proposed to clear up that day, and would go to work in a way all his
own.

Although not talkative to other people, he is very social with
himself, and, in the early days of our acquaintance, I was constantly
misled into the belief that somebody was with him, and that he was a
man of words rather than work. As soon, however, as I reached a point
from which I could see him, there he would be, alone, bending to his
task with the steady persistence that makes his labor so effective;
but, at the same time, until he saw me he would continue discussing
with equal vigor whatever subject might be uppermost in his mind. I
suppose he scarcely ever takes out a stone or root without
apostrophizing, adjuring, and berating it in tones and vernacular so
queer that one might imagine he hoped to remove the refractory object
by magic rather than by muscle. When the sun is setting, however, and
Abraham has complacently advised himself, "Better quit, for de day's
done gone, and de ole woman is arter me, afeared I've kivered myself
up a-grubbin'," one thing is always evident--a great many stones and
roots are "unkivered," and Abraham has earned anew his right to the
title of champion grubber.

But, as most men handle the pick and shovel, the fruit grower must be
chary in his attempts to subdue the earth with those old-time
implements. It is too much like making war with the ancient Roman
short sword in an age of rifled guns. I agree with that practical
horticulturist, Peter Henderson, that there are no implements equal to
the plow and subsoiler, and, in our broad and half-occupied country,
we should be rather shy of land where these cannot be used.

The cultivator whose deep moist loam is covered by sod only, instead