sleeping his last sleep beneath the tree. He was much beloved by the
family. I thought, What a pretty place to be buried in! and a living
monument to mark his grave. From the stories I heard of Pang, I know he
must have been a fine dog, and I should have liked to have known him.

Just back of the house stood the cider-house. At this season of the year
the wood for summer use was stored there, but in autumn all the
neighbors brought their apples, and ground them into cider. Samanthy
told me how she used to clean the cider nuts with a shingle; this was
when she was small.

She said: "A cousin of mine, living at Beech Ridge, got his arm caught
while cleaning the pummy out, and ground it all up. After that father
was afraid for we children to do it."

Back of the building I saw thousands of little apple-trees, growing from
the pomace which was shoveled out there year after year.

The loft, over the part where the cider-mill was, was the corn-house. I
went up over the wide plank stairs and looked around.

Traces of snapping-corn and of white-pudding corn were hanging over a
pole at one end. A large chest, filled with different kinds of beans,
stood at one side. On the plates which supported the rafters, marks made
in this wise--[Symbol: Tally mark of 5]--told of the bushels of corn
carried up there and spread on the clean, white floor.

These marks had been made by many hands, and I wondered where they were
now. Some undoubtedly were sleeping the