The Ploughboy 



very soon I had to become a good ploughman, 

 or rather ploughboy. None could draw a 

 straighter furrow. For the first few years the 

 work was particularly hard on account of the 

 tree-stumps that had to be dodged. Later the 

 stumps were all dug and chopped out to make 

 way for the McCormick reaper, and because I 

 proved to be the best chopper and stump-digger 

 I had nearly all of it to myself. It was dull, hard 

 work leaning over on my knees all day, chop- 

 ping out those tough oak and hickory stumps, 

 deep down below the crowns of the big roots. 

 Some, though fortunately not many, were two 

 feet or more in diameter. 



And as I was the eldest boy, the greater part 

 of all the other hard work of the farm quite 

 naturally fell on me. I had to split rails for 

 long lines of zigzag fences. The trees that were 

 tall enough and straight enough to afford one 

 or two logs ten feet long were used for rails, 

 the others, too knotty or cross-grained, were 

 disposed of in log and cordwood fences. Mak- 

 ing rails was hard work and required no little 



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