Worcester daily spy. [volume] (Worcester [Mass.]) 1850-1888, 1854-11-23
[Price Two cents.
OBJ 4aiIp Spp.
THURSDAY, NOVEMBER %, 1854.


A Barn-Yard Scene.
We take the following life-like picture from
one of Rev. Henry Ward Beecher's letters to
the N. Y. Independent, written from his farm
in Lenox, Mass. 4rr
When we were here in August, the odorous
barns were full of new-mown hay, and the
hay was full of buried crickets and locusts,
that chirped away as merrily from the smoth-
cred NOW, as fit were no prison. The barns
now are still. The field crickets are dead, the
locust is gone, and the hay has lost its clover
smell. In August, we loved to throw WIDE
open the doors, upon the threshing floor, and.
let the wind through. But now,, only the
sunny door looking south stands open. No
1.-the swallow twitters in and out, or in his
swift fight, marks dark circles il the sky
gone as soon as made. 1851
There are two barns. The floor of the one
is covered with shocks of corn, whose golden
ears, split through the husk, are showing their
FURNISHED rows of grain. The other floor is
heaped with unwinnowed buckwheat. Oh
what cakes shall yet rise out of that dusky
pile But now the buckwheat (that is beech
wheat its kernels being shaped like beech
nuts) lies in chaff that swells the bulk, but
diminishes the value. If we could sell grain
in the chaf as We can books, farming would
be very profitable.
love to sit just within the sunny edge Of
the south door, whose prospect is large and
beautiful. with an unread book for company.
For book, like a milestone to a scythe, is
meant, not to feed, but to sharpen the appe-
tite. A wagon rolls past, rafting over the
stones. From under the unthreshed straw,
mice squak and quarrel; lonesome spiders are
repairing their webs in the window that catch
nothing but dust and chat. Yet these bum
hail tfr nil IN OIL I
wonder what spider is thinking about, for
hours together, downin the dark throat of his
web, where he lies as still as if he were dead.
Our old Shanghai steps up with pert how
do-ye-d o-sir, cooking his eye one-sidedly at
you, and uttering certain nondescript cultural
sounds. lie walks off grooming to himself and
his danes. 1t is all still again. There are no
flies here now, to buzz in the air. There is
not wind enough to culver hanging straw,
or to pipe a leaf dance along the fence. You
fall into some sweet fancy thatinhabits silence,
when all at once, with tremendous vocifera-
ton, out flies hen over your head, with an
outrageous noise, Gathering away as if you had
been throwing stones at her, or abusing her
beyond endurance. The old Shanghai takes
up the case, and the whole mob of hens join
the cutlery.
Nothing seems so aimless and simple as a
hen. She usually goes about in vague and
struggling manner, articulating to herself eace-
phonous remarks upon various topics. The
greatest event in hens life is compound, be-
ing made up of an egg and cackle. Then
only, she shows enthusiasm, when she de-
sends from the nest of duty, and proclaims
her achievement, If you chase her, she runs
cackhng; if you pelt her with stones, she
streams through the air cackling all abroad till
the impulse has run out, when she subsidies
quietly into silly, gadding hen. Now aud
then, an eccentric hen may be found stepping
quite beyond the limits ofhen- propriety. One
such has persisted in laying her daily egg in
the house. She would steal noiselessly in at
the open door, walk up stairs, and leave a
plump egg upon the children's bed The next
day she would honor the sofa. On one occa-
sion she selected my writing. table, and scratch
ing my papers about, left her card, that
might not blame the children or servants for
scattering my manuscripts. Her determine
ton was amusing. One Sabbath morn
ing, we drove her out of the second-story
window. then again from the front hall.
In a few moments she was heard behind
the house, and on looking out of the win
dow, she was just disappearing into the, bed
room window on the ground-hoor. Word
was given, but before any one could reach the
place, she had bolted out of the window with
victorious cackle, and her white, warm egg
lay upon the lounge. I proposed to open the
pantry window, set the egg dish within her
reach, and let her put them up herself, but
those in authority would not permit such
deviation from propriety. Such breed of
hens could never be popular with the boys.
1t would spoil tnat glorious sport of hunting
hens nests. ~ hua ~
How utterly different are birds from their
gross congeners. Already the snow-sparrows
have come down from the north, and are hop
ping in our hedges, sure precursors Of winter.
Robins are gathering in focks in the orchards,
and preparing for their southern fight. May
his gun forever miss fire that would thin the
ranks of singing birds at 1 ai A