Of all the labors of the field, the dexterity displayed by the negroes in “scraping cotton” is most calculated to call forth the admiration of the novice spectator.  The hoe is a rude instrument, however well made and handled; the young cotton-plant is as delicate as vegetation can be, and springs up in lines of solid masses, composed of hundreds of plants.  The field-hand, however, will single one delicate shoot from the surrounding multitude, and with his rude hoe he will trim away the remainder with all the boldness of touch of a master, leaving the incipient stalk unharmed and alone in its glory; and at nightfall you can look along the extending rows, and find the plants correct in line, and of the required distance of separation from each other.

The planter, who can look over his field in early spring, and find his cotton “cleanly scraped” and his “stand” good, is fortunate; still, the vicissitudes attending the cultivation of the crop have only commenced.  Many rows, from the operations of the “cut-worm,” and from multitudinous causes unknown, have to be replanted, and an unusually late frost may destroy all his labors, and compel him to commence again.  But, if no untoward accident occurs, in two weeks after the “scraping,” another hoeing takes place, at which time the plow throws the furrow on to the roots of the now strengthening plant, and the increasing heat of the sun also justifying the sinking of the roots deeper in the earth.  The pleasant month of May is now drawing to a close, and vegetation of all kinds is struggling for precedence in the fields.  Grasses and weeds of every variety, with vines and wild flowers, luxuriate in the newly-turned sod, and seem to be determined to choke out of existence the useful and still delicately-grown cotton.

It is a season of unusual industry on the cotton plantations, and woe to the planter who is outstripped in his labors, and finds himself “overtaken by the grass.”  The plow tears up the surplus vegetation, and the hoe tops it off in its luxuriance.  The race is a hard one, but industry conquers; and when the third working-over of the crop takes place, the cotton-plant, so much cherished and favored, begins to overtop its rivals in the fields—­begins to cast a chilling shade of superiority over its now intimidated groundlings, and commences to reign supreme.

Through the month of July, the crop is wrought over for the last time; the plant, heretofore of slow growth, now makes rapid advances toward perfection.  The plow and hoe are still in requisition.  The “water furrows” between the cotton-rows are deepened, leaving the cotton growing as it were upon a slight ridge; this accomplished, the crop is prepared for the “rainy season,” should it ensue, and so far advanced that it is, under any circumstances, beyond the control of art.  Nature must now have its sway.

The “cotton bloom,” under the matured sun of July, begins to make its appearance.  The announcement of the “first blossom” of the neighborhood is a matter of general interest; it is the unfailing sign of the approach of the busy season of fall; it is the evidence that soon the labor of man will, under a kind Providence, receive its reward.