovenly barn was held to bea disgrace to the profession, and clear ev- idence of an unthrifty farmer; waste in small matters inevitably leading to care- lessness in the general management of the farm. When the hay was put into the mow it was trodden down as solid as man and boy power could do it, as many a wearied pair of boys’ legs could testify. ‘‘Mow- ing away” was no sinecure work, and upon its being faithfully done depended largely the condition of the hay in the Two O'clock. ¢ winter. The primeobject was to keep the mow level while the bay was being filled, that it should settle evenly and firmly, the outside keeping pace with the center —easy enough in theory, it was difficult enough in practice. Success- fully done the mow became an amalga- mated mass, almost as solid asa bank of earth, the hay curing alike in every part: when fed out in the winter, the barn was filled with its grateful fragrance. The mow was cut down with a sharp hay knifein small square kenches that the exposure to the air be as little as possible, and no more was ‘‘thrown down” than was required for iminediate consumption. The fresher the hay the better it was relished by the bovine palate.the better relished,the more eaten, the more eaten, the more resultant fat— the aim and end of the whole process. That the appetite should not be cloyed by such abundant richness, the oxen were given, about once a week, a break- fast of cornstalks, husks or ‘‘peas’noats” straw, which was received with thanks. Tt wasa day of trouble to the feeder, when as it sometimes happened, the ob- jects of their care declined to eat the good things set before them, owing to unfavorable weather, or, it may be, to overteeding with provender,albeit a care- ful watch was always kept on the condi- tion of their digestive organs. ‘‘Your cattle eat well to-day?” was a common query when the feeders met on change in “Dr. Charles’ senate chamber,” ‘‘No trouble about that long’s this weather holds” was the usual response, on days when the air was crisp and the frost keen. It was this and kindred topics which were discussed day after day at this com- mon place of meeting,—the fine points of each other’s stock, the fattening quali- ties, the estimated weight, the gain since put up, and above all the prospective price of beef as indicated in the weekly reports of the Brighton and New York markets; story telling was in order often at the expense of some of the hearers. It was considered a fair game anda good joke, for one to cut in and buy upon the sly, a pair of oxen which a slower neighbor had spotted, and was leisurely trying to get ata bargain. Old straw was threshed over and over. The big ox of Col. Asa Stebbins, which was too fat to walk. and was drawn to Brighton on an ox sled, was brought out, and the Duke and Dime of Uncle Seth, which were nearly in that condition, were often canvassed; with all this, however, was a judicious mixture of narratives, sometimes rather highly seasoned, and occasionally a jovial song from Uncle Sid,—and nobody enjoyed or appreciated a royal good time better than these same hardworking farmers of Deerfield. In due time, Dr. Charles’ clock strikes two. Why is it that not one of that company is there to hear it? It is be- cause that on the stroke of two, the cat- tle must be ‘‘put up.” None knew the hour better than the cattle themselves, and they would be surprised and dis- turbed by a few minutes delay. They did not, like Washington, make an al- lowance of five minutes for the variation of time-pieces. Fair weather or foul, a few minutes before two, they would rouse up, lazily stretch their full length and after a series of prolonged and satisfactory grunts, get up and take their respective places in a line, with the leader at the stable door. When the door is opened the stately column marches deliberately in, each to his own stall, where he is tied in front, and the gorging begins. Nothing was allowed to interfere with putting up the cattle at the regular hour.