MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



bubble as it were, from that stock of vitality 

 which is searching all the crannies of the 

 masonry that belongs to the days of Elizabeth. 



I never look at it in times of idle musing, 

 but its shiny leaflets seem to carry me to the 

 gray wreck of castle: and the tramp through 

 the meadows from Leamington comes back — 

 the wet grass, the gray walls, the broad-hatted 

 English girls, hovering with gleeful laughter 

 about the ruin, and the flitch of bacon hanging 

 in the gatekeeper's house. Other times, the 

 dainty tendrils of the vine lead me still farther 

 back ; and Leicester, Amy Robsart, Essex, and 

 Queen Bess with her followers, and all her 

 court, — come trooping to m.y eye in the trail 

 of this poor little exiled creeper from Kenil- 

 worth. 



But this is not farming. 



"Coombs," said I, "what shall we plant upon 

 the flat?" — not that I had no opinion on the 

 subject, but because in farming, there is a value 

 in the suggestions of every practical worker. 



The Somersetshire man leans his head a 

 little, as if considering: — "We must have some 

 artiUcial, sir, — for the cows — Mangel or pale 

 Belgians, — both good, sir; some oats for the 

 'osses, sir; potatoes, sir, is a tidy crop — " 



I observe that Englishmen and Scotchmen 



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