no happy carder singing at his work: nothing-but a couple of boys, kneeling in a corner, sucking cider through a straw.

Yes, the old mill has fallen from grace: but what else might one expect from a mill in "Devil's Hollow," where all its neighbors are engaged in making hogshead staves, and the very water has turn

The carding-machine is gone, and has given place to a rustic cider-press. A temporary undershot wheel has been rigged beneath the floor, and a rude trough, patched up with sods, conducts the water from the stream.

mills, some built up on high stone walls,
others fed with trickling flumes which
span from rock to rock, supporting on ev-
ery beam a rounded cushion of velvety
green moss, and hanging a fringe of ferns
from almost every crevice. And one
there is in ruins, fallen from its lofty perch,
and piled in chaos in the stream. There
are saw-mills, and shook mills, and card-ed to ruddy wine?
ing mills, seven altogether in this one de-
scent of about three hundred feet. The
water enters the ravine as pure as crystal,
but in its wild booming through race-
ways, dams, and water-wheels, it gradual-
ly assumes a rich sienna hue from the
débris of sawdust everywhere along its
course. The interior of the ravine is mu-
sical with the trebles of the falling water
and the accompaniment of the rumbling
mills. Tiny rainbows gleam beneath the
water-falls, and swarms of glistening bub-
bles and little islands of saffron-colored
foam float away upon the dark brown
eddies.

At last we reach the carding mill, which is the lowest of them all-in every sense, it seems, for it is as I had feared: the flume is but a pile of brown and mouldy timbers in the bed of the stream, and the old box-wheel has rotted and fallen from its spokes, almost obscured beneath a rank growth of weeds. No sound of buzzing teasels, no rumbling of the water-wheel,

It is the same old cider-press we all remember, and with the same accessories. Here are casks of all sizes waiting to be filled, and the piles of party-colored apples spilled upon the floor from the farmers' wagons that every now and then back up to the open door. There is the same rustic harangue on leading agricultural topics, among which we hear a variety of opinions about the belated "line storm."

"Seems to gi'n the slip this year," remarks one old long-limbed settler, with a slope-roofed straw hat, "'n' I don't know zactly what to make on't; but I ain't so sartin nuther"-he now takes a wise observation of a small patch of blue sky through the trees overhead. "I cal'late we'll git a leetle tetch on't yit."

"Likenuff, likenuff," responds anoth- | pile of "vinegar nubbins"-a tanned and er, with a squeaky voice; "the ar's gittin' soft variety of apple-in all stages of varieruther dampish, 'n' my woman hez got the gation. The "hopper" receives the shovrheumatiz ag'in. She kin alluz tell when elfuls of fruit for the crushing "smashwe're goin' to git a spell o' weather; it's er," which again supplies the straw-laid press. We hear the creaking turn of the lever screw, the yielding of the timbers, and a fresh burst of the trickling bev

erage flowing from the surrounding trough into the great wooden tub below. Here, too, is the

sure to fetch her all along her spine. But I lay most store on them ar pesky tree-tuds. I heern um singin' like all possessed ez I wuz comin' through the woods yender; 'n' it's a sartin sign o' rain when them ar critters gits a-goin', you kin depend on't."

swarm of eager urchins, with

heads together, like a troop of flies around a grain of sugar. Ah! what unalloyed bliss is reflected from their countenances as they absorb the amber nectar through the intermediate straw-that golden link that I have missed for many a year!

Here is the low thicket of weeds and hazel bushes where we always flushed that flock of quail, or started up some lively white-tailed hare that jumped away among the quivering brakes and golden-rod. Here are soft beds of rich green moss In a corner by themselves we see the studded with scarlet berries of wintergreen

Presently we hear all about the pumpkin and the corn crop, the potato yield, and the regular list of other subjects so dear to the rural heart.

and partridge vine. Now we come upon | vested a neighbor's chestnuts with a pecula creeping mat of princess-pine, and here among the leaves we had almost stepped upon a spreading chestnut burr. That same burr I have so often seen before; that same fuzzy open palm holding out its tempting bait to lure the eagerness of youth-an eagerness which always in

iar charm too tempting to resist. "Take one," it seems to say, as it did years ago; and its hedge of thorny prickles truly typifies the dangers which surrounded such an undertaking, for these trees belong to Deacon Turner, and he prizes them as though their yellow autumn

leaves were so much gold. He guards them with an eagle's eye, and he gathers all their harvest. No single nut is ever known to sprout in Turner's woods if he knows it.

