MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



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, and a more provident and ap- 

 preciative eye than mine. 



I think that I have not withheld from view 

 the awkwardnesses and embarrassments which 

 beset a country life in New England,— nor 

 overstated its possible attractions. I have 

 sought at any rate, to give a truthful picture, 

 and to suffuse it all— so far as I might — with 

 a country atmosphere; so that a man might 

 read, as if the trees were shaking their leaves 

 over his head, — the corn rustling through all 

 its ranks within hearing, and the flowers bloom- 

 ing at his elbow. 



Be this all as it may, — when, upon this 

 charming morning of later August, I catch 

 sight, from my window, of the distant water — 

 where, as at the first — white sails come and 

 go:— of the spires and belfries of the near city 

 rising out of their bower of elms— of the 

 farm lands freshened by late rains into un- 

 wonted greenness ; — of the coppices I have 

 planted, shaking their silver leaves, and see 

 the low fire of border flowers flaming round 

 their skirts, and hear the water plashing at the 

 door in its rocky pool, and the cheery voices 



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