"We've got the haymaker."
Late in September the first fall after we built the haymaker, there came
a heavy gale that blew off fully one half the apple crop--Baldwins,
Greenings, Blue Pearmains and Spitzenburgs. Since we could barrel none
of the windfalls as number one fruit, that part of our harvest, more
than a thousand bushels, seemed likely to prove a loss. The old Squire
would never make cider to sell; and we young folks at the farm,
particularly Theodora and Ellen, disliked exceedingly to dry apples by
hand.
But there lay all those fair apples. It seemed such a shame to let them
go to waste that the matter was on all our minds. At the breakfast table
one morning Ellen remarked that we might use the haymaker for drying
apples if we only had some one to pare and slice them.
"But I cannot think of any one," she added hastily, fearful lest she be
asked to do the work evenings.
"Nor can I," Theodora added with equal haste, "unless some of those
paupers at the town farm could be set about it."
"Poor paupers!" Addison exclaimed, laughing. "Too bad!"
"Lazy things, I say!" grandmother exclaimed. "There's seventeen on the
farm, and eight of them are abundantly able to work and earn their
keep.
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