protected! and see how they sail away, two or three together, loath to part, until some rude gust shall separate them forever. And here's the great spiny thistle, too, that armed highwayman with pompon in his cap. But he has had his day, and now we see him old and seedy; his spears are broken, and his silvery gray hairs are floating everywhere and glistening in the sun. Now we leave the alders, and another road-side mosaic of rich color opens up before us, where the old half wall fence, with its overtopping rails, is luminous with a crimson glow of ampelopsis. It covers all the stones for yards and yards. It swings from every jutting rail. It clambers up the tree trunks, enveloping them in fire, and hangs its arabesques from all the branches. Above the wall, like an encampment of thatched wigwams, the corn-shocks lift their heads: a prospecting colony encamped among a field rich with outcroppings of gold, a wealth of great round nuggets all in sight. And were we to tear away that thatch, we might see where they have stowed away their accumulated grains of riches. Here we are, on the road to that carding mill. We had almost forgotten it, and now, as we look ahead, we see the old lumber shed that marks the upper ledge of Devil's Hollow. From this old shed a trout brook plunges through a series of rocky terraces, now winding among prostrate moss-grown trunks, now gurgling through the bare roots of great white birches, or spreading in a swift, glassy sheet as it pours across some broad shelving rock, and plunges from its edge in a filmy water-fall. It roars pent up in narrow cañons, and out again it swirls in a smooth basin worn in the solid rock. At almost every rod or two along its precipitous course there is a mill somewhere hid among the trees. Queer, quaint little mills, some built up on high stone walls, others fed with trickling flumes which span from rock to rock, supporting on every 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 carding mills, seven altogether in this one descent of about three hundred feet. The water enters the ravine as pure as crystal, but in its wild booming through raceways, dams, and water-wheels, it gradually assumes a rich sienna hue from the débris of sawdust everywhere along its course. The interior of the ravine is musical 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 bubbles 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, 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 turned to ruddy wine? 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. 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." er, with a squeaky voice; "the ar's gittin' ruther dampish, 'n' my woman hez got the rheumatiz ag'in. She kin alluz tell when we're goin' to git a spell o' weather; it's "Likenuff, likenuff," responds anoth- | pile of "vinegar nubbins"-a tanned and soft variety of apple-in all stages of variegation. The "hopper" receives the shovelfuls of fruit for the crushing "smasher," 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 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 UNDER THE CHESTNUT-TREE. |