fallow, as it is called, of twelve or fourteen acres in extent, is a grand and even awful sight:  rushing in torrents of flame, it rolls with the wind, crackling and roaring through the brushwood, and often extending beyond the limits assigned it, catching the dry stems of ancient trees, the growth of the earlier ages of this continent, which lie in gigantic ruins, half buried in the rising soil, and which will be themes of speculation to the geologists of other days—­it rushes madly among the standing trees of the woods, wreathing them to their summits in its wild embrace—­they stand at night like lofty torches, or a park decked out with festal lamps for some grand gala.  After this first burn, a fallow presents a blackened scene of desolation and confusion, and requires, indeed, a strong arm and a stout heart to undertake its clearance; the small branches and brush-wood alone have been burnt, but the large logs or trunks lie all blackened but unconsumed.  These must all be placed in regular piles or heaps, which are again fired, and burn steadily for a few hours, after which all traces of the noble forest are gone, save the blackened stumps and a few white ashes; it is then ready for planting or sowing, with the assistance of the hoe or harrow.

And now, kind reader, if you have accompanied me thus far, will you have the kindness to suppose us fixed at last in our habitation—­whitewashing, painting, and scrubbing done, and all the fuss of moving over—­our fallow fenced and filled—­the dark green stems of the wheat and oats standing thick and tall—­the buck-wheat spreading its broad leaves, and the vines of the pumpkins and cucumbers running along the rich soil, where grows in luxuriance the potatoe, that root, valuable to New Brunswick

    “As the bread-fruit tree
    To the sunny isles of Owhyhee.”

Suppose it, then, a bright and balmy day in the sunny ides of June—­the earth is now in all the luxuriant pride of her summer beauty; for although the summer is long coming, yet, when it does begin, vegetation is so rapid that a few short days call it forth in all its loveliness; nay, the transition is so quick, that I have observed its workings in an hour’s space.  In the red sunlight of the morn I have seen the trees with their wintry sprays and brown leaf-buds all closed—­when there fell a soft and refreshing shower—­again the sunbeams lit the sky, and oh! the glorious change—­the maple laughed out with her crimson blossoms and fair green leaves—­the beech-tree unfolded her emerald plumes—­the fairy stems of the aspen and birch were dancing in light, and the stately ash was enwreathed with her garland of verdant green—­the spirit of spring seemed to have waved o’er them the wand of enchantment.  On this bright day, of which I now speak, all this mighty change had been accomplished, and earth and air seemed all so delightful, one could hardly imagine that it could be improved by aught added to or taken from it.