Casks take up much more space upon a floor, when they are lying on their sides than when standing up on end. If a cask is full, both ends will be wet, when it is lying down; but, when a cask is standing up, the top end will be dry, and then will shrink and let the air in. (The ends are not as air-tight as the sides, as the cooper takes an end out when he scrapes a cask inside.) A little air soon spoils a cask of cider; and some of the big cider-growers have thought it worth their while to reconstruct their cellars and provide the extra space for casks to lie down on their sides instead of standing up. They might have saved all this by doing a very simple thing that I do here. When a cask is standing up, there is a shallow pan on top formed by the top end of the cask and the surrounding chine. Keep this pan filled with water, and that will keep the top end wet, so that it does not shrink and let the air in. My grandfather writes, 16 November 1841, “I have heard of many who have sent their friends in London casks of prime cider, and not worth anything when arrived: frequently from the tricks of the sailors, but I am told that the Custom House officers open every cask that is sent. Therefore the merchants attend at the opening and see it well secured, otherwise it would be spoiled.” My brother’s copybooks sometimes throw light on things that are ignored in our grandparent’s letters. In a book that he was using when he had just turned ten, the greater part is occupied by sentiments that they dictated--e.g. “the elegant poems of this amiable divine have ever been highly admired”--but in the vacant spaces there are compositions of his own. Thus, “when Therza came, a cunning jade, | a laughing mischief-making maid, | who laughed at Jane and scouted Grace, | and in the kitchen took her place, | Wreyland, which was always quiet, | now was turned into great riot.” This is followed by what appears to be a verbatim report of an altercation between Grace and Therza, ending “Well, I tell ’e what, Therza, you know nart tall about it.” He had an extraordinary memory--I see that it was noticed, 25 November 1849, when he had only just turned three. He could repeat whole conversations word for word, and would repeat them to the very people who were not meant to hear them. My grandfather writes to my father about it, 30 November 1857, “I tell them, tho’ he appears to take notice of everything, he cannot at all times be depended on in relating facts, for he often misconstrues things.” But people saw that he was telling them exactly what was said, even if he did not fully grasp the meaning.