174 A MOUNTAIN-SIDE RAMBLE. 



at the sight of boards on which Brown of 

 Boston and Smith of Smithfield had not yet 

 inscribed their illustrious names. I had left 

 the city in search of rest and seclusion. For 

 the time, in the presence of Nature herself, 

 I would gladly have forgotten the very ex- 

 istence of my all-too-famous countrymen ; 

 and I rejoiced accordingly to have found 

 one lonely spot to which their restless feet 

 had not yet penetrated. Tall grass grew 

 untrodden quite up to the door-sill; rasp- 

 berry vines thrust their arms in at the pane- 

 less windows ; there was neither paint nor 

 plastering ; and the tiny cupboard was so 

 bare that it set my irreverent fancy to quot- 

 ing Mother Goose in the midst of my most 

 serious moralizings. 



The owner of this farm, like his neigh- 

 bor, had planted an apple orchard, and his 

 wife a patch of cinnamon roses ; and, not to 

 treat one better than another, I picked a 

 rose here also. There is no lover of flow- 

 ers but likes to have his garden noticed, 

 and the good housewife would have been 

 pleased, I knew, could she have seen me 

 looking carefully for her handsomest and 

 sweetest bud. 



