tying my horse at the other side with a rope halter which he gave me; he then asked me to come in and taste his mead, but I told him that I must attend to the comfort of my horse first, and forthwith, taking a wisp of straw, rubbed him carefully down.  Then taking a pailful of clear water which stood in the shed, I allowed the horse to drink about half a pint; and then turning to the old man, who all the time had stood by looking at my proceedings, I asked him whether he had any oats?  “I have all kinds of grain,” he replied; and, going out, he presently returned with two measures, one a large and the other a small one, both filled with oats, mixed with a few beans, and handing the large one to me for the horse, he emptied the other before the donkey, who, before she began to despatch it, turned her nose to her master’s face, and fairly kissed him.  Having given my horse his portion, I told the old man that I was ready to taste his mead as soon as he pleased, whereupon he ushered me into his cottage, where, making me sit down by a deal table in a neatly sanded kitchen, he produced from an old-fashioned closet a bottle, holding about a quart, and a couple of cups, which might each contain about half a pint, then opening the bottle and filling the cups with a brown-coloured liquor, he handed one to me, and taking a seat opposite to me, he lifted the other, nodded, and saying to me—­“Health and welcome,” placed it to his lips and drank.

“Health and thanks,” I replied; and being very thirsty, emptied my cup at a draught; I had scarcely done so, however, when I half repented.  The mead was deliciously sweet and mellow, but appeared strong as brandy; my eyes reeled in my head, and my brain became slightly dizzy.  “Mead is a strong drink,” said the old man, as he looked at me, with a half smile on his countenance.  “This is at any rate,” said I, “so strong, indeed, that I would not drink another cup for any consideration.”  “And I would not ask you,” said the old man; “for, if you did, you would most probably be stupid all day, and wake the next morning with a headache.  Mead is a good drink, but woundily strong, especially to those who be not used to it, as I suppose you are not.”  “Where do you get it?” said I.  “I make it myself,” said the old man, “from the honey which my bees make.”  “Have you many bees?” I inquired.  “A great many,” said the old man.  “And do you keep them,” said I, “for the sake of making mead with their honey?” “I keep them,” he replied, “partly because I am fond of them, and partly for what they bring me in; they make me a great deal of honey, some of which I sell, and with a little I make some mead to warm my poor heart with, or occasionally to treat a friend with like yourself.”  “And do you support yourself entirely by means of your bees?” “No,” said the old man; “I have a little bit of ground behind my house, which is my principal means of support.”  “And do you live alone?” “Yes,” said he; “with the exception of the bees and