LOOKING BACKWARD 247 



As we pass the first bridge, down the steely 

 course of the river comes a muffled figure, while 

 the ring of the skates strikes sharply on the 

 silent air. 



It is dusk as we whirl into the yard and pull our 

 horses up, dusk and chill with the cold breath 

 of the dying year. Take our lantern and follow 

 us as we unhitch Polly and lead her and the pony 

 into the stable. As we enter, a pedigreed Jersey, 

 from her warm and bedded stall, turns her head 

 with its fringed ears and soft eyes, and lows com- 

 fortably. We blanket our horses, bed them 

 deeply, then climb to the loft, where we throw 

 down English hay, raised on my farm. The 

 heifer, unbound and dragged to a well-bedded 

 pen, stares about her in surprise at her comfort- 

 able quarters, then, pricking up her ears and 

 elevating her tail, prances awkwardly. 



Our wagon is pulled into the carriage-house, 

 the doors of the barn closed and locked, and we 

 go next to the hen-coops. We carefully empty 

 the water-cans, close the shutters to the windows, 

 see that the ventilators are open and the fowls 

 all at roost, and that none are sick, then pass on 

 to another pen. In the little room at the entrance 

 to the coop are many ribbons won at poultry 

 shows, among them some blue ribbons. 



Then to the storehouse, where we see that the 

 fastenings of the doors are firm. We cannot help 



