"These caps are pretty well sealed," observed Adrian, "but you always have to be careful," and he was on the lookout to see that no mistakes were made.

The two boys now busied themselves with sc.r.a.ping off the dried wax from the outside of the caps, and, as each one was finished it was placed in a pasteboard box, labelled with the contents "White clover honey," and with Mr. Kimball's name and address.

"Dad's got a good honey crop this year," commented Adrian. "Plenty of white clover, which sells better than buckwheat, though I don't like it so well as the dark honey."

"What do they call it buckwheat for? Because it's made from buckwheat flour?"

"Land no. Because it's from the sweet juices of the buckwheat flowers.

Lots of people say buckwheat honey is too strong for 'em, but we all like it better than clover, which is made from clover blossoms.

Buckwheat seems to have a sort of 'whang' to it, dad says."

"Wa'al, boys, how ye makin' out?" asked a deep voice from the doorway, and Mr. Kimball entered the storeroom.

"All right, I guess," answered Roger.

"Glad t' hear it. We'll make a reg'lar bee-farmer out a' ye 'fore ye git home."

He carefully inspected the boys' work and seemed satisfied with it.

"I guess that'll do fer this trip," he remarked to Adrian, counting the caps. "Say, Ade," he went on, "how'd you 'n' Roger like t' take a load a' grapes over t' Tully t'-morrow? Andrews wrote me he could use some."

"I thought you were going to take the horses to the city with your load," replied Adrian.

"So I be, but I'll borrow Truem Wright's hoss 'n' wagon ef ye think ye kin git over Tully hill 'ith th' rig. I'd send Jim, th' hired man, only I want him t' pick grapes t'-morrow when I'm gone. What d' ye say? Want t' go?"

"Do you?" asked Adrian of Roger.

"I think it would be lots of fun," replied the city boy. "I'll be glad to go along."

"All right, dad; you go and ask Truem for the horse, and to-night Roger and I'll load up the wagon so's to start early in the morning," said Adrian.

"Aren't you boys hungry?" asked some one standing in the doorway, and they all looked up to see Clara with a big plate of freshly baked mola.s.ses cookies.

"Hungry? Well, I just guess we are," exclaimed Adrian, as he held the plate and pa.s.sed it to Roger, who took a cake. Adrian helped himself to two, and Mr. Kimball was not satisfied with less than three, which he munched successively with every indication of satisfaction.

"No use talkin'," he said, looking at Roger with a twinkle in his blue eyes, "your aunt does bake the best cookies in Onondaga County," and he took a fourth one, while Clara laughed merrily to see her father's enjoyment of the little lunch she had provided.

"They are certainly fine," agreed Roger, finishing his second one.

The plate was soon emptied, and Clara offered to go for more, but they all voted they had enough for the present. Then Mr. Kimball cut open one of the caps of honey, and he and the boys ate the sweet stuff, which, a short time before had been in the hive.

"Don't you want some?" asked Roger of Clara, offering her a thick slice of the comb.

"No, thank you," she replied. "I've eaten so much this last month I'm afraid I'll turn into a bee," and she hurried back to the house with a ringing laugh.

It was only four o'clock when the honey had all been packed ready for shipment, and Mr. Kimball left to make arrangements for the trip to-morrow. Adrian, for whom there was no more work that afternoon, proposed to Roger that they take a walk to Truem Wright's grist mill. So they tramped up the street to where the mill stood on the edge of a pond.

They met quite a number of boys and girls carrying tin pails and books, and most of the youngsters spoke to Adrian as he pa.s.sed them.

"Where are they from?" asked Roger.

"School's out."

"Oh, sure enough. I'd almost forgotten there was such a thing. But don't you go?"

"Not until winter sets in," said Adrian. "You see there's too much to do about the farm, and then I'm pretty well along in what they teach here.

They're going to have a higher cla.s.s for the older pupils in January, and I'll start in then."

The boys soon came to the mill.

"h.e.l.lo, Ade!" cried a man, who seemed to be covered from head to foot with white dust. "Heard ye went fishin' yist'day," he went on. "Ketched a whale, didn't ye?" and he laughed so heartily that he almost shook the side of the building.

"Well, we did have some such luck," admitted Adrian. "But, say, Truem, can we come in? Are you running now? This is my cousin Roger, from New York."

"He were th' whale I were referrin' t'," said Mr. Wright, laughing again.

Roger smiled and bowed to the dusty miller, who held out a huge white hand for him to shake.

"Yep, come right in," said Mr. Wright, genially. "I'm grindin' a bit a'

flour fer George Bennett."

The boys advanced into the dusty place, which shook and trembled with the whirring vibrations of the two big millstones. They watched these spinning around, grinding the wheat into a fine, light dust.

"What power does he use?" asked Roger, who was somewhat surprised to see no sign of an engine.

"Turbine water wheel," said Adrian. "Come along and I'll show you." He led the way to where, at the bottom of a deep pit, the turbine roared around and around with the weight and force of the water that fell on it from above, a dam giving the necessary head. This furnished the power for the entire mill. It was all very interesting to Roger, who had never seen anything of the kind. Before he realized how quickly time pa.s.sed, it was almost the hour for supper, so he and Adrian raced home, both bearing good appet.i.tes.

CHAPTER VI

A LOAD OF GRAPES

When the boys reached the house they found Mrs. Kimball just putting supper on the table. There was a delicious smell, which Roger at first did not recognize.

"Hurrah!" cried Adrian. "That's what I like!"

"What?"

"Fried chicken and corn bread. Can't anybody beat mother at that."

"Nor at anything else in the cooking line, I guess," agreed Roger.

The two boys made short work of washing up and combing their hair, and when they hurried down to the kitchen they had hungry looks that did Mrs. Kimball good to see.

"I can't abide a poor eater," she said, as she heaped Roger's plate with the crisp brown chicken, fried in sweet b.u.t.ter, and handed him a plate of smoking hot golden-yellow corn bread. "I do like t' see a body pitch in 'n' eat th' victuals set afore 'em," she went on. "After a body goes t' work 'n' gits up a good meal, it's mighty disparagin' t' see th'