136 
THE CABINET OF NATURAL HISTORY, 
these two cuts you take clean away with the knife, down 
to the wood, removing even the fine inner bark, which 
immediately lies upon the wood; so that no connection 
whatever remains between the two parts of the bark, 
but the bare and naked wood appears white and smooth. 
But this bark-ring, which is to compel the tree to bear, 
must be made at the right time, that is, when in all nature 
the buds are strongly swelling or are breaking out into 
blossom. In the same year a callus is formed at the edges 
of the ring, on both sides, and the connection of the bark, 
that had been interrupted, is restored again without any 
detriment to the tree, or the branch operated upon, in 
which the artificial wound soon again grows over. 
By this simple though artificial means of forcing every 
fruit tree, with certainty, to bear, you obtain the follow- 
ing important advantages: 
1. You may compel every young tree of which you do 
not know the sort, to show its fruit, and decide sooner, 
whether, being of a good quality, it may remain in its first 
state, or requires to be grafted. 
2. You may, thereby, with certainty, get fruit of every 
good sort, of which you wish to see the produce, in the 
next year. 
3. This method may probably serve to increase consi- 
derably the quantity of fruit in the country. 
The branches so operated upon are hung full of fruit, 
while the others, that are not ringed, often have nothing, 
or very little on them. This effect is easy to be ex- 
plained from the theory of the motion of the sap. For 
when the sap moves slowly in a tree, it produces fruit- 
buds, which is the case in old trees; when it moves vigor- 
ously, the tree forms wood, or runs into shoots, as hap- 
pens with young trees. — Trans. ITort. Soc. Lon. 
PIGEON-SHOOTING NEAR BOSTON. 
Mr. Editor: 
About fifteen miles from the metropolis of New-Eng- 
land, stands a quiet little village, which is more known — 
I will not say celebrated — by its local traditions as the last 
resting-place of one of the Indian tribes, than from any 
bustling importance or remarkable scenery. 
It contains, however, all the necessary attributes of a 
country town, viz: decayed old trees — gadding old wo- 
men — a little white gothic church — and a little dirty vil- 
lage inn — with its usual incumbrances of the idle hangers- 
on — inveterate dram-drinkers, and furious politicians, who 
are continually promulgating the most heterogeneous of 
doctrines and theories, much wilder than ever addled the 
crazy noddles of Hobbes and Mandeville. 
In this place — or at least half a mile this side of it — I 
have been passing a few weeks, following the general 
fashion of flying from the Cholera. My mornings I gene- 
rally give to reading and study. But in these long sum- 
mer afternoons, I have a most itching propensity for wan- 
dering. 
From reading old Isaac Walton, I instantly, like many 
other unlucky wights, was seized with a terrible fishing 
mania. There was no brook or river ten miles round that 
I did not ransack with unparalleled ill luck. I hooked 
every thing but a fish — friend or foe, it made little differ- 
ence — they all suffered alike from my infuriate zeal. I 
was continually losing my bait, or breaking my patent 
rod, in my endeavours to land a stick or bush, which my 
unlucky eye-sight deemed a perch or salmon trout. 
Fishing I soon gave up as a bad job, and easily con- 
vinced myself I was not designed for an angler, but a 
shooter. 
This no sooner popped into my brain than I purchased 
a first rate Joe Manton, with plenty of Dupont’s superfine 
powder, — and shot enough to sink a seventy-four. 
But here, again, I was soon let into a most important 
secret. It is this — a near-sighted man is never intended for 
either a sportsman or angler, — for after watching and toil- 
ing, and creeping about all day — staring over stone walls 
into cow-yards after peeps, and throwing stones into corn- 
fields to start woodcocks, I gave this up also. 
By the by, I recommend throwing stones into corn- 
fields to all Sportsmen, who, if they lay their gun down, 
can find it again time enough to shoot, — a thing I never 
could do; or, if like me, they are troubled with a dog, 
who, because he was “ fetched up” in a “ genteel family,” 
has an inveterate habit of keeping in the background. I 
presume he was early inculcated with the principle of 
giving way to his betters; neither blows, nor caresses, 
nor intreaties, could induce him to precede me; he always 
coolly, but firmly, insisted upon my going first. There 
was, of course, no moving a dog’s obstinacy, when founded 
upon early inculcated principles — so I threw aside my Joe 
Manton, resolving to give up shooting till nature should 
give me eyes. 
But, thus far, I have wandered with a vengeance. 1 
commenced with the intention of giving you a history of 
Pigeon-shooting, — instead ot it, I have been giving you 
my own abortive attempt at all kinds of shooting. I beg 
you to recollect the old adage, “Better late than never,” 
and pardon me. 
The course of my walks was frequently crossed by a 
veteran ol a fellow, whose clothes were so variously and 
