The season brings a strange mingling of mirth and superstition and reverence. The smallest lad is familiar with its origin, and can tell the story of the three wise men who journeyed from afar over plain and mountain, until, led by the wondrous star in the East, they knelt beside the cradle of the infant King and worshiped Him. The wealthier class bring their gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh to place upon the altar, as did those wise men of old, and the humble rustic invokes a blessing upon his harvest fields. At dusk the farmer gathers around him his friends and servants, and together the strange little procession makes its way across the freshly turned sod to where the young wheat is beginning to spring up. Here, on the highest part of the ground, twelve small fires and one large one are kindled. Cider circulates freely while they drink to the health of the company and to the success of the future harvest, and a fantastic circle gathers around the larger fire to shout and halloo until the welkin rings, and the answer is borne back on the night wind from all the neighboring hillsides where similar fires glimmer dimly in the distance. This ceremony completed, the merry company return home again, where the housewife and her maids have been busily preparing for the evening’s festivities. The table fairly groans under its weight of meats and puddings, and cakes with caraways, and pitchers of sparkling cider and ale, while a huge frosted cake with a hole through the center occupies the position of honor. After supper a queer ceremony takes place. The company follow the bailiff, or keeper of oxen, to the wain-house, where the master fills a cup with strong ale, and, standing before the finest and largest of the oxen, pledges him a curious toast. He then produces the big cake with the hole in the center, and places it upon the ox’s horn. The ox is tickled to make him toss his head, and if he throw the cake behind him, it is considered the mistress’ perquisite, but if before, the bailiff claims the prize. More sport of the same kind follows amidst the laughter and shouts of the rustics assembled, and then the boisterous crowd returns home once more to find the doors fast-barred; nor can they gain admittance from the fair ones within until they have earned it with rollicking song and jest. Once inside a scene of mirth and jollity ensues, and all too quickly the moments speed, for care is forgotten in the joyous abandon of the present. In the southern villages a friendly, jovial crowd make their way to the orchard and encircle the best-bearing tree. In sparkling ale they drink a toast, chanting in joyous unison, “Here’s to thee, old apple tree, Whence thou mayst bud and whence thou mayst blow, And whence thou mayst bear apples enow. Hats full! Caps full! Bushel, bushel, sacks full, And our pockets full, too. Huzza!”