On land rightly prepared, with favorable seasons of sufficient rain, alfalfa in the South may yield as much as six or eight tons to the acre. A yield of four to five tons may more confidently be expected. Alfalfa will endure in profitable condition on suitable soils for from six to twelve years. Grasses encroach upon it and may be destroyed by disking after the roots are tough enough to endure it. A spike-toothed harrow to follow the disk will more surely tear out the grass. The harrow will not injure the alfalfa roots. When once well established an annual drilling in of liberal amounts of phosphorus and potash will greatly stimulate growth on most soils and be repaid several times over in the increased yield. When it is desired to plow the field it may be turned with a very sharp plow and strong team and the roots are readily killed when cut off. Any crop will yield very abundantly after alfalfa, corn and tobacco being perhaps best suited to follow alfalfa, since small grain may lodge because of the exceeding richness of the land. After one or two crops have been taken off of the land it should again be manured and sown to alfalfa, which will take much more readily and yield much more abundantly than it did the first sowing. In conclusion I ask the farmers of the South not to sow alfalfa upon poor or unprepared soil or in a wrong manner, since by so doing, failure is almost assured and the whole cause of alfalfa culture will receive a serious setback. I believe, however, that wherever a man has learned to grow alfalfa he will rejoice all his days and be the richer, more intelligent and better man for it and his neighborhood will be helped by the example of good farming. How Old Wash Died BY JOHN TROTWOOD MOORE. I had not seen the old man for several months, but I supposed he was still prospering on his little farm, when he walked in the other day without knocking, took his seat by the fire, and casually remarked that March was always a bad month on rheumatism. “Why, how are you, old man?” I said, laying down my pen and seeing him for the first time. “I haven’t seen you for several months.” “No, I don’t reck’n you is,” he said quietly, “an’ de reason is, I ain’t seed myself—I’ve been dead!” “What!” I exclaimed—“dead—are you joking?” I looked at him closely, but I saw no evidence of insanity—nothing to indicate that he had yet reached his dotage. However, I thought it best to pass him something for his rheumatism. He quaffed it off so naturally that I knew he was all right and would tell it in his own way. “Ennything happened ter speak of sense I be’n dead?” he asked, indifferently enough, as he smacked his lips and wiped them on the back of his hand. I was anxious to hear how he had died, but I knew any eagerness on my part would spoil it all, so I replied: “Why, no, old man—nothing new. But you have heard of Jupiter Pluvius, perhaps, and his home above the clouds. Well, he has kept busy this spring with his watering pot.”