PICKING THE HOPS.

The hops here are not picked into boxes as in America, but into circular baskets, each of which contain five bushels. When one of these is full, the tally-man is called, and he and the bin-man together empty the hops into a large sack, holding generally about two baskets. As these sacks are filled, they are loaded up on a waggon, and carted away about three times a day to the oast-house, where the hops are dried.

The hop-pickers are not paid by the day, but by the quantity picked, and the pay, per basket, varies according to the season. If it be a good one like the present, and the hops are large, and fill up quickly, the price given is usually about one shilling a basket; but if it be a bad year, and the hops consequently small and shrivelled, they lie so closely in the baskets, that they take a very much longer time in filling, and the pay is then often as much as three or four shillings.

THE TALLY-MAN.

He is rather an important personage in his way, and derives his name from carrying a number of pieces of flat wood called tallies, about a foot long and an inch wide. Each tally is numbered, and has a duplicate piece of wood numbered the same, and corresponding in every way to its fellow, so that when one is fitted over the other the two appear as one piece. As soon as the farmer has engaged his pickers, the tally-man goes his rounds, and presents to each one of these tallies, retaining its duplicate, which is slung on a cord round his neck. The object of the tallies is to enable the hopper to know the exact number of baskets he has picked during the season, which lasts from four to six weeks. For every basket picked, a notch is filed on the tally and its duplicate, and this is done by the tally-man placing one exactly over the other, and filing the notch across the two edges simultaneously; thus any attempt at cheating is prevented, and every thing rendered fair and square. About half an hour before the hoppers' dinner, the tally-man shouts at the top of his voice the order to load light.' This signifies to the bin-man that no more hops are to be pulled than can be disposed of within the ensuing half-hour, as if they were left cut they soon fade, which deteriorates from their value. The same order is given half an hour before clearing-up' time, which takes place whenever the oast-house is fully charged.

THE OAST-HOUSE.

These curiously shaped buildings, with their circular walls and tall extinguisher-like roofs, form a striking feature in the Kentish landscape.

Every grower of any pretensions possesses one or more of these, in

The

which the freshly-picked hops are dried before being pressed. lower part or ground-floor is occupied almost entirely by a large fire or furnace, which is kept burning night and day. Over the circular brickwork which surrounds the fire, is placed sheet iron, and above that again is stretched a large and strong cloth. The heated iron diffuses an equal degree of warmth over the whole surface of the cloth on which the hops are spread to be dried, the steam rising from them, and the smoke from the furnace, being both carried off through a curiously shaped cowl, which is turned by the wind, and is mounted on the topmost point of the roof.

Drying one batch of hops generally takes about twelve hours, at the expiration of which time they are taken from the cloth and spread upon the floor of the cooling-room, which is situated in the upper part of a building communicating with the oast-house. In the centre of the floor of this room is a round hole, made just large enough to contain the open mouth of a pocket (as the large sack into which the hops are pressed is called). When the dried hops are sufficiently cooled, one of these pockets is suspended in the hole, its mouth being just level with the floor, and a certain quantity of hops is then swept into it. Next the hop-press, which stands exactly over the hole, is screwed down into the pocket, until the hops are as tight as caked tobacco, when the press is raised, and the process is repeated again and again till the pocket is literally crammed full. The mouth is then sewn up and the hops are ready to be sampled, which is done by a man employed for the purpose, and who is paid twopence for every sample made. This is done by cutting a small slit in the hop pocket, and extracting from thence a wedge of compressed hops, which is made into a parcel and labelled, and is sent with many others to London, in order that the buyers may be able to judge of the quality of the hops before purchasing any large quantities.

E. J. C. BAIRD.

THREE MONTHS IN COLORADO.

BY CAROLINE W. LATIMER.

'De ruts an' de stones

An' de joltin's to de bones,

Are as nuffin' to de glory an' de joy.'

WITH these lines from an old negro camp-meeting hymn running in my head, I descended from the train on which I had spent three days and nights, while coming a distance of two thousand miles, and found myself at Colorado Springs.

This little town, which has of late years become a place of resort for invalids, and especially consumptives, is situated on a high plateau six thousand feet above sea-level, and surrounded by the open prairie, except on one side, where the magnificent chain of the Rockies rises up, with Pike's Peak towering over all.

I myself knew almost nothing of the place or its inhabitants; my home had always been in Maryland, on the borders of the Southern States, and the West was, to my imagination, peopled almost exclusively with Indians and cow-boys. I supposed that I should find the place to which I was coming composed mainly of log-cabins and wigwams, and I had provided myself with every conceivable necessary and convenience, under the impression that I should not be able to procure so much as a paper of pins in the howling wilderness of my imagination. My ideas therefore received something of a shock as I drove through streets filled with shops of every description, and further on came to pretty villas with grounds laid out around them, and on descending from the carriage found myself in one of the most charming houses I ever saw, full of books, beautiful china, and ornaments, and every description of comfort and luxury.

