years elapsing from the entrance of the Anglo-Saxon farmers into
the wilderness down to the present time, a few counties of Kentucky
have furnished army and navy, the entire country, with all but a
small part of the native hemp consumed. Little comparatively is
cultivated in Kentucky now. The traveller may still see it here and
there, crowning those ever-renewing, self-renewing inexhaustible
fields. But the time cannot be far distant when the industry there
will have become extinct. Its place in the nation's markets will be
still further taken by metals, by other fibres, by finer varieties
of the same fibre, by the same variety cultivated in soils less
valuable. The history of it in Kentucky will be ended, and, being
ended, lost.

Some morning when the roar of March winds is no more heard in the
tossing woods, but along still brown boughs a faint, veil-like
greenness runs; when every spring, welling out of the soaked earth,
trickles through banks of sod unbarred by ice; before a bee is
abroad under the calling sky; before the red of apple-buds becomes
a sign in the low orchards, or the high song of the thrush is
pouring forth far away at wet pale-green sunsets, the sower, the
earliest sower of the hemp, goes forth into the fields.

Warm they must be, soft and warm, those fields, its chosen
birthplace. Up-turned by the plough, crossed and recrossed by the
harrow, clodless, levelled, deep, fine, fertile--some extinct
river-bottom, some valley threaded by streams, some table-land of
mild rays, moist airs, alluvial or limestone soils--such is the
favorite cradle of the hemp in Nature. Back and forth with measured
tread, with measured distance, broadcast the sower sows, scattering
with plenteous hand those small oval-shaped fruits, gray-green,