You plunge down rough steps into a cavern. A mouldy
air from dried-up and forgotten vegetables meets you. The earth may
not be moist underfoot, but it has not the kind feeling of sun-warmed
earth. And if big rats hide there, how bold and hideous they are!
There are cool farmhouse cellars floored with cement and shelved with
sweet-smelling pine, where apple-bins make incense, and swinging-shelves
of butter, tables of milk crocks, lines of fruit cans and home-made
catsup bottles, jars of pickles and chowder, and white covered pastry
and cake, promise abundant hospitality. But these are inverted garrets,
rather than cellars. They are refrigerators for pure air; and they keep
a mellow light of their own. When you go into one of them it seems as
if the house were standing on its head to express its joy and comfort.
But the Susan House cellar was one of dread, aside from the noise
proceeding out of it. Bobaday knew this before they opened a door
upon a narrow-throated descent.
One of Zene's stories became vivid. It was a story of a house where
nobody could stay, though the landlord offered it rent-free. But
along came two good youths without any money, and for board and
lodging, they undertook to break the spell by sleeping there three
nights.
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