224 
THE CULTIVATOR. 
THE SETTLER IN A NEW COUNTRY. 
Messrs. Editors —I have seen in the Cultivator some 
inquiries as to the best mode of clearing 1 land, and the 
general management on a new farm, anti I am half in¬ 
clined to give you my notions on the subject; merely 
premising that if I could wield such a pen as your cor¬ 
respondent Solon Robinson, whom may Heaven long 
preserve, I should feel much more confidence that this 
paper would not be consigned to your Baalam box. 
It is now some forty-three years since I left the Old 
homestead in the land of steady habits, and with tolera¬ 
ble spirits, but less money, made my way to one of the 
interior towns of this State, then on the verge of the 
white settlements, and into which some three or four 
families had the year before preceded me. A lot of 100 
acres was selected, on which an axe blow had never 
been struck, and which was a mile from the nearest) 
neighbor. Deep, dark, and majestic were these prime¬ 
val forests; and a formidable undertaking it was to be 
buried in them, with the hope of working one’s self out 
into the light of day, and the rays of the glorious sun. 
But few were the places in those days from which a 
glimpse of the country around could be seen, and where 
such glimpses could be had, nothing met the eye but one 
vast unbroken sea of foliage, with perhaps a few blue 
smokes curling up through the tree tops, and showing 
where some adventurer like myself had established him- 
sel f. 
The first undertaking was the house for the family. A 
fine clear spring determined its position; a small space 
was cleared of the underwood, and a house made of logs 
and covered with boards was soon constructed. Lonely 
were the first nights passed in that pioneer building, with 
the wind moaning through the tall trees that overhung 
the humble residence; the light from the wood fire that 
burned atone end of the earth floor, throwing its fitful 
flashes through the crevices, upon the massive trunks 
that stood like giant sentinels in the gloom; and the owls 
scared from their retreats in the hollow trees, or attracted 
by the unwonted apparition of such intruders on their 
solitudes, held a clamorous serenade of tu-whit! tu- 
whoo! in all its modifications, about the dwelling. It 
was truly a serious matter to contemplate the vast amount 
of labor that would be requisite to fell, burn, or remove 
the forest coveringof the soil, and convert the wild wood¬ 
lands into fruitful fields; but willing hands and stout 
hearts were brought to the work, and while the merry 
ring of the axes were heard on every side, the “ open¬ 
ing” spread apace, and the fears of the women that some 
unlucky tree might crush in its downfall the rude hut, 
were speedily dissipated by the prostration of all from 
which such a danger could be apprehended. 
It was the beginning of summer; the heavy foliage 
wore its freshest green, and the elm, maple, and linden, 
were successively laden with flowers. Never shall I 
forget the rich, the indescribable perfume which filled 
the air, as tree after tree was cut down, and day after day 
passed, before the blossoms had ceased to exhale their 
odors from their withered cups. A practiced woodsman 
had the direction of the ‘chopping,’ and under his gui¬ 
dance acre after acre was prepared for the burning. The 
slope of the land, the proximity and inclination of the 
trees, all had to be considered, before the chopping was 
done, as on these things the facility of ‘burning’ and 
‘logging’ was mainly depending. Where it was possi¬ 
ble, some huge tree was felled, and upon, and parallel 
with this, ail that could be made to reach it, or conveni ¬ 
ently be piletl upon it, were cut for this purpose. The 
brush was cut from the trunks, and piled carefully and 
separately into heaps, experience proving that the neat¬ 
ness of the ‘fallow 5 after the burning, was much depend¬ 
ing on this operation. Some ‘choppers’ neglected this 
piling of the brush, merely felling the trees, or perhaps 
lopping the branches a little, trusting to a dry season anil 
a thorough burn, to save this additional labor; but nine 
times out of ten, the labor saved in the chopping, was 
doubled in the final logging and burning. 
