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 Rh hundred hands. Mr. Sawyer, a New Hampshire cotton-spinner, superintends several rooms. He took me over the whole of it. I know little of cotton-spinning, though I have been taken through many mills. I saw this had the familiar whirr and fuzz of such mills. Rooms as long as those of Lowell were driving their looms. The main building is but three stories high, and most of them only two. The cloth manufactured is of poor quality, not worth over six cents in the States. Here it sells for eighteen and three-quarter cents: a real and a medio.



The most striking peculiarity about these mills is the garden in front of them. This garden is full of orange-trees laden with the ripe fruit, with peach-trees in blossom, figs, pomegranates, trees bearing crimson flowers called the "noche buena," or the Christmas flower, as it is much used for that holiday. Roses, geraniums, fuchsias, and many unknown to the cold North are blooming in this factory yard.

More striking is the old mill in this vivid contrast. It stands back from the street, near the water-course. It is inclosed on three sides with a high iron fence, light, graceful, and tipped with gilded points and balls. Inside is a spacious garden, with walks and