THE ORCHARD. 251 



old empty hamper is put again below the cutting box; 

 then away goes the big rumbling wheel, the screw is 

 twisted once more, and soon the rich pomade is oozing 

 and dripping from its conduits as before. Shall we 

 taste it? Who has the first glassful? 'T is the am- 

 brosia of the autumn. 



I have been at cider-mills where the process was 

 carried on by machinery on a much larger scale. There 

 were tons of apples awaiting their demise, and wagon 

 loads more of them coming; the constant hum of ma- 

 chinery was heard; the cider came running out of a 

 spout in a perpetual stream into barrels; while back of 

 the shed arose a mountain of the crushed and withered 

 pomace "apple chankin's," as they sometimes call 

 them. In a little shanty in the rear of one of these 

 mills that I used to enjoy visiting, came slowly drop- 

 ping, bead by bead, the distilled essence of it all, genu- 

 ine, transparent, sparkling apple brandy. Harmless, 

 this? Try it, sir! 



There is an old refrain, which I am sure most of us 

 must have heard, with these familiar lines to it: 



" The prettiest girl I ever saw 



Was sucking cider through a straw." 



It is a familiar picture, and I think I shall let it pass 

 without further comment. 



In Josiah Gilbert Holland's "Bitter-Sweet" is a 

 stanza about the cider barrels which is here worth re- 

 peating: 



' ' Sixteen barrels of cider 

 Ripening all in a row ! 

 Open the vent-channels wider ! 

 See the froth, drifted like snow, 

 Blown by the tempest below ! 



