IN THE CATSKILLS 



and the spinning-wheel, and the loom are heard 

 no more among us. The last I knew of a certain 

 hetchel, it was nailed up behind the old sheep that 

 did the churning ; and when he was disposed to 

 shirk or hang back and stop the machine, it was 

 always ready to spur him up in no uncertain man- 

 ner. The old loom became a hen-roost in an out- 

 building; and the crackle upon which the flax was 

 broken, where, oh, where is it ? 



When the produce of the farm was taken a long 

 distance to market, that was an event, too; the 

 carrying away of the butter in the fall, for instance, 

 to the river, a journey that occupied both ways 

 four days. Then the family marketing was done 

 in a few groceries. Some cloth, new caps and boots 

 for the boys, and a dress, or a shawl, or a cloak for 

 the girls were brought back, besides news and ad- 

 venture, and strange tidings of the distant world. 

 The farmer was days in getting ready to start ; food 

 was prepared and put in a box to stand him on the 

 journey, so as to lessen the hotel expenses, and 

 oats were put up for the horses. The butter was 

 loaded up overnight, and in the cold November 

 morning, long before it was light, he was up and off. 

 I seem to hear the wagon yet, its slow rattle over the 

 frozen ground diminishing in the distance. On the 

 fourth day toward night all grew expectant of his re- 

 turn, but it was usually dark before his wagon was 

 heard coming down the hill, or his voice from before 



