hemmed in with hedgerows, so closely set with growing
timber, that the meady opening looks almost like a glade in a wood;
or when some cottage, planted at a corner of one of the little greens
formed by the meeting of these cross-ways, almost startles us by the
unexpected sight of the dwellings of men in such a solitude. But that
we have more of hill and dale, and that our cross-roads are excellent in
their kind, this side of our parish would resemble the description given
of La Vendee, in Madame Laroche-Jacquelin's most interesting book.* I am
sure if wood can entitle a country to be called Le Bocage, none can
have a better right to the name. Even this pretty snug farmhouse on
the hillside, with its front covered with the rich vine, which goes
wreathing up to the very top of the clustered chimney, and its sloping
orchard full of fruit--even this pretty quiet nest can hardly peep out
of its leaves. Ah! they are gathering in the orchard harvest. Look at
that young rogue in the old mossy apple-tree--that great tree, bending
with the weight of its golden-rennets--see how he pelts his little
sister beneath with apples as red and as round as her own cheeks, while
she, with her outstretched frock, is trying to catch them, and laughing
and offering to pelt again as often as one bobs against her; and look at
that still younger imp, who, as grave as a judge, is creeping on
hands and knees under the tree, picking up the apples as they fall so
deedily,** and depositing them so honestly in the great basket on the
grass, already fixed so firmly and opened so widely, and filled almost
to overflowing by the brown rough fruitage of the golden-rennet's next
neighbour the russeting; and see that smallest urchin of all, seated
apart in infantine state on the turfy bank, with that toothsome piece
of deformity a crumpling in each hand, now biting from one sweet, hard,
juicy morsel and now from another--Is not that a pretty English picture?
And then, farther up the orchard, that bold hardy lad, the eldest born,
who has scaled (Heaven knows how) the tall, straight upper branch
of that great pear-tree, and is sitting there as securely and as
fearlessly, in as much real safety and apparent danger, as a sailor on
the top-mast. Now he shakes the tree with a mighty swing that brings
down a pelting shower of stony bergamots, which the father gathers
rapidly up, whilst the mother can hardly assist for her motherly fear--a
fear which only spurs the spir