THE FARM-HOUSE. 
159 
painted dark red. The ceiling of a farm-kitchen, especially if it 
be unplastered, as this was, is often a pretty rustic sight, a sort 
of store-place, all kinds of things hanging there on hooks or nails 
driven into the beams ; bundles of dried herbs, strings of red 
peppers and of dried apples banging in festoons, tools of various 
kinds, bags of different sorts and sizes, golden ears of seed-corn 
ripening, vials of physic and nostrums for man and beast, bits 
of cord and twine, skeins of yam and brown thread just spun, 
and lastly, a file of newspapers. The low red ceiling of Farmer 
B ’s kitchen was not quite so well garnished in July as we have 
seen it at other times, still, it was by no means bare, the festoons 
of apples, red peppers, and Indian corn being the only objects 
wanting. By the window hung an ink bottle and a well-fingered 
almanac, witty and wise, as usual. A year or two since, an edi- 
tion of the almanac was printed without the usual prognostics 
regarding the winds and sunshine, but it proved a complete fail- 
ure ; an almanac that told nothing about next year’s weather 
nobody cared to buy, and it was found expedient to restore these 
important predictions concerning the future snow, hail, and sun- 
shine of the county. Public opinion demanded it. 
A great spinning-wheel, with a basket of carded wool, stood 
in a corner, where it had been set aside when we arrived. There 
was a good deal of spinning done in the family ; all the yarn for 
stockings, for flannels, for the cloth worn by the men, for the col- 
ored woolen dresses of the women, and all the thread for their 
coarse toweling, &c., &c., was spun in the house by our hostess, 
or her grand-daughter, or some neighbor hired for the purpose. 
Formerly, there had been six step-daughters in the family, and 
then, not only all the spinning, but the weaving and dying also, 
