80 AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



perhaps with horses, who patiently tread round and 

 round upon the bundles, the grain and chaff from 

 which, left after the straw has been raked off, are then 

 run through an old-time fanning mill, and the wheat 

 thus winnowed from the refuse; or, possibly, the beat- 

 ing is done in the primitive way with a flail at odd 

 times through the winter, and marks of the swipple are 

 to be seen on the boards. The corn-crib, stuffed with 

 the yellow ears, is just outside the barn. 



Instead of the dense woods which formerly stood 

 back of it, all is open, tillable land, an extent of many 

 miles; and the view that we have from its open doors, 

 a long, peaceful stretch of country, out across the roll- 

 ing hills and far beyond the Miami, is one that is not 

 often afforded. Barn swallows dart in and out of the 

 great doors, and their nests of mud and straw are 

 plastered against the roof and rafters. Chickens peck 

 about for chance bits of grain, and the hens lay their 

 eggs beneath the mangers or stow them away in dark 

 nests hollowed out in the mows, concealed amid the 

 hay or straw. 



I spoke of the initials. Two generations, at least, 

 have left their marks upon it, and possibly three, or 

 even four, so far as I know. It has always been such 

 a repository, and the whole barn is to-day a veritable 

 mosaic of letters and dates. We can find them inside 

 and outside, on the doors, on the weather-boarding 

 (these are getting a little faint now, being so old and 

 exposed to the storms), on the rafters and beams (dug 

 into the hard oak with heroic perseverance, with a 

 barrel to stand on), on the big supporting posts, on the 

 feed box, on the manger, and then again spreading to 

 the barnyard, and finally on the water trough out by the 



