THE BARN. 83 



well. I remember once getting on top of the big straw 

 stack back of the barn after threshing time, and scram- 

 bling up the long, sloping, mossy roof, and there carv- 

 ing my initials upon the shingles, for the enlightenment 

 of balloonists and other aeronauts and of the heavens 

 generally; but I do not suppose many ever saw them, 

 for we had to climb up on a short ladder to reach the 

 roof from the stack, and then afterwards we jumped 

 off into the straw. I wonder if the men ever noticed 

 them who tore the shingles off when they put on the 

 new tin roof some years ago. I shall never forget the 

 look of astonishment and appalling fear upon the faces 

 of my aunts, who happened to be looking out of the 

 doorway of the homestead just at the time we peered 

 above the ridge-pole of the barn, while at our labors, 

 to see the surrounding country, and who therefore at 

 once saw us, much to their dire consternation. We, 

 however, immediately ducked our heads, and when we 

 again ventured to peek over, they had disappeared, to 

 our great relief. 



At a short distance west of the homestead (the 

 barn is to the north) stands the carnage house, filled 

 with many a curious relic of the past, and the place 

 for the cider press and the great sugar kettles. Below 

 it a few paces are the cow house and the pig pen; the 

 former of these the daily scene of a tug at the udders, 

 and the latter the annual scene of what Whitman 

 calls "the plenteous winterwork of pork-packing," 

 which, however, to my thinking, is more work than 

 poetry. Close to the corner of the homestead, to the 

 south, near the kitchen, is the smokehouse, covered 

 with great waving plumes of trumpet-vine, which has 

 grown up about it. Just west of it, and adjoining, is 



