n those days the family butter was churned in the kitchen by hand
power, and often laboriously, in an upright dasher churn which Addison
and Theodora had christened Old Mehitable. The butter had been a long
time coming one morning; but finally the cream which for an hour or more
had been thick, white and mute beneath the dasher strokes began to swash
in a peculiar way, giving forth after each stroke a sound that they
thought resembled, _Mehitable--Mehitable--Mehitable_.

That old churn was said to be sixty-six years old even then. There was
little to wear out in the old-fashioned dasher churns, made as they were
of well-seasoned pine or spruce, with a "butter cup" turned from a solid
block of birch or maple, and the dasher staff of strong white ash. One
of them sometimes outlasted two generations of housewives; they were
simple, durable and easily kept clean, but hard to operate.

Our acquaintance with Mehitable had begun very soon after our arrival at
the old farm. I remember that one of the first things the old Squire
said to us was, "Boys, now that our family is so largely increased, I
think that you will have to assist your grandmother with the dairy work,
particularly the churning, which comes twice a week."

Tuesdays and Fridays were the churning days, and on those mornings I
remember that we were wont to peer into the kitchen as we came to
breakfast and mutter the unwelcome tidings to one another that old
Mehitable was out there waiting--tidings followed immediately by two
gleeful shouts of, "It isn't my turn!"--and glum looks from the one of
us whose unfortunate lot it was to ply the dasher.

Addison, I recollect, used to take his turn without much demur or
complaint, and he had a knack of getting through with it quickly as a
rule, especially in summer. None of us had much trouble during the warm
season. It was in November, December and January, when cold cream did
not properly "ripen" and the cows were long past their freshening, that
those protracted, wearying sessions at the churn began. Then, indeed,
our annual grievance against grandmother Ruth burst forth afresh. For,
like many another veteran housewife, the dear old lady was very "set" on
having her butter come hard, and hence averse to raising the temperature
of the cream above fifty-six degrees. Often that meant two or three
hours of hard, up-and-down work at the churn.

In cold weather, too, the cream sometimes "swelled" in the churn,
becoming so s