IOS PASTORAL DAYS. 



It is the same old cider-press we all remember, and with the same 

 accessories. Here are casks of all sizes waiting to be filled, and the piles 

 of party-colored apples spilled upon the floor from the farmers' wagons 

 that every now and then back up to the open door. There is the same 

 rustic harangue on leading agricultural topics, among which we hear a 

 variety of opinions about that imaginary "line storm." 



" Seems to gi'n the slip this year," remarks one old long-limbed settler 

 with a slope-roofed straw hat, " n' I don't know zactly what to make on't ; 

 but I ain't so sartin nuther" — he now takes a wise observation of a small 

 patch of blue sky through the trees overhead. " I cal'late we'll git a leetle 

 tetch on't yit." 



"Likenuff, likenuff," responds another, with a squeaky voice; "the ar's 

 gittin' ruther dampish, 'n' my woman hez got the rheumatiz ag'in. She 

 kin alluz tell when we're goin' to git a spell o' weather; it's sure to fetch 

 her all along her spine. But I lay most store on them ar pesky tree-tuds. 

 I heern um singin' like all possessed ez I wuz comin' through the woods 

 yender ; 'n' it's a sartin sign o' rain when them ar critters gits agoin', you 

 kin depend on't." 



And now we hear all about the pumpkin and the corn crop, the 

 potato yield, and the regular list of other subjects so dear to the rural 

 heart. 



In a corner by themselves we see the pile of "vinegar nubbins" — a 

 tanned and soft variety of apple — in all stages of variegation. The "hop- 

 per" receives the shovelfuls of fruit for the crushing "smasher," which 

 again supplies the straw-laid press. We hear the creaking turn of the 

 lever screw, the yielding of the timbers, and a fresh burst of the trickling 

 beverage flowing from the surrounding trough into the great wooden tub 

 below. Here, too, is the swarm of eager urchins, with heads together, like 

 a troop of flies around a grain of sugar. Ah ! what unalloyed bliss is re- 

 flected from their countenances as they absorb the amber nectar through 

 the intermediate straw — that golden link that I have missed for many a 

 year ! 



Outside upon the logs the refuse "pumice-cheese" has brought to- 

 gether all the yellow-jackets and late butterflies of the neighborhood — 

 butterflies so tipsy that you can pick them up between your fingers. I 

 never went so far with the yellow-jackets, for they have a hotter temper, 

 and don't like to be fooled with. Black hornets, too, are here, and they 

 find a feast spread at their very door ; for overhead, upon the beech, they 



