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92 Said he; and then he looked at my red face, All streaked with dust and sweat, and shook my hand, And said it must have been a right smart walk That we had had that day from Tilbury Town.— "Magnificent," said Isaac; and he told About the beautiful west wind there was Which cooled and clarified the atmosphere. "You must have made it with your legs, I guess," Said Archibald; and Isaac humored him With one of those infrequent smiles of his Which he kept in reserve, apparently, For Archibald alone. "But why," said he, "Should Providence have cider in the world If not for such an afternoon as this?" And Archibald, with a soft light in his eyes, Replied that if he chose to go down cellar, There he would find eight barrels—one of which Was newly tapped, he said, and to his taste An honor to the fruit. Isaac approved Most heartily of that, and guided us Forthwith, as if his venerable feet Were measuring the turf in his own door-yard, Straight to the open rollway. Down we went, Out of the fiery sunshine to the gloom, Grateful and half sepulchral, where we found The barrels, like eight potent sentinels,