THE BARN. 85 



ters the buggy, the buckboard, and the mower. Upon 

 its walls are old-time portraits of Jackson and Polk, 

 and the bills of races trotted just after the Civil War, 

 and pictures of setters. An old pronged reaping cradle 

 hangs on a peg (the large beams were all put together 

 with wooden pins, and great seams of bark still cling 

 to the posts), and hoes and scythes and other imple- 

 ments are similarly suspended. The rifles are occasion- 

 ally leaned in a corner after a hunt. An old pair of 

 dusty saddlebags, for many years unused, are astride a 

 long peg. In the loft will be found the spin- 

 ning-wheel of former generations. 



Here come the buckets for the hogs, and 

 we shall follow them ! The hogs are a little 

 restricted in their wanderings now, being 

 confined to a half-acre lot, comprising the 

 apricot and plum orchards, whose enemies 

 they delight to honor with their snouts. Little 

 brass rings have been inserted into their noses, 

 however, to prevent their rooting propensities 

 from getting beyond their control. They are 

 great fellows. I like to lean over as I feed them, and 

 scratch their backs, and they reciprocate my affection 

 with the most appreciative grunts. I imagine, after 

 being fattened up pretty well with corn, some of them 

 will go as high as three hundred dressed. I have seen 

 some hogs with veritable tusks jutting from beneath 

 their lips, and raising them slightly. They looked then 

 like the dinosaurs and pterodactyls of eld, through 

 whose remarkable efforts we have all been descended 

 so they say. 



