"'Apropos of cigars,' said Wilkins, lighting a second fragrant Havana with the stump of the first, 'let's go and see the farmer's establishment for making them. You see that field of tobacco over yonder? Old Standish raises his own weed, dries it in the big open sheds behind the barn, cures it--I don't quite know the whole process--and then has it made into sixes and short fives, Conchas and Cabanas, like a Cuban senor. I went over the establishment about a year ago, and it is worth seeing.' "We strolled first over to the tobacco field. The weed was then just at its full ripeness, and the long, flappy, delicately-furred green leaves bent gracefully over toward the ground, growing smaller and smaller the higher they were on the stout stalk. Few foreigners know that even as far north as New England, in the sunny valleys of Connecticut, sheltered as they are from the bleak east winds of the Atlantic and accustomed to a long and steady summer heat, tobacco is grown in large quantities, flourishes exuberantly, and is one of the chief sources of profit to the farmers. It needs a rich warm soil and careful tending; but it gives in its growth, a sentimental reward to the cultivator; for it comes up gracefully, rapidly, and beautifully, and is with some care, one of the most satisfactory crops to 'handle.' Having gazed at and tasted the thick leaves, we sauntered behind the barn, and there saw the long open shed, with beams running parallel from end to end, where the gathered tobacco leaves were hung to be thoroughly dried by the sun. [Illustration: Making cigars.] "Then Wilkins conducted us for some distance along the river bank; we jumped into a boat and rowed perhaps half a mile, landing by the side of a little shop-like building, where we heard the hum of voices and the commotion of many busy persons. We entered and found ourselves in a long, low room, having wide tables ranged along the walls; here, working rapidly, were rows of chatty country girls, who, as they worked, laughed and talked, and now and then hummed a verse of some familiar ballad. Neatly packed piles of the dried and cured leaf lay upon the table before them.