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Updated: May 17, 2025
If to peddlin' 'twould be best; if to s'archin' fer one old blind man in this big Ne' York what's full of 'em as haymows o' needles, so be it, an' good luck to ye. But what am I to be preachin' work an' practicin' play? Off with ye an' hender me no more!"
Haymows were buried to the very top in sand; others went sailing bodily down the mighty stream some of them followed or surrounded, like big ducks, by a great brood of ricks for their ducklings. Huge trees went past as if shot down an Alpine slide, cottages, and bridges of stone, giving way before them. Wooden mills, thatched roofs, great mill-wheels, went dipping and swaying and hobbling down.
It's too poky. Can we be excused, grandma? I must have a ride on Mopsie, or I'll burst!" All the younger fry were playing in the barn. It was much smaller than the great barns at Kayuna, for there was no farm attached to Mrs. Maxwell's place, but the new-mown hay was just as sweet and soft to jump on as the haymows were at dear old Kayuna.
Be that as it may, we welcome them as we would the face of an old friend, for they somehow remind us of the scent of haymows, the breath of cattle, the fresh greenery by the brookside, the moist earth broken by the coulter and turned up to the sun and winds of May.
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