BUCOLIC TROUBLES OUT WEST.

Globe, Volume XXI, Issue 1753, 2 October 1879, Page 2

BUCOLIC TROUBLES OUT WEST.

It is spring, and tho annual warfare begins. Early in the morning tho jocund farmer hies him to the] field and bunts around in the dead weeds and grass for the plough ho left out there some time last fall. When he finds it he takes it to the shop to have it mended. Whan it is mended he goes back into the field with it. Half-way down the first furrow he lays he runs the plough fairly into a big live-oak root, the handles alternately break a rib on this tide of him and job tho breath out of him on the other, and the sturdy root, looking up out of the ground with a pleased smile of recognition, says cheerfully : * ‘ Ah, Mr Thistlepod ; at it again, eh ? ” Fifty feet further on he strikes a stone that doubles up the plough point like a piece of lead, and while the amazed and breathless agriculturist leans, a limp head of humanity, across the plough, the relic of the glacial period remarks, sleepily: “Ah, ha! Spring here already? Glad you woke me up.” And then the Granger sits down and patiently tries to tie on that plough point with a hickory withe, and while he pursues this fruitless task, the friendly crow swoops down near enough to ask; “Goiu’ to put this twenty in corn this year, Mr Thistlepod ! ” And before ho has time to answer the sable bird, a tiny g.asshopper, wriggling out of a clod so full of eggs that they can’t be counted, shouts briskly : “ Here we are again, Mr Thistlepod. Dinner for 500.000,000,000!" And then a slowmoving but very positive potato bug crawls out into the sunlight to see if the frost has faded his stripes, and says : “The oldfashioned peachblow potatoes are the beat for a sure crop, but the early rose should be planted for the first market. ” Then several new kinds of bugs who haven’t made any record yet, climb over the fence, and come up to inquire about the staple crops of the neighbourhood, and before he gets through with them Professor Hce sends him a circular stating that there won’t be a drop of rain from tho middle of May till the last of October. This almost stuns him, but he is beginning to feel a little resigned when a despatch is received from the Department of Agriculture at Washington, saying that all indications point to a summer of uuprecedeotedj almost incessant and long-continued rains and floods, and advising him to plant no root crops at all. While he is trying to find words in which to express his emotion, a neighbour-drops in to toll him that all the peach trees in the country are winter killed, and that the hog cholera is raging fiercely in the northern part of the township. Then his wife comes out to tell him that the dog has fallen into the well, and when the poor man gets to the door yard, his children, with much shouting and excitement, meet him, and tell him that there are a couple of cats, of the Pole dou.ruination, in, the spring house, and another one uncUr the barn. With t*vva and groans he returns to the field, but by that time it has begun to snow so hard that he can’t sea the horses when ho stands at the plough. He, is discouraged, and starts for tho house with his team, when he meets a man who bounces him for using a three-horse clevis he made himsrlf, and wrung teu reluctant dollars out of him for It. When he reaches the house the drivewell man is waiting foi him, and while ho is settling with him a clock pedlar comes in, and a lightning-rod man, screened by the storm, climbs up on the ten-dollar smokehouse, fastens sixty-five dollars of lightningrods on it, and before the poor farmer can get his gun half loaded the bailiff comes in to tell him that he has been drawn on the jury. No, I would not, even if 1 could, be a farmer. The life is pleasant and independent, but it seems to have its drawbacks. If I were a farmer I would grumble all I wanted, and thump the man who found fault withM for it. —'BurlingtonHawkey*.