Here is the pile of husks from whose bleached and rustling sheaths you picked the little ravellings of brown for your corn-silk cigarettes. Did ever “pure Havana” taste as sweet? [Illustration: THE MOONLIGHT RIDE.] Near by we 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 ploughs 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 it 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--I’ll say no more: these are memories too sacred for the common ear. And there’s the carry-all sleigh just by its side. How well you’ll remember the merry loads it carried, its three wide seats and space between packed full of jolly company! How the hard-pressed snow squeaked beneath the gliding runners, as with prancing span and jingling bells you sped down through the village street, with waving handkerchiefs and cheerful greetings right and left! How with “ducking” heads and muffled screams you ran the gauntlet past the school-house mob; saw them scrambling for “a hitch,” and with tantalizing beckonings tipped your horses with the whip. Away you go through the deep ravine, with a _jing, jing, jing_ on the frosty air, with voices high in merry laughs, amid loud hurrahs from the “boysterous” crowd now far behind. Now you speed through a mist of drifting snow, and the rosy cheeks tingle with the stinging icy flakes flying before the wind. Now comes another chorus of piercing screams, as the laden hemlock bough, tapped with mischievous whip, hurls down its fleecy avalanche on coat and robe, on jaunty little hat--yes, and on a small pink ear, and even down a pretty neck. Ah me! How is it possible that a shriek like that could come from a throat so fair? But so you go, with a _jing, jing, jing_, now past the mill-pond with its game, now up the hill, now through the woods and far away, now farther still, the silvery bells now scarcely heard, now fainter yet, till lost to sight and sound--but not to memory dear; for all through life we shall hear those happy jingling bells.