The Old Cider Mill

I used to love to steal away

     At night, when all was still,

To spend an hour or so alone

     Down in the cider mill.

The crickets chirp, the tree-toads note,

     Was music to my ear;

And stealing down the crooked lane,

     I had no thought of fear.

I knew just where the biggest straw

     Lay hidden on the beam;

And knew just where the old tub sat

     Beneath its golden gleam.

And from the drip, drip of the cheese,

     Thrilled to my young heart’s core;

I sucked and sucked of apple juice,

     Till I could hold no more.

O, there were mugs and dippers there,

     And cans in bright array;

But sucking cider through a straw,

     Beats every other way.

And now when every fall comes round,

     With apples in the till,

I long to steal adown the lane,

     Down to the cider mill.

The cider mill no doubt has done,

     Much harm to some weak heart;

But was the old mill all to blame?

     Ah, no; the smallest part.

When not abused it is a joy,

     I love it, love it still;

And would I now were rummaging

     Down in the cider mill.

May 27, 1895

Pub. in B.Courier,

Dec. 1, ‘95