Life in Canada Fifty Years Ago | Page 9

The pivot of one of these extended upward
about six feet, and at its top was secured the long shaft to which the
horse was attached, and as it was driven round and round, the mill
crunched the apples, with many a creak and groan, and shot them out
on the opposite side. The press which waited to receive the bruised
mass was about eight feet square, round the floor of which, near the
edge, ran a deep groove to carry off the juice. In making what is known
as the cheese, the first process was to spread a thick layer of long rye or
wheat straw round the outer edge, on the floor of the press. Upon this
the pulp was placed to the depth of a foot or more. The first layer of
straw was then turned in carefully, and another layer of straw put down
as in the first place, upon which more pulp was placed, and so on from
layer to layer, until the cheese was complete. Planks were then placed
on the top, and the pressure of the powerful wooden screw brought to
bear on the mass. At once a copious stream of cider began to flow into
the casks or vat, and here the fun began with the boys, who, well armed
with long straws, sucked their fill.
By the roadside stands the cider mill, Where a lowland slumber waits
the rill:
A great brown building, two stories high, On the western hill face
warm and dry;
And odorous piles of apples there Fill with incense the golden air;
And masses of pomace, mixed with straw, To their amber sweets the
late flies draw.
The carts back up to the upper door, And spill their treasures in on the
floor;
Down through the toothed wheels they go To the wide, deep cider press
below.
And the screws are turned by slow degrees Down on the straw-laid
cider cheese;
And with each turn a fuller stream Bursts from beneath the graning
beam,

An amber stream the gods might sip, And fear no morrow's parched lip.
But therefore, gods? Those idle toys Were soulless to real Canadian
boys!
What classic goblet ever felt Such thrilling touches through it melt,
As throb electric along a straw, When the boyish lips the cider draw?
The years are heavy with weary sounds, And their discords life's sweet
music drowns
But yet I hear, oh, sweet! oh, sweet! The rill that bathed my bare,
brown feet;
And yet the cider drips and falls On my inward ear at intervals
And I lead at times in a sad, sweet dream To the bubbling of that little
stream;
And I sit in a visioned autumn still, In the sunny door of the cider mill.
--WHITTIER.
It was a universal custom to set a dish of apples and a pitcher of cider
before everyone who came to the house. Any departure from this would
have been thought disrespectful. The sweet cider was generally boiled
down into a syrup, and, with apples quartered and cooked in it, was
equal to a preserve, and made splendid pies. It was called apple sauce,
and found its way to the table thrice a day.
Then came the potatoes and roots, which had to be dug and brought to
the cellar. It was not very nice work, particularly if the ground was
damp and cold, to pick them out and throw them into the basket, but it
had to be done, and I was compelled to do my share. One good thing
about it was that it was never a long job. There was much more fun in
gathering the pumpkins and corn into the barn. The corn was husked,
generally at night, the bright golden ears finding their way into the old
crib, from whence it was to come again to fatten the turkeys, the geese,
and the ducks for Christmas. It was a very common thing to have
husking bees. A few neighbours would be invited, the barn lit with
candles.
Strung o'er the heaped-up harvest, from pitchforks in the mow, Shone
dimly down the lanterns on the pleasant scenes below; The growing
pile of husks behind, the golden ears before, And laughing eyes, and
busy hand, and brown cheeks glimmering o'er.
Half hidden in a quiet nook, serene of look and heart, Talking their old
times o'er, the old men sat apart; While up and down the unhusked pile,

or nestling in its shade, At hide-and-seek, with laugh and shout, the
happy children played.
--WHITTIER.
Amid jokes and laughter the husks and ears would fly, until the work
was done, when all hands would repair to the house, and, after
partaking of a hearty supper, leave for home in high spirits.
Then came hog-killing time, a very