SILO FILLING WITH STEAM POWER
                   by Eugene Hutchinson Mallory 2


     The brief mention to filling the silo in the journal gives
little idea what an impressive performance it was, at least to a
little boy. The silo itself was the largest in the neighborhood
farms that exchanged labor. Fifty feet high and twenty in
diameter, it took a good crew and a good luck to fill it in two
days. All the other silos were easy one day jobs to fill.

     The great event was preceded by getting out the corn binder
and getting the field to be cut and opened up. The binder was
ground driven by a "bull" wheel and speed up gears. It was a
heavy load for horses and the regular hitch was for 3 or more
horses. Father's big feed lot team could handle it alone and
did.

     After a liberal and intricate application of gooey caster
oil to the machine, the big horses leaned into their collars and
all would spring into life. The gathering chains zipped around,
the sickle clattered back and forth, and when tripped the
mysterious knotter actually tied a knot.

     Then into the tall corn the rig would go, opening up lands
cutting a row and knocking down the inevitable two down rows
necessary to divide the field. The team would grab mouthfulls of
green corn it went down before them. Soon the whole show
disappeared into the tall corn. The fun had begun and the stoop
work of gleaning the ears from the down rows was days away.

     The next act would be the arrival of the steam engine and
the ensilage cutter. The first sign would be the a cloud of
black smoke where no railroad ran, and then the hooting of the
whistle. Finally, it would come crunching down the road on huge
iron wheels, two feet wide and tall as a man. Godfrey, confident
master of the iron beast, would pilot it into the driveway, the
cutter and the water wagon trailing behind.

     Setting up was a considerable task. The ensilage cutter was
dug in and staked and braced to resist the pull of the drive
belt. An exacting task, as it must be exactly oriented to line
up the belt to the spot where the engine would sit among the
trees. The blower pipe sections must be bolted together in the
right combinations of lengths to put the goose neck at the right
height above the silo rim. A 3/4 inch rope was run over a pulley
secured at the silo top and the heavy pipe lifted by a single
horse, usually Dan of the feed lot team. Not all farm horses
would work alone and have the power to lift the heavy pipe and
hold the weight steady. Up it would go, the goose neck sliding
along the silo and the lower end guided along the ground by a
man. When it was finally vertical, it was pulled up high enough
to drop on the outlet of the cutter. The goose neck guided by a
man atop the silo and the lower end still in the hands of its
guider. The whole lift held by the docile power of the horse. A
few words to assure all was in order and to signal Dan to ease
gently back and the deed was done.

     Now the drive belt, 150 feet of heavy canvas belting
spliced to an endless loop, was rolled out to the previously
spotted engine. The belt was crossed and lifted over the 3 foot
pulley on its engine. The pulley must turn on a steamer for it
to move, so the long canvas snake would stir in sibilant,
sinister, life as the engine backed to lift it off the ground. A
quick shutdown and the engine would be blocked and the final
belt tension adjusted by a big jack and all would be ready for a
trial run.

     The nearly silent power of steam would spin the cutter up
to the hollow howl that would pervade the next two days. The
running of the belt would be critically examined. If the
cumbersome engine was lined up to within an inch or two, the
belt would run true in the center of both pulley. Godfrey's
skill was demonstrated once more.

     Next morning, activity would resume with a vengeance. The
engine must be fired up and steam raised. The big belt was
always put in a dry place at night and must be brought out and
put into place. Godfrey would be along with a grease pail and an
oil can 2 feet tall, all the time keeping a wary eye on the
water level in the boiler. If the level was too high, it would
not steam properly. Too low meant a damaged boiler, or even a
disastrous and deadly explosion.

     The inside crew, the trampers, would be hanging the
distributing pipe, which hung from the goose neck at the top,
like the tail of a tornado. It was just a long series of funnels
connected by light chains. It could be lead about to distribute
the ensilage evenly. In use, it contained the miniature tornado
of wind and chopped corn. If allowed to clog, it could fill with
hundreds of pounds of silage and even break the chains and come
slithering down on the trampers.

     At least two in number, the trampers led the pipe and
walked an endless round next to the wall tramping the feed down
tight to the wall. They also put in the doors as the silo filled
and they gradually tramped their way up from ground level to 50
feet above. The doors were sealed with mud which was mixed below
and carried up in a bucket.

     While all this was going on, the coal wagon must be backed
into place next to the engine and the team shifted to the water
wagon The water man soon could be seen swaying back and forth
atop the water wagon as he worked the long handle of the pump,
filling the wagon from the stock tank.

     The bundle teams were heading directly to the field as they
came in from the neighboring farms. Soon the first loaded bundle
wagon would come in and pull up to the cutters and one of the
two spike pitchers would climb up on the back of it. Godfrey
would open the throttle and the two men on the wagon would start
raining down the heavy green bundles onto the feed chute of the
cutter. Another man would dodge the bundles and keep them as
straight and even as possible on the way into the voracious
machine. The howl would deepen into a stuttering roar and the
job was underway.

     It was all gently competitive between the two on the wagon.
They would dig down to the bottom in the middle of the wagon and
strive to finish first as they worked back to the ends. The
feeder below would try to keep up and survive under the hail of
bundles. Green and heavy, up to 50 lbs, it did not pay to catch
one across the forearms. No forks were used, the handlers just
grabbed and flung.

     In an incredibly short time, the wagon was empty, the
driver loosed the reins and was off at a trot to keep his turn.
A new load, with pitchers aboard, was waiting, and the river of
corn was hardly interrupted.

     As a boy, I watched this from all vantage points, in the
echoing vertical cave of the silo, filled with a damp and
aromatic wind, and from the feeder table. To get clear of the
noise, I would walk back to the engine, keeping well clear of
the deadly hissing belt. There I could see the piston rod and
cross head flashing back and forth driving the great cast iron
pulley, all controlled by the whirling balls of the governer.
Almost silent compared to the roar and howl at the other end of
the belt.

     The only real sound was the confident chant of the steam
exhaust in the stack. Pook-a! Pook-a! Pook-a! It grew louder or
quieter as the load changed, but the steady rhythm never
changed. The power was there waiting for the whirly-gig governer
to sense the speed and unleash the steam. Pook-a! Pook-a!
Pook-a! And the extra bundle was up the pipe. No problem.

     I now realize that I was watching a mature technology. It
was the best that ever was or ever would be in that way of doing
things. Strong skilled men, powerful trained horses, and the
matchless power of steam in the belt. The internal combustion
engine would soon take over, but its roaring bluster would never
match the calm Pook-a! Pook-a! Pook-a! power of steam.

     The men and horses have yielded their bones to the earth
and the steamer is long melted for scrap, but if you listen,
perhaps you hear the shouts of the men, the snort and whinny of
the teams, and the steady Pook-a! Pook-a! Pook-a! of the
steamer. I know I can!