one of the small enclosures, 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