76 MY FARM. 



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

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

 estimate of dimensions ; but " begorra, its a lumpish 

 tree," 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. 



" 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." 



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- 



