MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



and to be eaten as one might eat a fig, with 

 successive bites, and successive dips in the 

 sugar. The Scotch fruit was acid, I must ad- 

 mit, but the size was monumental, I wonder 

 if the stout landlord is living yet, and if the 

 little pony that whisked me away to Salisbury 

 crag, is still nibbling his vetches in the meadow 

 by Holyrood ? 



The third dish was in Switzerland, in the 

 month of October. I had crossed that day the 

 Scheideck from Meyringen, had threaded the 

 valley of Grindelwald, and had just accom- 

 plished the first lift of the Wengern Alp — tired 

 and thirsty — when a little peasant girl appeared 

 with a tray of blue saucers, brimming with 

 Alpine berries — so sweet, so musky, so remem- 

 bered, that I never eat one now but the 

 great valley of Grindelwald, with its sapphire 

 show of glaciers, its guardian peaks, and its 

 low meadows flashing green, is rolled out be- 

 fore me like a map. 



In those old days when we school-boys were 

 admitted to the garden of the head-master 

 twice in a season — only twice — to eat our fill 

 of currants (his maid having gathered a stock 

 for jellies two days before) , I thought it "most- 

 a-splendid" fruit ; but I think far less of it now. 

 My bushes are burdened with both white and 



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