The Portland daily press. [volume] (Portland, Me.) 1862-1921, 1880-02-27
Clippings.
From the March Magazines.
THE OLD BARN

THE OLD BARN.
Was ever perfume sweeter than that all-per-
vading fragrance of the sweet-scented hay?
and was ever an interior so truly picturesque,
so full of quiet harmony?
The lofty haymows piled nearly to the roof,
the jagged axe-notched beams overhung with
cobwebs fecked with dust of hay-seed, with
perhaps downy feather here and there. The
rude, quaint hen boxes, with the lone nest-egg
in little hooks and corners. How vividly, how
lovingly, / recall each one!
In those snow-bound days, when the white
flakes shut in the earth down deep beneath,
and the drifts obstructed the highways, and
we heard the noisy teamsters, with snap of
whip and exciting shouts, urge their straining
oxen through the solid barricade; when all the
fences and stone walls were almost lost to sight
in the universal avalanche; and, best of all,
when the little district school house upon the
hill stood in an impossible sea of snow-then
we assembled in the old barn to play, sought
out every hidden corner in our game of hide
and-seek, or jumped and frolicked in the hay,
now stopping quietly to listen to the tiny
squeak of some rustling mouse near by, or it
may be creeping cautiously to the little hole
up near the caves in search of the big-eyed owl
we once caught mapping there. In a hundred
ways we passed the fleeting hours.
The general features of New England barns
are all alike. The barn that we remember is a
garner full of treasure sweet new-mown
hay Yon remember the great broad double
doors, which made their sweeping circuit in
the snow; the ruddy pumpkins piled up in
the corner near the bins, and the wistful
whinny of the old farmhouse as with pricked-
up ears and eager pull of chain he urged your
prompt attention to your chores; the cows, too,
in the manger stalls-how sweet their per-
fumed breath! Outside the corn-crib stands,
its golden stores cleaning through the open
laths, and the oxen, reaching with tapping,
unturned tongues. yearn for the tempting
feast, $50 near and yet so far" The party
colored hens group themselves in rich contrast
against the sunny boards of the weather-beaten
shed, and the ducks and geese, with rattling
CrOak and husky hiss and quick vibrating tails
(that strange contagion) waddle across the
slushy snow, and sail out upon the barn-yard
pond. Here is the pile of husks from whose
bleached and rustling sheaths you picked the
little ravellings of brown for your corn-silk
cigarettes Did ever "pure Havana" taste as
SWEET"
Near by we see the barracks stored with yell
low sheaves of wheat Soon we shall hear the
intermittent music of the beating fail on the
old barn floor, now chinking soft on the broken
sheaf, now loud and clear on the sounding
boards. Upon the roof above We see the COO
ing doves, with nodding heads and necks
cleaning with irridescent sheen. Turning, in
another corner we look upon a miscellaneous
group of ploughs and rakes and all the farm
utensils, and harness hanging on the wooden
pegs. There, too, is the little sleigh we love
so we'll. Could it but speak. how sweet story
it could tell of lovely drives through romantic
glens and moonlit woods, of tender squeezei
of the little hand beneath the covering robe
of whispered VOWS, and of the encircling arm
"a shelter from the cold and cruel wind
But no-I'll say no more these are memories
too sacred for the common ear.-Harper's.