Dwellers in Arcady: The Story of an Abandoned FarmPaine, Albert Bigelow
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Dwellers in Arcady: The Story of an Abandoned Farm
Paine, Albert Bigelow
Abandoned farms -- Fiction; Farm life -- Fiction
But it was the item we discovered next that would take rank, I think, in
the matter of age. At the moment we did not understand it at all. It was
a section of a hickory-tree, about fifteen inches through and two feet
high, hollowed out at the top to a depth of nearly a foot. It was smooth
inside and looked as if something had been pounded in it, as in a
mortar. Presently we came upon a long, heavy hickory mallet, tapering at
one end, smoothly rounded at the other. It had a short handle, and we
thought it might have been a sort of pestle for the big mortar. But what
had those old people ground in it?
Westbury told us later; it had been their mill. By a slow, patient
process they had macerated their corn in it until it was fine enough for
bread.
The old hand-mill would undoubtedly take priority in the matter of
antiquity. Those early settlers could do without beds and chairs and
trenchers and cradles, even without spinning-wheels for a time, but they
must very quickly have bread--corn, and a place to grind it. I think the
old mill was older than the house. I think it came almost with the
earliest camp-fire.
The articles thus far mentioned were all in one end of the attic. We
were by no means through when we turned to the other end, the space
beyond the great chimney. Here under the eaves were piles of yellow
periodicals--religious papers, the New York _Tribune_, and those weekly
story-papers whose thrilling "romances of real life," like "Parted at
the Altar" and "The Lost Heir of Earlecliffe," were so popular with
those young ladies of slender waists and sloping shoulders who became
our grandmothers. I think none of the numbers dated farther back than
the early forties of the last century, and they were not very inviting,
for they were dusty and discolored and the mice had gnawed holes in the
career of Lord Reginald and the sorrows of Lady Maude.
But there were better things than these--jugs, jars, and bottles of
marvelous patterns, and a stone churn, and some pewter and luster
teapots, damaged somewhat, it is true, but good for mantel decoration
over our fireplaces, and there were some queer old bandboxes, ornamented
with flowers and landscapes, and finally two small wooden chests and a
fascinating box of odds and ends, metal things, for the most part.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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