As he said this, constable Boyd put on his hat, settled it a little on one side, and thrusting a hand into each pocket of his coat, walked with a great dignity toward the door.
A yoke of oxen, fat, sleek, Old Homestead animals, lay in the grass a little distance from the barn.
"Fine yoke of cattle," said the constable, sauntering toward them, "fat enough to kill a'most, ain't they?"
"I fed them myself," answered uncle Nathan, patting a white star on the forehead of the nearest animal, as he lay upon his knees half buried in the rich aftergrowth. "Isn't he an old beauty?"
"Kind in the yoke?" questioned the constable.
"I should think so!" answered uncle Nat, with a mellow laugh. "Come go in and see how the women folks get along."
"No, thank you, I'll just take a short cut across the garden; but you may depend on me to-night—good day."
"Good day," said uncle Nat; with his usual hearty manner, and picking up a fragment of pine, he moved with it toward the porch.
A barrel of new cider had been mounted on the cheese-press. It was evidently just beginning to ferment, for drops were foaming up from the bung, and creaming down each side the barrel in two slender rivulets.
Uncle Nathan drove the bung down with his clenched hand. Then seating himself comfortably in the old arm-chair, took a double-bladed knife from his pocket, and began with great neatness to whittle out a spigot from the fragment of pine, sighing heavily now and then, as if some unaccountable pressure were on his mind.