This pointed reminder among the leaves fairly pricks my conscience as I recall the many October escapades in which nutting formed the chief attraction. I remember one occasion in particular, for it is indelibly impressed on my memory, and it was on this very spot.

A party of adventurous lads, myself among the number, were out for a glorious holiday. Each had his canvas bag across his shoulder, and we stole along the stone wall yonder, and entered the woods beneath that group of chestnuts. Two of us acted as outposts on picket guard, and another, young Teddy Shoopegg by name, the best climber in the village, did the shaking. There were five busy pairs of hands beneath these trees, I can tell you, for each one of us fully realized the necessity of making the most of his time, not knowing how soon the warning cry from our outposts might put us all to headlong flight, for the alarm, "Turner's coming!" was enough to lift the hair of any boy in town.

But luck seemed to favor us on that day. We "cleaned out" six big chestnut-trees, and then turned our attention to the hickories. There was a splendid tall shagbark close by, with branches fairly loaded with the white nuts in their open shucks. They were all ready to drop, and when the shaking once commenced,

the nuts came down like a shower of hail, bounding from the rocks, rattling among the dry leaves, and keeping up a clatter all around. We scrambled on all fours, and gathered them by quarts and quarts. There was no need of poking

over the leaves for them, the ground was covered with their bleached shells, all in plain sight. While busily engaged, we noticed an ominous lull among the branches overhead.

"'Sst! 'sst!" whispered Shoopegg up above; "I see old Turner on his white horse daown the road yender."

"Coming this way?" also in a whisper, from below.

"I dunno yit, but I jest guess you'd better be gittin' reddy to leg it, fer he's hitchin' his old nag 't the side o' the road. Yis, sir, I bleeve he's a-cummin'. Shoopegg, you'd better be gittin' aout o' this," and he commenced to drop hap-hazard from his lofty perch. In a moment, however, he seemed to change his mind, and paused, once more upon the watch. "Say, fellers," he again broke in, as we were preparing for a retreat, "he's gone off to'rd the cedars; he ain't cummin' this way at all." So he again ascended into the tree-top, and finished his shaking in peace, and we our picking also. There was still another tree, with elegant large nuts, that we had all concluded to "finish up on." It would not do to leave it. They were the largest and thinnest-shelled nuts in town, and there were over a bushel in sight on the branch tips. Shoopegg was up among them in two minutes, and they were showered down in torrents as before. And what splendid, perfect nuts they were! We bagged them with eager hands, picked the ground all clean, and with jolly chuckles at our luck were just about thinking of starting for home with our well-rounded sacks, when a change came o'er the spirit of our dreams. There was a suspicious noise in the shrubbery near by, and in a moment more we heard our doom.

"Jest yeu look eeah, yeu boys," exclaimed a high-pitched voice from the neighboring shrubbery, accompanied by the form of Deacon Turner, approaching at a brisk pace, hardly thirty feet away. "Don't yeu think yeu've got jest abaout enuff o' them nuts?"

Of course a wild panic ensued, in which we made for the bags and dear life, but Turner was prepared and ready for the emergency, and raising a huge old shotgun, he levelled it, and yelled, "Don't any on ye stir ner move, or by Christopher I'll blow the heads clean off'n the hull pile on ye. I'd shoot ye quicker'n lightnin'."

And we believed him, for his aim was true, and his whole expression was not that of a man who was trifling. I never shall forget the uncomfortable sensation that I experi

A POINTED REMINDER.