The early apples were just gathering when we reached the farm, amongst all sorts of pleasant orchard sounds, the rumble of apples poured from bushel baskets into barrels, the squeak of the cider mill, and the men talking at work. The large new orchard of Bellefleurs is hand-picked, in the modern method; each apple is wrapped in paper, and the fruit has its special first-rate market; but Sam is not going to take his father’s old miscellaneous orchard in hand until next year, and here he and his men were picking and piling in the old wholesale fashion. The sweet-smelling pyramids stood waist-high under the trees.
Sam scrambled down his ladder, and shouted to Susan, who came out from her baking with her hands white with flour. The last time we came, we had seen only the house and dairy; now we must see the farm, and we strolled together through the sunny orchard and then were taken to the apple cellar, where the filled barrels stood in close ranks already. The cellar was fragrant with them. Susan’s own special apples, Snows, Strawberries, and Porters, were at one side.
“Has to have ’em!” Sam said. “Every farm book tells you how mixed apples can’t pay, and hinder the farm, but come Grange suppers and church suppers, and young folks happening in, and Fair times, if Susan couldn’t have her mixed fruit, she’d think we might full as well be at the Town-Farm.”
The root cellar, smelling earthy, was next the apple cellar, and here Sam had a few beets and carrots, in neat bins, but the greater part of the roots were still undug.
The cider-mill was at the edge of the orchard, with piles of windfall apples beside it; Sam turned a fresh jug-full for us to drink, and then filled our cans.
After this we had to see all Susan’s pets. There were two handsome collies; and a yellow house cat, and a great black barn cat, on stiff terms with each other, came and rubbed against us with arched backs. There were the ducks and geese, and tumbler pigeons, fluttering down in great haste when Susan scattered corn. The newest pet was a raccoon. He was in the tool-room of the barn, nibbling corn. He steadied the ear as he ate, with little hands as careful as a child’s. He looked sly and mischievous, and sidled away as we came in, looking up at us with bright eyes. He wore a little collar, and dragged a short length of chain, so that the pigeons could hear him coming; but he was not confined in any way, and seemed entirely happy and at home about the barn.
“Pretty fellow, then,” said Susan, scratching his handsome fur. “But he’s a scamp, he is. Only to think, what happened to my pies, last baking! I’d made a quantity, both mince and pumpkin, and if this rascal doesn’t slip into the pantry, eat all he can hold, and mark the rest of the pies all over with his little hands, and throw them on the floor!”
She asked if we had ever seen a raccoon with a piece of meat. We had not, and she fetched a bit from the ice chest and gave it to her pet. He took it in his little hands, went to his water dish, and washed the meat thoroughly, sousing it up and down till it was almost a pulp, before he swallowed it. Susan said that raccoons, wild or tame, will always do this, with all animal food; mouse or mole or grasshopper, they will not touch it till they have washed it well, and will go hungry rather than eat unwashed food. Sam, who knows the woods like the back of his hand, confirmed this.
“Souse it in a brook, they will, till they have it soggy. They won’t eat it till then.”
While we were looking, a morose-looking old man drove into the yard. He checked his horse, and sat gazing straight before him with a wooden expression.