Af:er the chopping was completed, the brush dried, 
and all hands ready, came burning the ‘fallow.’ For 
this purpose a hot dry day, with but a gentle wind is to 
be preferred; since the fire burns the cleanest in a dry 
day, and no matter how still the day may be, there will 
always be wind enough as soon as the fires are well burn¬ 
ing. In setting the fires it is best to begin on the lee¬ 
ward side; unless the whole is so dry that when once 
kindled the fire will run over the whole ground, when 
the windward side may be taken. If the brush is well 
piled, and fully dried, little will be left after the fire, but 
the trunks of the trees, and in many cases a larg-e portion 
of the smallest of these will be consumed. If the trunks 
were not cut up into suitable lengths before the burning, 
this work comes next; if already cut up, the ‘logging,’ or 
the roiling the logs into heaps preparatory to their being 
burned, may commence at once. In logging, three men 
are required to one team, two to roll the logs and one to 
draw them. If chopping is neat work, logging is (he 
dirtiest that occurs in clearing land; and the tow cloth 
frocks and trowsers, are very apt to call down the ana¬ 
themas of the washer-woman. In cutting up the timber, 
after the brush is burned, a sufficient quantity of the best 
kinds for fencing must be selected, and cut in suitable 
lengths for rails. Chestnut, red elm, butternut, bass¬ 
wood, &c., are generally chosen, where they can be had, 
and lengths of ten or tw'elve feet make the best rails for 
worm fence, the kind commonly constructed in new dis¬ 
tricts of country. 
In the clearing of land, the disposal of the ashes left by 
the burning of the log-heaps is a matter of some conse¬ 
quence. They are scarcely needed on the soil; indeed if 
left as (hey lie in masses after burning, they are posi¬ 
tively injurious, every settler in anew country knowing 
that no wheat grows in the places where the ashes of 
the log-piles are left. It is the custom generally to ga¬ 
ther the ashes, and sell them to the potash manufacturer, 
or else construct leaches on the spot, and convert them 
into what are called black salts, and then these are sold, 
usually at a respectable profit. It is perhaps the best way 
of disposing of them, to scatter them with a shovel over 
the unburnt spaces of the fallow, as cultivated soils soon 
need all the alkaline matter that can be furnished them, 
and ashes are among the cheapest and most valuable of 
the class. 
In sowing wheat on newly cleared lands great care 
must be taken to see that the wheat is properly covered 
around the numerous stumps that occur. If left to the 
harrow alone, there will be several feet around each that 
will produce no grain, and will be pretty certain to be 
occupied by some pernicious weed. A man should fol¬ 
low the harrow with a hoe, and see that the whole sur¬ 
face of the ground is stirred, and the seed in every place 
covered. 
The first half dozen years spent by us on our new farm, 
and during which we encountered those privations pecu¬ 
liar to the pioneer life, were years of hard labor it is 
true, but now that we at our ease look back upon them, 
we could hardly from our whole lives, select the same 
number, in which we have enjoyed more positive hap¬ 
piness. Those who have always resided in places long 
settled, are often heard to wonder that so many of those 
who settle and cultivate our new districts, should be 
willing, as soon as their farms are cleared, and they can 
begin, as it is called, to enjoy life, to pull up stakes and 
again plunge into the wilderness to undergo the priva¬ 
tions from which they have but just escaped. I do not 
participate in such feelings. I am not certain, that even 
now, I could not be induced to seek a new home in the 
woods; indeed I am certain of it,could the activity, health, 
and spirits of the past be recalled. I should not, it is 
true, crave the privilege of again being obliged to go 
twenty miles to mill; fifteen miles to a store, ora black¬ 
smiths; or eighteen miles to a post-office: but I should 
like to have the pleasure of again seeing nature in her 
wild but comely undress; to see the beautiful red deer 
scarcely frightened by the presence of man seeking the 
fallows and the fields, as if inviting protection; to see the 
elements of society combining into a healthy and rational 
organization; to participate in that kindly, bro her-like 
feeling, which is always found among the settlers of a 
new district,-and which I regret to say so often is lost in 
that stony selfishness which usually attends the accumula¬ 
tion of wealth; and to witness the building up of those 
