250 AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



box. We begin to turn the handle; we hear the slicing 

 of the apples as they are crunched and slivered by the 

 knives; soon they fall in myriad flaky pieces into the 

 receiving crate below (a sort of cylindrical rack, box, 

 crib, or hamper, made of strong oak strips bound with 

 iron, the ribs in the grating being slightly distanced 

 from one another in a fine vertical open-work through 

 whose interspaces the cider can easily gush when forced 

 from the crushed fruit) ; this crate is removed as soon 

 as full and placed under the presser, another is substi- 

 tuted in its place beneath the feeder; and the work 

 begins afresh. Round and round we turn the screw 

 that gradually compresses the ground pulp, until we 

 soon see issuing from between the slats the first sweet 

 tricklings. Lower and lower presses the block, harder 

 and harder is the turning, until at last we must substi- 

 tute for our hands a long stout wooden bar, one end 

 of it to be inserted between the iron spokes which 

 project upward from the rim of the hand-wheel on the 

 screwhead, and the other end, smoothed for the grasp, 

 to be pushed as a lever round and round and round, 

 like a handspike in the socket of a capstan. Out comes 

 the amber nectar, until the little conducting trough is 

 completely inundated, and then it goes pouring in a 

 tumultuous, frothy overflow into the foaming pails. 

 When the last drop has been squeezed out, and it is 

 impossible to force the block down further on the 

 cheese, the press is then unscrewed; the dry, useless 

 pomace now left in the crate is cast out into a wheel- 

 barrow, and carted off as refuse, or is soaked for a 

 time, and vinegar or jelly made from it; the fresh crate 

 under the feeder is slid forward beneath the press; the 



