I4 6 PASTORAL DAYS. 



sweet-scented hay ? and was ever an interior so truly picturesque, so full 

 of quiet harmony ? 



The lofty hay-mows piled nearly to the roof, the jagged axe-notched 

 beams overhung with cobwebs flecked with dust of hay-seed, with per- 

 haps a downy feather here and there. The rude, quaint hen boxes, with 

 the lone nest-egg in little nooks and corners. How vividly, how lovingly, 

 I recall each one ! 



In those snow-bound days, when the white flakes shut in the earth 

 down deep beneath, and the drifts obstructed the highways, and we heard 

 the noisy teamsters, with snap of whip and exciting shouts, urge their 

 straining oxen through the solid barricade ; when all the fences and stone 

 walls were almost lost to sight in the universal avalanche ; and, best of 

 all, when the little district school-house upon the hill stood in an impas- 

 sable sea of snow — then we assembled in the old barn to play, sought out 

 every hidden corner in our game of hide-and-seek, or jumped and frolicked 

 in the hay, now stopping quietly to listen to the tiny squeak of some 

 rustling mouse near by, or, it may be, creeping cautiously to the little hole 

 up near the eaves in search of the big-eyed owl we once caught napping 

 there. In a hundred ways we passed the fleeting hours. The general 

 features of New England barns are all alike ; and the barn of memory 

 is a garner full of treasure sweet as new-mown hay. You remember the 

 great broad double doors, which made their sweeping circuit in the snow ; 

 the ruddy pumpkins, piled up in the corner near the bins, and the wistful 

 whinny of the old farm-horse, as with pricked-up ears and eager pull of 

 chain he urged your prompt attention to your chores ; the cows, too, in 

 the manger stalls — how pleasant their low breathing — how sweet their 

 perfumed breath ! Outside the corn-crib stands, its golden stores gleam- 

 ing through the open laths, and the oxen, reaching with lapping upturned 

 tongues, yearn for the tempting feast, " so near and yet so far." The 

 party-colored hens group themselves in rich contrast against the sunny 

 boards of the weather-beaten shed, and the ducks and geese, with rattling 

 croak and husky hiss, and quick vibrating tails (that strange contagion), 

 waddle across the slushy snow, and sail out upon the barn-yard pond. 



Here is the pile of husks from whose bleached and rustling sheaths 

 you picked the little ravellings of brown for your corn-silk cigarettes. 

 Did ever "pure Havana" taste as sweet? 



Near by we see the barracks stored with yellow sheaves of wheat. 

 Soon we shall hear the intermittent music of the beating flail on the old 



