90 THE FAT OF THE LAND 
made, and the entire prospective orchard was 
safely landed. Monday saw our whole force at 
work planting trees. Small stakes had been 
driven to give the exact centre for each hole, so 
that the trees, viewed from any direction, would 
be in straight lines. Sam, Zeb, and Judson were 
to dig the holes, putting the surface dirt to the 
right, and the poor earth to the left; I was to 
prune the roots and keep tab on the labels; 
Johnson and Anderson were to set the trees, — 
Anderson using a shovel and Johnson his hands, 
feet, and eyes; while Thompson was to puddle 
and distribute the trees. The puddling was 
easily done. We sawed an oil barrel in halves, 
placed these halves on a stone boat, filled them 
two-thirds full of water, and added a lot of fine 
clay. Into this thin mud the roots of each tree 
were dipped before planting. 
My duty was to shorten the roots that were 
too long, and to cut away the bruised and broken 
ones. The top pruning was to be done after the 
trees were all set and banked. The stock was 
fine in every respect,—fully up to promise. 
Watching Johnson set his first tree convinced 
me that he knew more about planting than I 
did. He lined and levelled it; he pawed surface 
dirt into the hole, and churned the roots up and 
down; more dirt, and he tamped it; still more 
dirt, and he tramped it; yet more dirt, and he 
stamped it until the tree stood like a post; then 
loose dirt, and he left it. JI was sure Johnson 
