ijo THE HUNTING FIELD 



innocent if not more poetical associations than any 

 other title we know of. It is the "love in a cottage" 

 of industrious life. We who live in smoky, foggy, 

 pent-up London, to whom Primrose Hill or the tree- 

 clad heights of Hampstead are a luxury, sigh for the 

 enjoyment of our own cow, and a shady flower- 

 strewed pasture to feed her in. What pleasure to 

 turn an old fat hen off her nest and pick out our own 

 warm egg — to shake the thick reluctant cream from 

 the spout of the well-filled jug. How delightful to 

 wander in the flower-garden, amid the hum of our 

 own bees, all at work for our own profit — to see our 

 own ducks scudding over our own pond, and instead 

 of the carrier pigeons of Islington and Holloway, to 

 see the wheeling flocks alight on our own white dove- 

 cote. Above all, picture the enjoyment of the sunny 

 hay field, with coatless men mingling with the merry 

 maids of the village green. 



Farmers are about the only people exempt from any 

 settled denunciation on account of their calling. We 

 hear of savage soldiers, rascally lawyers, humbug- 

 ging parsons, greedy tradesmen, grasping doctors, 

 exorbitant coachmakers, ruinous milliners, but the 

 worst accusation we ever hear brought against a 

 Farmer is that of doltishness or stupidity. That is a 

 last " refuge of the destitute" sort of charge, answer- 

 ing to the "ugly old cat" of the ladies, or the 

 schoolboy's objection to Dr. Fell : — 



"I do not like you, Doctor Fell, 

 The reason why I cannot tell ; 

 But this I know full well, 

 I do not like you, Doctor Fell." 



"You are a thick-headed farmer, and that's the 

 long and short of it," as a friend of ours would say, 

 in closing what he would call an "argument." 



To appreciate a farmer properly, it is necessary 

 for a person to be acquainted with country as well as 



