Rensselaer Republican, Volume 12, Number 24, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 27 February 1880 — The Old Barn. [ARTICLE]

The Old Barn.

Was ever perfume sweeter than that all-pervadinr fragrance of the sweetscented hay? and was ever an interior so truly picturssque, ao full of quiet harmonvr The lofty haymows piled nearly to tbe roof, the jagged ax-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 nestegg in little nooks and corners. How vividly, how lovingly, I recall each one! 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 soLJ 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 snow—then we assembled in the old barn to play, sought out every hidden corner in our game of hide-ana-eeek, 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 np 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 all alike. 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, 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 fan” The partycolored 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 tail; (that strange contagion), waddle across the slushy snow, ana sail out upon the barn-yara pond. Here is the pile of husks from whose bleached and rustling sheaths you picked the little raveling! of brown for your corn-silk cigarettes. Did ever “ pure Havana” taste as sweet? Neftr by 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 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 we love so welL Could it but speak, how sweet a story ft 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—l’ll say no more: these are memories too sacred for the common ear.— W. H. Gibton, in Harper's Magazine for March.