TAKING REINS IN HAND 



peak was a lively weather-cock of shingle, 

 most preposterously active in its motions, and 

 trimming to every flaw of wind with a nervous 

 rapidity, that reminded me of nothing so much 

 as of the alacrity of a small newspaper editor. 

 There was the attendant company of farm 

 sheds, — low sheds, high sheds, tumble-down 

 sheds, one with a motley array of seasoned 

 lumber, well dappled over with such domestic 

 coloring as barn-yard fowls are in the habit 

 of administering; another, with sleds and 

 sleighs, — looking out of place in June — and 

 submitted to the same domestic garniture. 

 There was the cider mill with its old casks, 

 and press, seamy and mildewed, both having 

 musty taint. A convenient mossy cherry tree 

 was hung over with last year's scythes and 

 bush-hooks, while two or three broken ox 

 chains trailed from the stump of a limb, which 

 had suffered amputation. Nor must I forget 

 the shop, half home-made, half remnant of 

 something better, with an old hat or two thrust 

 into the broken sashes — with its unhelved, 

 gone-by axes, its hoes with half their blade 

 gone, its dozen of infirm rakes, its hospital 

 shelf for broken swivels, heel-wedges and 

 dried balls of putty. 



I remember passing a discriminating eye 



51 



