86 



AROUND AN OLD HOMESTEAD. 



In grandfather's time the hogs were allowed to 

 range at will in the woods, where they would roam and 

 root and grunt around after acorns and nuts ; and hogs 

 that have the privilege of a mast diet invariably de- 

 velop a superior quality of ham and bacon. I used 

 to like to listen to the men calling them In at dusk — 

 "Poo-ee, Poo-ee, Poo-eel" And shortly there would 

 be heard a scuffling and snorting down in the edge of 

 the woods, and here they would come in a scrambling, 

 squealing rabble — shoats, sows, and the old boar all 

 together, soon to be gormandizing knee-deep in the 

 nectar of swill, or crunching with amazing rapidity 

 the grains of corn. They are genuine lovers of life. 



But let us look at the cows. We shall find them in 

 their yard, or perhaps already penned up in the cow 

 house itself. 'T is there, in Whittier's lines, that 



" sharply clashing horn on horn 

 Impatient down the stanchion rows 

 The cattle shake their walnut bows." 



But I am not afraid of them. I like to scratch their 

 heads and stroke their sleek necks, and sometimes I 

 grapple them by the horns and wrestle with them in a 

 sort of rough play. They seem to enjoy it. 



I like to call them in at evening — "So, boss! So, 

 boss! Sol So!" I pull out the pasture bars at one 

 end, from the holes in the posts in which they are in- 

 serted, and one by one let them drop; and they give 

 forth, as they fall, a sort of rude musical sound, vary- 

 ing with their thickness and the kind of wood the rails 

 are made of, from a dull thumping thud to the light 

 tank of the top one, which echoes in the recesses of 



