YANKEE FARMING.-NO. 2. 
63 
YANKEE FARMING.—No. 2. 
Good people all of every sort, 
Give ear unto my song ; 
And if you find it wondrous short, 
It cannot hold you long.— Goldsmith. 
The Want of a Poultry House .— It was a cold, 
frosty night, with a deep snow lying on the ground, 
in the latter part of the month of February, that 
having nothing particular on hand to attend to at 
home, I thought I would go down and pass the 
evening with Mr. Doolittle, I rapped at the door, 
when at the usual “ come in” of his deep, hoarse, 
voice, resounding through the hall of the old house, 
I ushered myself into the kitchen without further 
•ceremony, knowing full w r ell that there I should 
find the family ; for, being so near a neighbor, it 
would have been considered over precise in me to 
have sought them anywhere else. 
Uncle Sim’s family consists of his wife, a tall, 
lean woman with sharp features, familiarly known 
over the neighborhood as u Aunt Nabby,” — a rougish, 
hazle-eyed, rosy-cheeked, buxom daughter of four¬ 
teen, happily, unlike either parent: a tall, gawky 
son of seventeen, in features closely resembling the 
mother : and a stout, ruddy lad, some five years 
younger, a picture of the father. As to the char¬ 
acter of these personages, I shall let that develop 
itself, as I proceed in ray sketches. 
The kitcnen is such as is common in old-fash¬ 
ioned country houses. It is a long, low room, with 
large, dark brown-colored beams and joists over 
head, and plank wainscoting, and partitions of the 
same color all round. A huge fire place, at least 
eight feet in length, made of heavy granite blocks, 
faces one side of the room, a buttery is partitioned 
off at one end, and the sleeping chamber of the mas¬ 
ter and mistress at the other. Aunt Nabby was 
sitting bolt upright before the fire, in a straight- 
backed, old-fashioned rocker, with arms attached 
to it, knitting her husband a pair of blue yarn stock¬ 
ings. Alary, the daughter, or “ little Molly,” as we 
generally call her, graced a strong, old oaken stool 
at her mother’s feet, and was engaged in hemming 
herself a petticoat. Uncle Sim, in his shirt sleeves, 
the perspiration rolling freely down his burning fore¬ 
head, and with a huge, iron-rimmed pair of spec¬ 
tacles mounted on his blunt nose, was astride a 
wooden shaving horse, with drawing knife in hand, 
finishing off a hickory axe helve. The oldest 
■son sat at a table by the side of a dim tallow candle, 
doing sums on the slate, in decimal fractions, from 
Daboll’s Arithmetic; while the youngest, at the fur¬ 
ther end of the fire place, perched on the blue dye 
tub, was alternately studying a lesson in Webster’s 
Spelling Book, by the light of the fire, and gazing 
up the huge chimney at the bright stars sparkling in 
the clear wintery sky. In Aunt Nabby's lap 
lay a sleek tabby cat, purring harmoniously to the 
bubbling of a pot, in which w T as stewing dried 
pumpkin for sauce; while on the opposite side of 
her and Molly, lay couched fast asleep, a middle- 
sized, brindle-colored, bob-tailed dog, now almost 
blind, and completely superannuated by farm ser¬ 
vice, woodchuck killing, and coon hunting. A 
rural group, indeed, but such as it always gives 
me pleasure to see; for they are good people in 
the main, and useful to themselves and others. 
u Take a cheer,” said Uncle Sim, as the tall lad 
dropped his slate and pencil and handed out a seat 
for me before the fire ; “ and Molly, go draw a mug 
o’ cider, that’s a nice gal, now. Pretty cold out, 
ain’t it, Sargeant % [ hear the nails snappin’ by the 
frost outside the house every now and then, as loud 
as the firin’ in your company on trainin’ day.” 
Scarcely had he finished these observations, w r hen 
the sprightly Molly appeared before her father, 
holding out a large, bright, pewter mug, brim full of 
sparkling cider, w r hich she had just drawn from a 
barrel in the cellar. Uncle Sim wiped the perspi¬ 
ration from his brow with the shirt sleeve of his 
right arm, next his mouth with the back of his 
hand, took a good swig, and then handed the mug 
to me, but declining the preferred beverage, he 
replied, “ Oh, I forgot—joined the temperance and 
won’t drink nothin’ but water. Wal, ‘ every one to 
his notion, 'as the old woman said when she kissed 
her cow.’ But what’s the use o’ apples growin’ if 
a body can’t make ’em into cider 1 What’s the use 
o’ cider if ye can’t drink it % Aye, and what’s the 
use o’ anything if it can’t be used 1 I’d like to know, 
now, Sargeant 1” With this argument, Uncle Sim 
put the mug again to his mouth, cocked his eye up 
to the ceiling, and draining it to the last drop, 
slapped it down on the old oaken table, bottom side 
up, with a “ wal” and a loud smack of his lips, 
“ I didn’t think I was so thirsty, raely : ’-tis mazin’ 
dry work makin’ axe helves o’ nights. 
“ Do tell, Sargeant, now,” interrupted the impa¬ 
tient Mrs. Doolittle, “have you hearn anything 
about that ’ere patent hen’s neest, way down to In- 
ventionville, that keeps the hens layin’ all the 
time 1 We haven’t had a egg all winter, and I am 
dreadful fearful we shan’t get one for settin’ in the 
spring. Mr. Doolittle says he don’t believe a word 
on’t; but I do, every bit; for I see it in the alma¬ 
nac ; and the way was, as soon as the hen laid the 
egg, it rolled down through a little trap door into 
a basket, when the hen looking under her, could’nt 
find nothin’ there, so concludin’ she’d made a 
mistake and hadn’t laid, she begun agin, and 
so kept on layin’ as many as three or four a day, 
sometimes. He only asks five dollars for his pa¬ 
tent ; and sartin true, if I had one now, I could sell 
eggs enough before settin’ time, to buy Molly a 
bran new silk frock, though she hardly desarves 
one ; for she took it into her head last year—’cause 
she read it in somebody’s book, or farmin’ paper— 
I wish the feller half choked with a rotten egg who 
wrote it—that all the round eggs hatched pullets, 
and all the long ones roosters; so she sot nothin’ 
but round ones, thinkin’ she’d raise plenty o’ pul¬ 
lets to winter over this year ; but we never had so 
many rooster chickens afore in all my born days. 
I told Molly, says I, Molly, I don’t believe nothin’ 
about the pullet and rooster eggs ; for I know’d well 
enough some hens laid all round eggs, and some 
all long ones; some laid ’em wdiite, some brown, 
and some kinter speckled ; for I’ve watched ’em 
many and many a time, when I was a little gal, 
and could ollous tell every hen’s egg on my father’s 
farm. Yes, I remember well, old speckle laid brown 
eggs, the black hen had ’em as white as chalk, and 
young blue, massy on me! her eggs was as long 
as my middle finger. Nobody never thought then 
that shape made he’s or she’s ; it was one o’ them 
blunderbuss book farmers that diskivered that. 
Wal, as I was a sayin’, we had most all rooster 
