or other foreign matter and every flock of stained and discolored cotton being picked out.  This room is always in the second story, and at one end of it a circular hole is cut in the floor; through this hole hangs the bag of strong, close gunny-cloth, very different from the coarse covering which suffices for the lower grades of “short-staple,” supported by a stout iron hoop larger by some inches than the hole in the floor, and to which the end of the bag is securely sewed.  The cotton is thrown into this bag and packed with an iron rammer by a man who stands in it, his weight assisting in the packing, each bag being made to contain upward of four hundred pounds.

Everything seeming to go on as it ought and all the necessary orders and directions being given, we walk out to take a look at the poultry.  There are fowls in abundance and superabundance, but our kind host is most proud of his flock of three hundred white turkeys; and a beautiful sight they are, scattered over the grassy lawn.  Ranging, as these fine birds will, over a mile or two of woods abounding in their wild brethren, convenient mistakes were often made by the pineland gunners, whose rifles were always ready to pick off a stray gobbler without waiting to know whether he was wild or tame, and so the old gentleman introduced the white stock to prevent the possibility of such errors.  For a similar reason no ducks were raised except those which wear top-knots.  It is no unusual thing for wild gobblers and mallards to come up with the tame stock to the poultry-yard, and the bronze feathers and shy habits of many of the young turkeys show evidence of their free parentage.

It is just impossible for a city man to remain indoors in the country with the broad fields, the shady woods, the bright blue sky and the merry pipe of birds calling him out to active exercise and unaccustomed sport.  He is sure to think himself a sportsman, even if uncertain whether the shot or powder should first enter the gun; and if an old hand at the trigger, his uneasiness while in the house becomes almost painful.  Every article of hunting-gear is overhauled again and again; boots are greased, shot-pouches filled, powder-charges remeasured, guns cleaned and ramrods oiled; and I once had a fine Manton—­as sweet a piece as ever came to the shoulder—­almost ruined by an eager friend, who, after going through all this during a stormy morning, insisted on taking off the locks and triggers, just to while away the time.  The introduction of the breech-loader most happily obviates all this, since such lagging hours may now be occupied in charging and crimping cartridges.  But there is nothing to detain us longer to-day:  the “Bob Whites” are waiting for us among the pea-vines, and the snipe among the tussocky grass of the old rice-field.  Di and Sancho have caught sight of the guns, and are capering about in the wildest excitement, for it is a long time since they have seen anything more “gamey”