in which we were the prattlers and bustlers of a moment. By and by the door was opened by Silas Foster, with a cotton handkerchief about his head, and a tallow candle in his hand.

“Take my advice, brother farmers,” said he, with a great, broad, bottomless yawn, “and get to bed as soon as you can. I shall sound the horn at daybreak; and we’ve got the cattle to fodder, and nine cows to milk, and a dozen other things to do, before breakfast.”

Thus ended the first evening at Blithedale.

I went shivering to my fireless chamber, with the miserable consciousness (which had been growing upon me for several hours past) that I had caught a tremendous cold, and should probably awaken, at the blast of the horn, a fit subject