AT THE SMITHY. 
(Pickens County, South Carolina, 1874.) 
Shoe your horse? Well, yes, sir, I reckon I can. 
Here, Johnny, come brush off the flies like a man. 
Fine scenery? Yes; but, if you were to try 
To plough up that hill-side, you’d understand why 
I’m tired of these mountains; the flelds, now, are rare 
And smooth about Charleston—perhaps you’ve been 
there? 
I am old for my trade? I am just sixty-four; 
But some years are long as a lifetime, nay, more; 
Ten lifetimes have passed since—but never mind 
that. 
Here, Joe, bring a chair—take the gentleman’s hat. 
And, Susie, my blossom, run quickly and bring 
A nice cup of water from grandpa's cold spring. 
Yes, grandchildren; orphans, sir; three little ones; 
They are all we have left now, for all our four sons 
Are dead; James and Harry, and brave little Gray, 
Who, worn out with marching, dropped dead by the 
way, 
With his drum at his back; a mere boy, sir, the pride 
Of his mother, who never has smiled since he died. 
By the cold Rappahannock our eldest son fell— 
They were starving, poor fellows—half naked as well; 
But they charged in their rags, and were mown down 
like grass 
Left dying and dead in the frozen morass. 
Have you ever been hungry, sir, day after day? 
You don’t know how it takes a man’s spirit away. 
But they charged in their rags! They rushed with 
a cheer 
On the enemy’s ranks as they slowly drew near— 
The blue-coated Yankees, well clothed and well fed, 
Who, wondering, looked at our poor famished dead, 
When, the struggle so hopeless, so weak-handed, o’er, 
■ Gaunt, shoeless, and ragged, they lay on the shore. 
Into the Wilderness, Harry and James— 
They never came out. We saw their two names 
Reported as “missing;” and Harry’s young wife 
Just pined away—pined away—out of this life, 
Then we rode to join Lee, old horse Dobbin and I— 
As his four boys had died, so the father could die! 
The thin ranks were swelled by old men with giay 
hair, 
And boys under age—those last days of despair 
Had drained from the South every man, and the farms 
And the fields were unploughed save by women’s 
weak arms. 
How we marched on our rag-covered, frozen old feet! 
How the poor lads paraded, with nothing to eat! 
I don’t know what makes me run on in this way— 
There, the shoe is quite fast, sir—I bid you good-day. 
A quarter? Yes; thank you. That road to your right— 
Five Forks, did you say? Was I in that fight? 
I was; and this bony hand fired the last gun 
Of our last haggered rally ere victory was won 
By Sheridan’s men, full of beef and hard-tack, 
With miles of fat wagon-trains safe at their back; 
While the ragged Confederate tightened his belt 
To hold in the sickening hunger he felt. 
Then came Appomattox, the contest was done, 
The long struggle over, you Yankees had won! 
And is not peace better? you ask. Can I tell? 
My thoughts are away where my four strong boys 
fell. 
To argue the question I never was good— 
Carolina went out, and we all understood 
We must go with our State—and I can’t make it 
plain 
To my mind that my four boys have died all in vain. 
Perhaps jmu are right—you talk like a book— 
I’m old and tired out and so I can’t look 
Away back to “principles;” all I can do 
Is plough up that hill-side and set a horse-shoe, 
To feed these poor children; but sometimes I dream 
Of the old days in Charleston—how far off they seem! 
Oh! proud was old Charleston, down there by the 
sea— 
And bright were those days; but they’re over for me 
Forever. Yes—Time; but he never can give 
My boys, who had only their one life to live. 
I don’t understand, and its no use to try; 
But the Lord understands, and He’ll tell me why. 
Some day when, at last, my four boys will come 
To call their old father, and carry him home.— 
There’s a horse wants a shoe—yes, they’re turning 
this way; 
It's Judge Brown, of this district. (Eh, what’s that 
you say? 
He’s colored? Of course; we’re used to that here.) 
Let me hold your horse, judge. Run, Joe, bring a 
chair.— C. F. Woolson , in Appletons' Journal. 
Harvesting: Apples. 
The apple harvest begins soon, and for 
this one principal hint is needed. “Care,” 
should be the maxim throughout. In pick¬ 
ing and handling the fruit it should be 
treated as if it were as liable to damage by 
rough usage as eggs would be. In putting 
up for market, remember that neat pack¬ 
ages attract the eye of the buyer, while 
dirty barrels will detract more from the 
selling price of the fruit than would be the 
cost of a clean barrel. Use care also in 
selecting the fruit. Do not put bruised, 
wormy or gnarly specimens among the first 
quality. One barrel of imperfect ones 
among ten barrels of first quality are enough 
to reduce the whole lot to the grade of 
seconds in the market-place, and such had 
better be thrown away. Some even make 
three qualities—extras, firsts and seconds— 
and find it pays to do so. The practice of 
putting a layer of the largest and finest at 
each end of the barrel is much condemned, 
