MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



A friend called upon me shortly after my 

 arrival, and learning the errand upon which I 

 had been scouring no inconsiderable tract of 

 country, proposed to me to linger a day more, 

 and take a drive about the suburbs. I will- 

 ingly complied with his invitation; though I 

 must confess that my idea of the suburbs, col- 

 ored as it was by old recollections of college 

 walks over dead stretches of level, in order 

 to find some quiet copse, where I might bandy 

 screams with a bluejay, in rehearsal of some 

 college theme— all this, I say, moderated my 

 expectations. 



It seems but yesterday that I drove from 

 among the tasteful houses of the town, which 

 since my boy time had crept far out upon the 

 margin of the plain. It seems to me that I can 

 recall the note of an oriole, that sang gush- 

 ingly from the limbs of an over-reaching elm 

 as we passed. I know I remember the stately 

 broad road we took, and its smooth, firm mac- 

 adam. I have a fancy that I compared it in 

 my own mind, and not unfavorably, with the 

 metal of a road, which I had driven over only 

 two months before in the environs of Liver- 

 pool. I remember a somewhat stately country 

 house that we passed, whose architecture dis- 

 solved any illusions I might have been under, 



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