Lord! what stuff some folks are willin' to set before ye! 'tain't wuth
the name o' cider, nor no better than the rensin's of a vinegar cask."
"And then there's weather too," agreed Mr. Jacob Dyer, "had ought to
be took into consideration. Git your apples just in the right
time--not too early to taste o' the tree, nor too late to taste o' the
ground, and just in the snap o' time as to ripeness', on a good sharp
day with the sun a-shining; have 'em into the press and what comes out
is _cider_. I think if we've had any fault in years past, 't was
puttin' off makin' a little too late. But I don't see as this could be
beat. I don't know's you feel like a pipe, but I believe I'll light
up," and thereupon a good portion of black-looking tobacco was cut and
made fine in each of the hard left hands, and presently the clay pipes
were touched off with a live coal, and great clouds of smoke might
have been seen to disappear under the edge of the fire-place, drawn
quickly up the chimney by the draft of the blazing fire.
Jacob pushed back his chair another foot or two, and Martin soon
followed, mentioning that it was getting hot, but it was well to keep
out the damp.
"What set the women out to go traipsin' up to Thacher's folks?"
inquired Jacob, holding his cider mug with one hand and drumming it
with the finger ends of the other.
"I had an idee that they wanted to find out if anything had been heard
about Ad'line's getting home for Thanksgiving," answered Martin,
turning to look shrewdly at his brother.
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