AN AMERICAN FARMER IN ENGLAND. 



Mr. Olmstead is a bit of a poet, or rather he has other eyes for nature, besides those 

 which he bestows on turnep fields and Short Horns. The following description of his 

 " first glimpse of the country," after leaving Liverpool, is as genuinely, freshly natural, 

 as the song of our Bob-o-link in rising from a clover field in a June morning. 



" There we were right in the midst of it! The country — and such a country! — green, 

 dripping, glistening, gorgeous ! We stood dumb-stricken by its loveliness, as, from the 

 bleak April and bare boughs we had left at home, broke upon us that English May — sun- 

 ny, leafy, blooming May — in an English lane; with hedges, English hedges, hawthorn 

 hedges, all in blossom; homely old farm-houses, quaint stables, and haystacks; the old 

 church spire over the distant trees ; the mild sun beaming through the watery atmosphere, 

 and all so quiet — the only sounds the hum of bees and the crisp grass-tearing of a silken- 

 skinned, real (unimported) Hereford cow over the hedge. No longer excited by daring to 

 think we should see it, as we discussed the scheme round the old home-fire; no longer 

 cheering ourselves with it in the stupid, tedious ship; no more forgetful of it in the bewil- 

 derment of the busy town — but there we were right in the midst of it; long time silent, 

 and then speaking softly, as if it were enchantment indeed, we gazed upon it and breathed 

 it — never to be forgotten. 



"At length we walked on — rapidly — but frequently stopping, one side and the other, like 

 children in a garden; hedges still, with delicious fragrance on each side of us, and on, as 

 far as we can see, true farm-fencing hedges; nothing trim, stiff, nice, and amateur-like, 

 but the verdure broken, tufty, low, and natural. They are set on a ridge of earth thrown 

 out from a ditch beside them, which raises and strengthens them as a fence. They are 

 nearly all hawthorn, which is now covered in patches, as if after a slight fall of snow, with 

 clusters of white or pink blossoms over its light green foliage. Here and there a holly 

 bush, with bunches of scarlet berries, and a few other shrubs, mingle with it. A cart 

 meets us — a real heavy, big-wheeled English cart; and English horses — real big, shaggy- 

 hoofed, sleek, heavy English cart-horses; and a carter — a real apple-faced, smock-frocked, 

 red-headed, wool-hatted carter — breeches, stockings, hob-nailed shoes, and " Gee-up 

 Dobbin'''' English carter. Little birds hop along in the road before us, and we guess at 

 their names, first of all electing one to be Robin red-breast. We study the flowers under 

 the hedge, and determine them nothing else than primroses and butter-cups. Through 

 the gates we admire the great, fat, clean-licked, contented-faced cows, and large, white, 

 long-wooled sheep. What else was there? I cannot remember; but there was that alto- 

 gether that made us forget our fatigue, disregard the rain, thoughtless of the way we were 

 going, serious, happy, and grateful. And this excitement continued for man}' days. 



" At length it becomes drenching again, we approach a stone spire. A stone house inter- 

 rupts our view in front; the road winds round it, between it and another; turns again, and 

 there on our left is the church — the old ivy-covered, brown-stone village church, with the 

 yew tree — we knew it at once, and the heaped-up, green, old English churchyard. We 

 turn to the right; there is the old old ale-house, long, low, thatched roof. We run in at 

 the open door; there he sits, the same bluff and hearty old-fellow, with the long-stem- 

 med pipe, and the foaming pewter mug on the little table before him. At the same mo- 

 ment with us comes in another man. He drops in a seat — raps with his whip. Entar a 

 young woman, neat and trim, with exactly the white cap, smooth hair, shiny face, bright 

 eyes, and red cheeks, we are looking for — " Maggoyail, lass!" 



* * * "Mug of ale!— aye, that's it! Mug of ale!— Fill up! Fill up! and 



the toast shall be 



" Merrie England! Hurrah!" 



