typical New England home, with slanting roof on one side, and embowered in maples, and it had the most picturesque barn in the neighborhood. O you good people far off in the country

everywhere, how I envy you these dear old barns! How much you ought to appreciate their homely rustic beauty! But you never will, until, like me, you are forced to live away from them, and to see them only through the golden haze of memory. Then you will learn how great a part they took in influencing your daily life and happiness.

Was ever perfume sweeter than that allpervading 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 flecked with dust of hay-seed, with perhaps a downy feather here and there. The rude, quaint hen boxes, with the lone nest-egg in little nooks and corners. vividly, how lovingly, I recall each one!

How

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 impassable sea of snowthen 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 eaves in search of the big-eyed owl we once caught napping there. In a hundred ways we passed the fleeting hours.

The general features of New England barns are The barn that we remember is a garner full of treasure sweet as new-mown hay. You 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 farm-horse as with pricked-up ears and eager pull of chain he urged your prompt attention to your chores; the cows, DEER IN THE WOODS. too, in the manger stalls-how sweet their perfumed breath! Outside the corn-crib stands, its golden stores gleaming through the open laths, and the oxen, reaching with lapping upturned tongues, yearn for the tempting feast, "so near and yet so far." The party-colored hens group themselves

in rich contrast against the sunny boards | iridescent sheen. Turning, in another corof 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 yellow sheaves of wheat. Soon we shall hear the intermittent music of the beating flail 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 cooing doves, with nodding heads and necks gleaming with

ner 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 well. Could it but speak, how sweet a story it could tell of lovely drives through romantic glens and moonlit woods, of tender squeezes 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. And there's the carry-all sleigh just by its side. How well you'll remember the merry loads it carried, its three wide seats and space between packed full of jolly company! How the hard-pressed snow squeaked be

neath the gliding runners, as with pran- | away, now farther still, the silvery bells cing span and jingling bells you sped down now scarcely heard, now fainter yet, till through the village street, with waving lost to sight and sound-but not to memhandkerchiefs and cheerful greetings right ory dear. For all through life we shall and left! How with "ducking" heads hear those happy jingling bells. and muffled screams you ran the gaunt- And when, with ruddy faces and stamplet past the school-house mob; saw them ing feet, we all rush in and crowd the scrambling for "a hitch," and with tan- old fire-place, how welcome the glowing talizing beckonings tipped your horses warmth, how keen the relish for the appewith the whip. Away you go through tizing spread upon the snow-white tablethe deep ravine, with a jing jing jing on cloth: the smoking dish of beans, with the frosty air, with voices high in merry crisp accompaniment of luscious pork; the laughs, 'mid loud hurras from the "boys-hot brown bread, so sweet; and, last of all,

terous" crowd now far behind. Now you speed through a mist of drifting snow, and the rosy cheeks tingle with the stinging icy flakes flying before the wind. Now comes another chorus of piercing screams, as the laden hemlock bough, tapped with mischievous whip, hurls down its fleecy avalanche on coat and robe, on jaunty little hat-yes, and on a small pink ear, and even down a pretty neck. Ah me! How is it possible that a shriek like that could come from a throat so fair? But so you go, with a jing jing jing, now past the mill-pond with its game, now up the hill, now through the woods, and far

the far-famed Indian pudding, fresh and steaming from the old brick oven.

How distinctly I recall those long and happy evenings around that radiant hearth, the games, the stories read from welcome magazines! Little we cared for the howling storm without. I hear the tick of the ancient clock in the corner shadowed by the old arm-chair; I see the glimmer on the whitewashed wall, the festooned strings of apples, sliced and hung above the fire to dry; I hear the patient, expectant stroke of hammer on the upturned log, and now the crackling burst of the roughshelled butternut, yielding up its long and