AN OCTOBER DIARY. 201 



years ago, father and I did the thrashin' for your grand- 

 pap — Uncle Josie we called him — and we had the thrash- 

 in' every winter, till father died. Seems to me we must 

 liave hammered one floor clean through; yet I don't re- 

 member any new one. But the fun was to knock off at 

 noon, and go out in the old orchard. The nigh field was 

 an orchard then, and this old-barn apple is a seedlin' from 

 it, and all that's left to show apples ever grew here. That 

 old orchard — let's see; there were "Winter Pearmains, 

 Yanderveers, Summer Priestleys, yellow as gold and witii 

 a twang of their own. Cat-heads, that your grandmother 

 used for dumplings always, Michael Henrys, Hollow- 

 cores, Ked-streaks, Sheep-noses, and a big tree of Sour- 

 sweets. These were my bait for rabbits always ; for you 

 see I'd a notion that rabbits might differ in their tastes, so 

 I'd take a Sour-sweet and cut a piece so half would be one 

 taste and half t'other ; then the rabbit was sure to be 

 suited. No, you don't see any such orchards nowadays. 

 Why those trees were big. You couldn't get your arms 

 around some of them, and they towered up like trees in 

 the woods ; and then sometimes, when a big limb would 

 die, a black log-cock, such as hasn't been about for fifty 

 years, as I know of, would come out of Long Swamp, and 

 hammer away at it, till you'd think a man was choppin'. 

 There are no such orchards now, and, sure as shootin', 

 your modern apples don't come up to the old kinds. 

 Why, man alive, when you'd open a barrel of Bell- 

 flowers, you could smell 'em all over the house." 



" Are there none of these old apples left ?" 1 finally 

 got a chance to ask. 



"Left? yes; but they've lost their flavor. Now and 



