, 1880-09-13
The Old Barn.

Was ever perfume sweeter than that
all-prevading fragrance of the sweet
scentedIhay :? And was ever an interior
so truly picturesque, so full of quiet
harmony?
: The lofty hsymows, 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
wildly, how lovingly, recall each
one.
In those snow bound days, when the
white fakes shut in the earth down
deep beneath, and the drifts obstructed
the highways, and we heard the noisy
teamsters, with snap of whip and ex-
citing 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 assem-
bled in the old barn to play, sought
out every hidden corner in our game
of hide and-seek, or jumped and frol-
licked 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 hundred ways we passed the fleet
ing hours.
The general features of New England
barns are all alike. The barn that we
remember is a garner full of treasure
sweet as new-mown hay. You remem-
the great broad double doors, which
made sweeping circuit in the snow; the
ruddy pumpkins, piled up in the corner
near the bins, and the wistful whinny of
the old farm horse, rs with pricked ur
ears and eager pull Of chain he urged
your prompt attention to your chores;
the cows, too, in the manger stalls
how sweet their perfumed breath! Out
side the corn-crib stands, its golden
stores cleaning through the open laths.
and the oxen, reaching with tapping
upturned tongues, yearn for the tempt
ing feast $50 near and yet so far" The
parti-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
ravelings of brown for your corn-silE
cigarettes. Did ever ''pure Havana"
taste as sweet.
Near by we see the barracks stored
with yellow sheaves of wheat. Soon
we shall hear the intermittent music of
the beating fail on the old barn floor,
now chiaking soft on the broken sheaf,
now loud and clear on the sounding
boards. Upon the roof above we see
the cooling doves, with nodding heads
and necks cleaning with iridescent
sheen. Turning, in another corner
we look upon a miscellaneous group of
plows and rakes and all the farm
utensils, and harness hanging on the
wooden pegs. There, too, is the little
sleigh VIC love so we'll. Could it but
speak, how sweet story it could tell of
lovely drives through romantic glens
and mooulit woods, of tender squeezes
of the little hand beneath the covering
robe, of whispered VOWS, and of the en-
circling 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 Moga-
zine.