The Old Cider Mill. 
BY J. W. VAN KIRK, 
Memories ! Did you ever think, friends, 
how much we are dependent upon mem¬ 
ory? We draw back the curtain from the 
mind, and then before us, embowered in 
the midst of an orchard, stands the old 
cider mill—the massive beam, the large 
wooden sciew, which growled and screech¬ 
ed when turned, pointing through the roof 
of straw—the limbs of the giant apple 
trees throwing their shadows over it, or 
scraping its sides as they move back and 
forward in the breeze. Where are they ? I 
Cone! Ah, no: 
Though lost to earth, 
To man yet dear; 
For rnem’ry speaks, 
And says: ‘I’ui here.’ 
But, friends, they die with us, Our chil¬ 
dren can imaging yet never fully realize 
the import of these old time scenes to us. 
The long sweep resting on the upright post 
of the wooden crushers, the juice of the 
apples hissing and spurting into the wedge- 
tight box below, is past to all besides our¬ 
selves. 
The old cider mill was a recognized point 
to gather at, talk over “the times” and dis¬ 
cuss the deeds of other days. Through 
the space of its peaked roof the laugh and 
jest oft rang, as the rural patriarchs sipped 
their cider and watched the “youngsters” 
at their sports. Anon, these ancient lights 
would take part in these gambols with as 
much spirit as their progeny. 
The old cider mill was a rendezvous for 
fhe hunters during the fall, and a weird 
scene was formed when lit up at night by 
two or three torches, the men in pictur¬ 
esque attire, leaning on their long rifles. 
The cup is passed around, several pipes lit, 
perhaps, the light outed, a whistle for the 
dogs, and again the old mill rests in quiet. 
Or, perhaps, the mill is the scene of a spit 
roast. Along towards morning the calls of 
the sportsmen are heard in all directions, 
as they merge to this common point. Here, 
the fires cast fitful glances into the sur¬ 
rounding darkness, as the game hisses and 
roasts over the coals. 
The sequel to many of these gatherings 
was the dance, the music being the violin. 
Both old and young found pleasure in these 
time-honored nooks, and the old cider mill 
was the “near cut” for all who loved a 
chat, or to quaff* the beady nectar. 
“Within a dell of brightest green 
There stood a mill of rustic mien; 
Low thatched its roof, with straw decayed, 
Formed shadows ’neath where children played. 
What mem'l ies cluster round this spot, 
What scenes enacted by Yoeman's lot; 
What shadows cast around the wall, 
B 3 7 limbs which bent with fruit to fall. 
The past has locked within its arms, 
These fairest scenes and youthful charms: 
A story long, yet how soon told. 
Which only proves we're growing old.” 
’Tis .Just As Well. 
BY MBS. M. J. SMITH. 
Our little cottage on the hill 
Is not a mansion large or fine; 
No rare exotics in array, 
Peep forth on well-trimmed rows of pin©. 
From casements wide. 
No servants with the horst-s wait, 
The bidding of a stately dame; 
No coach is- standing at the gate, 
But since there is no one to blame, 
I am content. 
'Tis just as well I cannot soar 
Upon the silken wings of wealth; 
Since plainer dress and plainer food 
Is better far for mind and aealth, 
I shall not fret. 
No nursery maid from morn till night 
Carries my prattler on her arm; 
But mother, nurse, I daily watch 
And rote tlie budding of each charm 
With keen delight. 
My neighbor o’er the way. How can 
She love her babes as I do mine; 
She, wh<> unto fashion’s servants give 
The smiles that should be love’s sweet sigs 
Inside of home. 
’Tis dress and change, and change and dress. 
And all is glitter, pomp and show; 
And only careless servants hear 
The music that enchants me so 
From infant ips. 
Oh, poverty is not so hard 
To bear, that I would leave this cot; 
With her who dwells across the way, 
Consent to change my humble lot, 
And lose my care. 
And give the smiles I love to greet 
My household treasures with, for those 
That well from hollow hearts to lips 
That friendship s wreath and love’s pure rose 
Has never tinged. 
