pans of fresh, new milk, crusted
with cream that would make a New-Yorker stare; and great round cheeses,
and little pats of golden butter, stamped with a rose, and jars of
pickled cucumbers, and pots of preserved plums, and peaches, and
barberries, tied down with tissue brandy papers; and loaves of "riz
cake," and plates of doughnuts, and pans of apple dowdy, beside an
earthen jar of rich English plum cake.

Then, there's the sitting room, where the bright sun shone in, on a
picture of General Washington, and a sampler of Grandma Scott's,
representing a woman crying over a tombstone shaded by a pea-green
willow; and black profile likenesses of all the Scott family cut by a
traveling artist, hanging in spots over the fire place; and an
old-fashioned clock, standing guard in the corner, with the picture of
the rising sun on it, and Grandpa's spectacles, and loose copies of the
"Scott-town Daily Bulletin" tucked in round the wood work at the sides;
and great, comfortable-looking arm-chairs, with patch cushions; and a
sideboard with a silver pitcher on it, presented to Grandpa Scott by
the Agricultural Society and a china mug with a gold rim round it, and
"Betsey" on the side, given by the minister to Grandma Scott when she
was a little girl, for learning her catechism right; and a great big
china closet, with a glass door, to show off the rows of china cups and
saucers and flowered plates, all ready if the minister or the President
should come to tea.

Then, out of doors, wasn't there a great barn for the children to play
in?--with piles of hay, and ladders reaching up to the roof; and old
Dobbin nibbling and munching oats in his stall; and Brindle, and her
little two-day old, red and white calf cuddled down in a straw bed in
the corner; and the little field mice darting over the barn floor; and
the swallows twittering overhead among the beams and rafters; and the
old grindstone that the children liked to turn; and the scythe and
pitchfork that Grandpa charged them "not even to look at;" and the
yellow ears of corn peeping out of their dry husks, in a pile in the
corner, and the old rooster strutting round it, (followed by his hen
wives,) now and then stopping short, with one foot lifted up, and
cocking his eye at them from under his red cap, as much as to say,
"Stir if you dare, till I give the signal!" Oh, I can tell you, that
barn was a grand old place to play in, to frolic in, or to read and
think in.

Then, there