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Updated: June 12, 2025
"Sure, Harry." Mike turned around, pressed the locking switch, and heard it snap satisfactorily. "Okay, Mike," said Harry MacDougal's voice. "Come on back. I hope ye brought that bottle of scotch I asked for." Mike the Angel made his way back between the towering tiers of bins as he answered. "Sure did, Harry. When did I ever forget you?"
Not a soul remains about the building but the pressers, who stay to work at the rapidly lessening piles of fleeces in the bins, or a meditative teamster who sits musing on a wool-bale, absorbed in a calculation as to when his load will be made up. It is sundown, a rather later time of closing than usual, but rendered necessary by the possibility of the "grand finale."
Inside, behind me, is a little dome-roofed room, with calcimined walls, and squared stone meal bins, and a little, high fireplace, and stone pillows, and a homemade flour mill in the form of a flat metate stone with a round grinding stone on top.
I saw in one place a wrecked grocery store bins of coffee and tea, flour, spices and nuts, parts of the counter and safe mingled together. Near it was the pantry of the house, still partly intact, the plates and saucers regularly piled up, a waiter and a teapot, but not a sign of the woodwork, not a recognizable outline of a house.
But as the big frame house had expanded, so had they in tolerance and understanding and humanness until now, as you talked with them, you felt that here was room and to spare of sun-filled mental chambers, and shelves well stored with experience; and pantries and bins and closets for all your worries and confidences. But the attic! And the cellar!
Sack was the wine she had given to the sick nun, and it was that wine for which she looked. Of Burgundy, and claret, labelled "Clary Wine," she found several full bins, and more that were nearly empty.
On a morning when the white-goods counter was placing long-sleeve, high-necked nightgowns in its bargain bins, and knit underwear was supplanting the reduced muslins, Sara Juke drew her little pink-knitted jacket closer about her narrow shoulders and shivered shivered, but smiled. "Br-r-r! October never used to get under my skin like this."
It was well adapted to this purpose a fact that the Navaho have not been slow to appreciate. They have constructed small bins near the northern end, shown on the plan, and beyond this timbers have been wedged in so as to furnish a means of closing the cleft. In the cleft itself cross walls have been constructed, dividing it into several compartments.
Behind that, bin for potatoes, bin for carrots, bins for onions, apples, cabbages. Boxed shelves for preserves. And behind that Hosea C. Brewster's bête noir and plaything, tyrant and slave the furnace. "She's eating up coal this winter," Hosea Brewster would complain. Or: "Give her a little more draft, Fred." Fred, of the furnace and lawn mower, would shake a doleful head.
Some varieties perish, but the ranker, hardier kinds, like the northern spy, the greening, or the black apple, or the russet, or the pinnock, how they ripen and grow in grace, how the green becomes gold, and the bitter becomes sweet! As the supply in the bins and barrels gets low and spring approaches, the buried treasures in the garden are remembered.
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