A LETTER TO LADIES IN TOWN. 



BY A NEW-ENGLAND COUNTRY GIRL. 



Mr. Downing — Dear Sir: I don't think 

 you have many lady correspondents to your 

 delightful Horticulturist. I suppose the 

 reason is, that we women have nothing new 

 to say about fruits or flowers ; or perhaps, 

 taking warning from our common mother, 

 we shun pomology. Now I am no wiser 

 than any of the rest. I could not graft a 

 tree, for my life. I am tired out hearing 

 of "remarkable pears;" and as for bota- 

 nizing, I should as soon think of carving 

 neighbor Simpson's dear little baby to pie- 

 ces, to study practical anatomy, as pulling 

 one of my precious flowers apart, to count 

 its slender stamens, and give it a polysyl- 

 labic name. But I am a country girl; and 

 knowing that many city ladies read your 

 book, I want to borrow its pages, to try if I 

 cannot lure some of those languid feet, and 

 delicate hands, into my haunts of wood and 

 field this coming summer. Is not this a 

 laudable object ? If I should persuade some 

 fair votary of operas and balls into my wide 

 concert room, how beautifully those weary 

 lips would smile and redden in the keen 

 fresh air ! Ah, my pale and lovely sister, 

 you may tread with light steps the sunny 

 pavj of Broadway, or roll over the avenues 

 in your easy carriage, or enchant all Har- 

 lem with the horsewomanship you display; 

 but you don't know what life is till you 

 have been with me, treading 



" In glory and in joy along the moimtain siile." 



I know the pavement is smooth walking ; 

 I do not despise beaux ; and I like beauti- 

 ful dresses, and French shoes, as well as 

 any belle that ever lived; but I love the 

 woods best. 



Put on my water-proof boots, and that 



sun-bonnet. We will show you how to 

 climb fences; and now — your are fairly 

 entered into bush-land. You like flowers ? 

 — bouquets of rare exotics, and the heavy 

 sweetness of Heliotrope, and Cape Jessa- 

 mine, perhaps ; — but look at that sunny 

 hillside ! see the dog-tooth violet, in full 

 bloom among the dry leaves, tossing its 

 golden turbans to every breeze, and look- 

 ing stately as a flight of captive princesses 

 from fairy land. There, under your feet, 

 is the frail Anemone, with pink buds and 

 white blossoms.' Behind that stump nes- 

 tles the bright blue Liverwort ; and on the 

 edge of this clear brook the delicate " Spring 

 Beauty" bends over the water timidly. Over 

 head, the leafless boughs rustle and wave 

 against the serene sky, and the dry grass 

 yields softly to your feet beneath. There, 

 too, are violets, purple and white both, and 

 the meadow grass is strewn with " Inno- 

 cents." Nor is the wood lonely ; there is 

 a woodchuck's hole, and the yellow sand 

 before his door is freshly thrown out. Dare 

 I tell you what that was that stirred the 

 leaves yonder ? You would scream, I think, 

 — yet needlessly ; it is only a harmless stri- 

 ped snake. Then, the innumerable frogs, 

 which hold a congressional session in the 

 swamp, do not hold their peace in broad 

 sunlight. There are no pistols in their 

 breast pockets, my dear ! All this noise 

 and threatening roar is " vox et prseterea 

 nihil." And if this nook of forest is lovely 

 now, what will it be in the summer, when 

 the partridge berry shows its fragrant and 

 tiny blossoms; when wild honeysuckles 

 shine through the columned shades, and 

 the sweet wild roses wave their long gar- 



