An old cider mill (for such things were in New England) in the orchard was the remotest verge in one direction; to sit near it, and watch the horse go slowly round and round, and chat with Chauncey, the youngest son of the house, who was superintending it, was a great pleasure; but most of my out-of-doors enjoyments were solitary.  I think this must have given a zest to them, for at home I was seldom alone.  I was one of a little troop of brothers’ and sisters, whose pleasures were all plays, gregarious and noisy.  It was a new thing to be so quiet, and to give my still fancies such a range.  I was never weary of watching the long processions of snow-white geese, moving along the turfy sides of the road, solemn and stately, each garnished with that awkward appendage the “poke,” which seemed to me very cruel, since, in my simplicity, I believed that the perpendicular rod in the center passed, like a spit, directly through the bird’s neck.  Then, how inexhaustible were the resources of the flower garden, on the southern side of the house, into which a door opened from the parlor, the broad semicircular stone doorsteps affording me a favorite seat.

What a variety of treasures were spread out before me:  larkspurs, from whose pointed nectaries I might weave “circles without end,” varying the pattern of each by alternate proportions of blue, and pink, and white.  There were foxgloves to be examined, whose depths were so mysteriously freckled; there were clusters of cowslips, and moss-pinks to be counted.  There were tufts of ribbon-grass to be searched as diligently as ever merchandise in later days, for perfect matches; there were morning-glories, and moon-sleeps, and four o’clocks, and evening primroses to be watched lest they might fail to be true to their respective hours in opening and shutting.  There were poppies, from whose “diminished heads” the loose leaves were to be gathered in a basket, (for they might stain the apron,) and lightly spread in the garret for drying.  There were ripe poppy-seeds to be shaken out through the curious lid of their seed-vessel, in which a child’s fancy found a curious resemblance to a pepper-box; I often forced it to serve as one in the imaginary feasts spread out on the door-step, though there were no guests to be invited, except plenty of wandering butterflies, or an occasional humming-bird, whizzing about the crimson blossoms of the balm.  Oh, the delights of Aunt Rose’s flower-garden!

Then, there were the chickens to be fed, and the milking of the cows to be “assisted at,” and a chat enjoyed, meanwhile, with good-natured Nancy, the maid, to stand beside whose spinning-wheel when, in an afternoon, she found time to set it in motion, herself arrayed in a clean gown and apron, was another great delight.