the clumps of shining, dark-green holly bushes, I said to myself, "Ah,
really, this is England!"

I never saw any plant that struck me as more beautiful than this holly.
It is a dense shrub growing from six to eight feet high, with a thickly
varnished leaf of green. The outline of the leaf is something like this.
I do not believe it can ever come to a state of perfect development
under the fierce alternations of heat and cold which obtain in our New
England climate, though it grows in the Southern States. It is one of
the symbolical shrubs of England, probably because its bright green in
winter makes it so splendid a Christmas decoration. A little bird sat
twittering on one of the sprays. He had a bright red breast, and seemed
evidently to consider himself of good blood and family, with the best
reason, as I afterwards learned, since he was no other than the
identical robin redbreast renowned in song and story; undoubtedly a
lineal descendant of that very cock robin whose death and burial form so
vivid a portion of our childish literature.

I must tell you, then, as one of the first remarks on matters and things
here in England, that "robin redbreast" is not at all the fellow we in
America take him to be. The character who flourishes under that name
among us is quite a different bird; he is twice as large, and has
altogether a different air, and as he sits up with military erectness on
a rail fence or stump, shows not even a family likeness to his
diminutive English namesake. Well, of course, robin over here will claim
to have the real family estate and title, since he lives in a country
where such matters are understood and looked into. Our robin is probably
some fourth cousin, who, like others, has struck out a new course for
himself in America, and thrives upon it.