He saw the young colts and cattle frisking in the sunny space around the straw-stacks, absorbed through his bare arms and uncovered head the heat of the sun, and felt the soft wooing of the air so deeply that he broke into an unwonted exclamation: "Glory! we'll be seeding by Friday, sure." This short and disappointing soliloquy was, after all, an expression of deep emotion.

To the Western farmer the very word "seeding" is a poem.
And these few words, coming from Lyman Gilman, meant more and expressed more than many a large and ambitious spring-time song.
But the glory of all the slumbrous landscape, the stately beauty of the sky with its masses of fleecy vapor, were swept away by the sound of a girl's voice humming, "Come to the Savior," while she bustled about the kitchen near by.

The windows were open.

Ah! what suggestion to these dwellers in a rigorous climate was in the first unsealing of the windows! How sweet it was to the pale and weary women after their long imprisonment! As Lyman sat down on his maple log to hear better, a plump face appeared at the window, and a clear girl-voice said: "Smell anything, Lime ?" He snuffed the air.

"Cookies, by the great horn spoons!" he yelled, leaping up.