OUT-OF-TOWN PLACES 



and another way-side smithy, where time and 

 time again, I have watched the heaving of the 

 bellows, and the flying of the sparks, as the 

 grimy workman pounded out the iron shoes, 

 for which "Debby" stood patiently in waiting. 



There was a green country store, where 

 "domestics" were sold, and West India 

 sugars, and hoes— "Ames' best cast-steel" — 

 and, I greatly fear, occasional tipple. It was 

 burned down long ago; ten years after, I 

 saw the yawning, ragged cellar, and a giant 

 growth of stramonium springing from the 

 door-step. 



There was also somewhere along this dreary 

 street a manufactory of musical instruments 

 — whether of harps or organs I cannot justly 

 say; but I have been given to understand that 

 the manufactory has since, under zealous and 

 spirited management, grown into a great 

 musical institute, where young misses in white 

 (with blue sashes) woo the muses with a 

 thundering success. But more distinctly than 

 the manufactory— whatever it may have been 

 — I remember a little brook, that stole away 

 in the meadows thereabout under clumps of 

 alder, under lines of willows, under plank 

 bridgelets, and how, on many a May day my 

 line drifted on into dark pools, until some 



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