I arrived in the midst of a driving rain, so that it was not until the afternoon of the next day that I could catch a glimpse of the Rockies, and when I did I was in some respects much disappointed. I believe that almost every one experiences this feeling when they first see them, for they have expected loveliness as well as grandeur, and as they rise up bald and rugged, with the timber-line distinctly marked, and the bright red colour of the earth painfully vivid, one feels greatly the want of something to soften and refine their harsh outlines. This defect is owing in a great measure to the extreme clearness and rarity of the air which makes them stand out sharply defined, and entirely without atmosphere. C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est pas la beauté is, if I may take the liberty of misquoting, what best

describes them to my mind. After a time, however, they began to grow on me, and when I saw the wonderful changes of colour which passed over them continually, and the marvellous effects of clouds and sunshine, I felt more and more affection for them, until now that I have left them far behind me, their solemn grandeur lives in my memory, as something which no future impressions can surpass.

The rain which had been my greeting to Colorado is a very unusual thing, and I did not see another rainy day during the three months I was there. In the autumn and winter there is not a drop of rain, and although there is occasional snow, it disappears almost as fast as it falls. The summer is called the rainy season; but even then the rain only falls in showers, and although these are sometimes very heavy, they pass over in an hour, and the instant the sun reappears everything is as brilliant and sparkling as before. Indeed, it frequently happens that the sun does not think it necessary to withdraw at all during a shower, and I once saw a violent hailstorm, with stones as large as marbles and accompanied by thunder and lightning, while the moon shone peacefully all the time. The temperature is very hot occasionally in the summer, and sometimes very cold in winter; but one does not suffer with either extreme, because the air is so dry and light.

It is the extreme dryness which makes the climate desirable for consumptives, although the altitude is so great that they often suffer very much for a time in becoming accustomed to it.

I knew of course that I must expect to find the place full of sick people, but my wildest anticipations fell far short of the reality. It is scarcely an exaggeration to say that every one I met was there for personal health or that of some member of the family, and it seemed to me that the whole world was divided into three classes: invalids, great invalids, and celebrated invalids. The last-named class I did not of course see very much of, as they were confined, as a rule, to their houses; but the entire town seemed to me composed of the other two. Shopkeepers, clerks, telegraph-boys, school-teachers, in short, all sorts and conditions of men, including the doctors themselves, all have a lung, or rather, none of them have two. This state of things is borne by the sufferers with philosophy and cheerfulness, and does not in the least interfere with a great deal of very pleasant society. Neither does it interfere with marrying and giving in marriage; indeed, I knew one instance in which a couple, who were both in a very precarious state of health, were actually married in haste, because the attending physician declared that the gentleman caught cold by going out in the evenings to see the lady.

I do not mean of course that all of these people are actually ill; indeed, a great many of them are apparently quite well, and have not even a cough, but their well-being is dependent on their remaining in Colorado, and it is only in a few instances that invalids can return to the East permanently. It is fortunate when they are wise enough

to realise this, and resign themselves to it, for one often hears of very sad cases when persons, who persist in trying to live at home, begin to decline rapidly. It would seem as if this state of things must of necessity be very depressing, but this is not the case. The climate is so exhilarating, and the physical enjoyment of the moment so keen, that the sick people and their friends seem always happy and bright. The climate, however, has its defects as well as its advantages; it has a very bad effect on nervous disorders, and frequently causes complete sleeplessness, and in some forms of heart complaint, it is very injurious, and on this account one often meets families who are completely separated, as one member is forced to live in Colorado, and another cannot in some instances even spend a night there. Altogether, dearly as I love the little town, and greatly as I enjoy the life there, it seemed to me it must be a hard fate to be doomed to spend the remainder of a life, whether long or short, there and there only.

Lasciate ogni speranza voi ch' entrate'

has been said to be its only fitting motto.

The name Colorado Springs is absurdly inappropriate. There are no springs at all in the town, though there are very fine ones at the little village of Manitou, which is six miles off.

This is a charming little spot nestled right at the foot of the mountains, and much in request during the summer by tourists, and residents from the town who like the change. The name Manitou (Great Spirit) is the one given it by the Indians, who were well aware of the beneficial effects of the springs, of which there are several different kinds, such as iron, soda, and sulphur. The Indians of course ascribed their healing powers to the direct influence of the Manitou, and when they brought their sick to be cured they hung offerings on the trees to propitiate him. For some time after the white men took possession of the place, there was a certain portion of ground reserved for the Indians, on which they could build their wigwams; but by degrees they have disappeared, and it is now some years since one of them has been seen.

There is a beautiful drive from Manitou, which originally was a trail made by the Ute Indians, and which is still called the Ute Pass; in one place there is a huge stone, which apparently was too large for them to move, and has been hollowed out by their feet.

Following up this road we come to Manitou Park, which is twentysix miles from Colorado Springs. The parks are open spaces at a great elevation, where there is water and magnificent pine-trees, which are as large as oaks. These trees grow in such a manner that they seem to have been purposely arranged to form an ornamental park, and it is difficult to believe that it is Nature's own design. There are several of these parks within a short distance of the springs, and the principal ones are Estes and Manitou. There are hotels at these two, and many persons come up during the summer to enjoy the cool