the cans were reared, ready to be filled with the morning’s milk.  He ventured in, (first carefully removing all the mire from his shoes, lest he should soil the nicely sanded floor,) and drawing up the old arm chair which shone like polished ebony,—­he looked around the strange apartment.  “Its a queer fancy (he said at last) at Mally should be soa fond o’ pots,—­what ther’s mooar here nor what ud start a shop; it saves th’ expense of slapdashing onyway.”  And he was right, for, from floor, to ceiling, and along the old oak beams, appeared one medley of crockery—­pots of all sizes—­cups and plates of all shapes and patterns were hung or reared against the wall until it was impossible to find another place where one might be displayed; and on the mantle shelf, a long array of china images of fortune-telling gipsies, guarded at each end by what was supposed to represent a dog—­they might resemble dogs, but surely such a breed exists not now, for if there was a point about them to recommend, it was what Mally often said, “They ait nowt.”  In a short time both Joe and Mally made their apperance—­health bloom on their cheeks, and with a hearty welcome prepared the morning’s meal.  A clean white cloth spread on as clean a table, the requisite pots, the fresh churned butter, and the wheaten bread was all that was displayed to tempt them to the meal; but it was all that was required, for appetite gave relish to the plain repast, and many a wealthy man in stately rooms, with every luxury around, might well have envied them their simple fare, sweetened by labor, and so well enjoyed—­whilst savory meats, of which they never knew, in vain invited him whose satiated tastes loathed every dish.  But the old farmer did not seem at ease, and when the meal was over—­after a short conversation, he bade them both good day, and turned his steps towards his lonely home.  Perhaps it was the son who called up in the old man’s mind some thoughts of former days—­or perhaps the train of thought he had indulged in previously might have laid a load of gloom upon him; but, be it as it may, he seemed inclined to spend the day under his own roof tree.

The winter came and spread its spotless snows o’er hills and dales; the wild winds wailed; the woodman’s axe echoed amidst the woods; the song birds fled; the dauntless redbreast twittered on the window sills; the cawing rooks wended their weary way in solemn flight.  The spring again, like a young bashful maid, came smiling upon old Winter’s track; the field’s looked gay again; and trees seemed vieing which could first be drest in verdant green.  The Summer followed on, the sun shone o’er the fields of ripening grass; the mowers scythe was dipped in fragrant dews, and Flora bounteously bestowed her favorite flowers.  Autumn succeeded, and once more the’ eye was gladdened with the bearded grain, waving in golden splendour in the breeze;—­again the luscious fruits are tempting one to pluck; and soon again the year,—­weary with its labors, prepares to sleep, and desolation reigns.