318 MY FARM. 



me, but the r.-uch of imagination behind and back of 

 them the shadowy procession of Doges the gold 

 cloth the Bucintoro the plash of green water kiss 

 ing the marble steps, where the weeds of the Adriatic 

 hang their tresses, and the dainty feet of Jessica go 

 tripping from hall to gondola. It is not the shaggy, 

 Highland cattle, with dewy nostrils lifted to the 

 morning, that keep my regard in Rosa Bonheur ; 

 but the aroma of the heather, and of a hundred High 

 land traditions, a sound as of Bruar water, a 

 sudden waking of all mountain memories and soli 

 tudes. 



Again it must be remembered by all those who 

 have rural life in anticipation, that its finer charms, 

 and those which grow out of the adornments and 

 accessories of home, are dependent much more upon 

 the appreciative eye and taste of the mistress than 

 of the master. &amp;gt;If I have used the first person some 

 what freely in my descriptions, it has been from no 

 oversight of what is justly due to another ; and I 

 would have the reader believe what is true that 

 all the more delicate graces which are set forth, and 

 which spring from flowers or flowering shrubs, and 

 their adroit disposition, are due to tenderer hands, 

 ud a more provident and appreciative eye than mine. 



I think that I have not withheld from view the 

 awkwardnesses and embarrassments which beset a 



