Accomac Duck Farm
Quack, quack, quack. Peep, peep, peep, klok klok, klok, ku-ke-lu-huh! That's what a visitor hears all day long on the Accomac Duck Farm, owned by W. R. Morey, formerly of Boston, Mass., now a contented adopted soul of ole Virginny and more especially of the Eastern Shore, who resides on Onancock Creek. All that noise comes from the busy throats of ducklings, ducks, chickens, hens, drakes, roosters, of all ages. They are to be found there in amazing variety, babies, little boy ducks, young girl chickens beginning to flirt, dignified old ladies in their dotage, sedate papas and mamas, widows and orphans, and proud young gentlemen strutting up and down the spacious yards, replying to the lusty crowing across the beach as if they were "the only pebble on the beach." But there is one man who is the big Mogul in the midst of all this apparent noise and confusion. The feathered population on this farm located on a beautiful high bank on Onancock Creek, knows the big boss. Be not mistaken, my friend, everything on this farm is regulated by the clock. Eternal vigilance is the price of success here. The feeding, the grading, the shipping, the fattening process, the protection from the ravages of the storm, the temperature are all in the day's work. People who boast of a hundred or two chickens or ducks have something to learn before they can manage a Commercial Duck Farm with an incubator capacity of 6000! Yes sir, this is one of the only three Commercial Duck Farms in the State.
We found Mr. Morey a keen New Englander who came here some five or six years ago, bent on making good. With becoming humility he told us how he had studied the business on one of the great Commercial Duck Farms on Long Island. With this knowledge and with the climate we have here and with the feed market of Virginia, Maryland and Delaware near at hand, this shrewd son of the North cannot begin to fill his orders. His customers cover a wide territory in this state and beyond. Said he with a grin that spelled determination and success: "I will simply have to increase my incubator capacity to ten thousand or twelve thousand next year. My trade compels me to do it." Do we doubt it? Any man who will sit up all night long with an alarm clock in his hands in order that he may regulate his incubator and brooder temperature each hour, will make a success of anything. People who love the feather bed better than the feathers on a live hen had better not attempt the commercial duck or chicken farm. Hard work and a thorough knowledge of the game are the two requisites for that sort of business.
For the benefit of the novice we will give a brief description of the principal processes and mechanics of Mr. Morey's farm. To begin with let it be remembered that all of this big business is carried on within the confines of one acre of land. This New Englander believes that statement made some years ago by John D. Rockefeller that there is yellow gold in every man's back yard. What Accomac County needs is gold diggers!
All aboard the rubber neck wagon. We are off! We will begin with ducks. First stop is the incubator house. Here in huge incubators, the so-called "Newtowns" made in Harrisonburg, Va., you can see the eggs in various stages of incubation. Peeping through the glass with the aid of a flash light you can see the white eggs in the process of life giving. Look, in this compartment the little web footed creatures are just coming out. Their eyes seem to ask the eternal question: "what is life." Those over there will hatch in two days, and so it goes. Mr. Morey has it all marked down in his mental note book.
As soon as the ducks have been hatched the real task of raising begins. They are now taken to the brooder. Each hatching is kept in a separate space, boards of graduating heights indicate the size and the age of each hatching. The "Candee" brooder of Eastwood, N. Y., furnishes the required heat. An average of seventy degrees is maintained while the little ducks are passing through this life-period. They are never mixed. They go through life together in definite groups.
The cry in the Army during the great war was, "When do we eat." These ducks know when the feedman comes along with his buckets of feed. They are fed at regular intervals with as much system as those scientific babies your read about in the books. Bran, alfalfa meal, middlings, beef, scrap, fresh fish (when obtainable) constitute the diet. The little ducks stay in the hot part of the brooder house for three weeks. Then they are promoted to the second grade in the school of duck life. In the second section of the brooder, the temperature is lower, only the chill is taken off and they have access to the outdoor runs. Here they stay for two or three weeks. As they are again ready to be promoted they have attained the ripe age of from four to six weeks. The next station is the cold brooder near the water front with their first introduction to the water, though penned in between wire fences running down into the water. This part of the duck's life is Paradise, for the fattening process takes place here. It is a case of eat, drink and be merry for to-morrow you die. The trick is to have ducks from ten to twelve weeks old ready for the market, weighing from five to six pounds.
The favorite breed on the Accomac Duck Farm is the Mammouth White Pekin. Mr. Morey has his own stock. Constant attention and a long study of the habits and failings of the breed has practically eliminated disease. In answer to our question regarding the enemies and troubles of ducks, the owner replied at once, "Rats, sunshine and rain are the enemies of young ducks." And yet they say of a man who is unconcerned that his troubles are "like water on a duck's back." Whoever invented that saying was not raised on a duck farm. Water is alright, but not cold rain water, if you ask Mr. Duck!
The Accomac Duck Farm was organized from a small beginning with no intention of raising chickens. But the demand for chickens became so great that the management decided to branch out on that. We have never seen a finer flock of White Leghorns (Wyckoff Strain) than the snowy flock we saw there. Although this is a new enterprise, the beginning promises to match if not eclipse the annual output of ducks. So great has the demand for "custom hatching" of Mr. Morey's own leghorn chicks, Barred Rocks and Rhode Island Reds become that plans now call for elimination of the late ducks. Whereas formerly full grown ducks were shipped to the market from May to October, the last hatching of ducks will take place in April, in order to make room for chicken eggs in the incubators.
When our guide began to talk about the Hogan system for selecting breeding hens, about the sizes of hen pelvic bones, about different kinds of "scratch feed" and what not, we discovered that the mysteries of chicken raising are as great as those connected with the noisy quackers.
We are under the impression that other States have nothing the Eastern Shore does not have for the raising of all manner of fowl. God has smiled upon this fair land of ours. The Baltimore and Philadelphia markets beckon us. Potatoes are not only the only thing. That people are interested in this new enterprise is indicated by the fact that as many as one hundred visitors have inspected the Accomac Duck Farm in one day.
Readers of the Enterprise and other papers in this section are informed from time to time by our alert County Agent, as to the fine points of the winged creatures. What, we ask, is there to hinder the Eastern Shore of Virginia from trying out new ways. They will broaden the vision, and they will lead to that gold mine we have spoken of above.
A word of warning may not be amiss. Are you willing to read up, get up and pay up? Then "try ducks." Constant care, a small expenditure of money, and a determination to win will bring the glad day of success. Say, Mr. Morey, after saying all these nice things about you and your enterprise remember that this preacher not only loves chicken, but duck also. Question: Why is the chicken the most pious fowl? Answer: Because so many have entered the ministry. Good luck, old fellow. Quack, quack, quack.