Weeks are lost, at a season when they are all too short for
the work to be done. The ground must be hurriedly, and imperfectly
prepared, and the seed is put in too late, often to rot in the over-soaked
soil, requiring the field to be planted again at a time which makes it
extremely doubtful whether the crop will ripen before the frost destroys
it.
The necessary summer cultivation, between the rows, has to be done as the
weather permits; and much more of it is required because of the baking of
the ground. The whole life of the farmer, in fact, becomes a constant
struggle with nature, and he fights always at a disadvantage. What he does
by the work of days, is mainly undone by a single night's storm. Weeds
grow apace, and the land is too wet to admit of their being exterminated.
By the time that it is dry enough, other pressing work occupies the time;
and if, finally, a day comes when they may be attacked, they offer ten
times the resistance that they would have done a week earlier. The
operations of the farm are carried on more expensively than if the ability
to work constantly allowed a smaller force to be employed. The crops which
give such doubtful promise, require the same cultivation as though they
were certain to be remunerative, and the work can be done only with
increased labor, because of the bad condition of the soil.
From force of tradition and of habit, the farmer accepts his fate and
plods through his hard life, piously ascribing to the especial
interference of an inscrutable Providence, the trials which come of his
own neglect to use the means of relief which Providence has placed within
his reach.
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