of another year.

"That's the best cider-cellar I know of," said 'Lias Mullins, "and Uncle
Joe allus had the best bar'ls; but they wa'n't used last year, an I'm
turrible 'fraid they've gone musty."

"Shouldn't be su'prised," agreed old Nat, mournfully. "An' it's a great
pity."

"Bet you a quarter apiece they're as sweet as ever," proposed Chairman
Westbury. He took out a great jack-knife and carefully pried out the
bungs. "Smell 'em, 'Lias," he said, yielding precedence to the oldest
member.

'Lias Mullins carefully steadied himself with his cane, bent close to
the bung-hole of one of the barrels, and took a long and apparently
agreeable whiff. Then after due preparation he bent close to the other
bung-hole and took another and still longer whiff.

"Seems to me that one's just a leetle bit musty," he said.

"Now, Nat, it's your turn," said Westbury.

Whereupon old Nat, gravely and after due preparation, took a long whiff
of first one barrel, then a still longer one of the other barrel.

"Seems to me it's _t'other_ one that's a _leetle trifle_ musty," he
said.

W. C. Westbury took two short business-like whiffs at each bung.

"Sweet as a nut, both of 'em," he announced, definitely.

That settled it; Westbury was acknowledged authority. Sam rolled out two
vinegar-barrels, both pronounced good. Following there came what seemed
at least a hundred apple-barrels, potato-barrels, turnip-barrels,
ash-barrels, boxes, benches, sections of shelving, and a general heap of
debris, some of it unrecognizable even by 'Lias Mullins, oldest member
of the board.

"It was a Meeker habit to throw nothing away," commented Westbury, as he
looked over the assortment. "No matter what it was, they thought they
might want it, some day. You'll find the same thing when you get to the
attic."

At this moment Sam discovered in a dark corner a heap of flat slabs
that, brought to light, proved to be small tombstones. Westbury grinned.

"Those were put over the cemetery fence," he said, "whenever the
relatives bought bigger ones. Uncle Joe brought a lot of them home to
cool his milk on."

I looked at them doubtfully. They were nothing but stones, and they had
served their original purpose. Still, it had been a rather particular
purpose and they were carved with certain names and dates. I was not
sure that their owners might not sometime--some weird fall evening,
say--take a notion to claim them.

They opened the door of history to