ge street, peeping through the trees, whose
clustering tops hide all but the chimneys, and various roofs of the
houses, and here and there some angle of a wall; farther on, the elegant
town of B----, with its fine old church-towers and spires; the whole
view shut in by a range of chalky hills and over every part of the
picture, trees so profusely scattered, that it appears like a woodland
scene, with glades and villages intermixed. The trees are of all kinds
and all hues, chiefly the finely-shaped elm, of so bright and deep a
green, the tips of whose high outer branches drop down with such a crisp
and garland-like richness, and the oak, whose stately form is just
now so splendidly adorned by the sunny colouring of the young leaves.
Turning again up the hill, we find ourselves on that peculiar charm of
English scenery, a green common, divided by the road; the right side
fringed by hedgerows and trees, with cottages and farmhouses irregularly
placed, and terminated by a double avenue of noble oaks; the left,
prettier still, dappled by bright pools of water, and islands of
cottages and cottage-gardens, and sinking gradually down to cornfields
and meadows, and an old farmhouse, with pointed roofs and clustered
chimneys, looking out from its blooming orchard, and backed by woody
hills. The common is itself the prettiest part of the prospect; half
covered with low furze, whose golden blossoms reflect so intensely the
last beams of the setting sun, and alive with cows and sheep, and two
sets of cricketers; one of young men, surrounded by spectators, some
standing, some sitting, some stretched on the grass, all taking a
delighted interest in the game; the other, a merry group of little boys,
at a humble distance, for whom even cricket is scarcely lively enough,
shouting, leaping, and enjoying themselves to their hearts' content. But
cricketers and country boys are too important persons in our village
to be talked of merely as figures in the landscape. They deserve an
individual introduction--an essay to themselves--and they shall have it.
No fear of forgetting the good-humoured faces that meet us in our walks
every day.

WALKS IN THE COUNTRY.

Frost.

January 23rd.--At noon to-day I and my white greyhound, Mayflower,
set out for a walk into a very beautiful world,--a sort of silent
fairyland,--a creation of that matchless magician the hoar-frost. There
had been just snow enough to cover the earth and all its covers wit