76 MY FARM. 



he needs a boy to aid him with the team, and another 

 to cany a bar ; he spends an hour in his doubtful 

 estimate of dimensions ; but &quot; begorra, its a lumpish 

 tree,&quot; and he thwacks into the rind a foot or two 

 from the ground, so as to leave a nate Irish stump. 

 Half through the bole, he begins to doubt if it be 

 indeed a chestnut or a poplar; and casting his eye 

 aloft to measure it anew, an ancient woodpecker 

 drops something smarting in his eye ; and his howl 

 starts the ruminating team into a confused entangle 

 ment among the young wood. Having eased his 

 pain, and extricated his cattle, he pushes on with his 

 axe, and presently, with a light crash of pliant 

 boughs, his timber is lodged in the top of an adjoin 

 ing tree. He tugs, and strains, and swears, and splits 

 the helve of his axe in adapting it for a lever, and 

 presently, near to noon, comes back for three or four 

 hands to give him a boost with the tree. You return 

 to find the team strayed through a gate left open, 

 into a thriving cornfield, and one of your pet tulip 

 trees lodged in a lithe young hickory. 



&quot; Och ! and it s a toolip it is ! and I was thinkin 

 twas niver a chistnut ; begorra, it s lucky thin, it 

 didn t come down intirely.&quot; 



These and other such, replace the New-Englander 

 born, who long ago was paid off, wrapped his savings 

 in a dingy piece of sheepskin, scratched his head re- 



