82 MY FARM. 



on the green. So it is, for a breathing space of level , 

 then the gravelly road makes sudden plunge under a 

 thicket of trees ; a rustic culvert is crossed, which is 

 the wasteway of the pool at the foot of the lawn ; 

 and opposite on a gentle lift of turf, all overshad- 

 owed with trees, is the farmery. Here, as before 

 described, were outlying sheds, and leaning gables, 

 and a wreck of castaway ploughs and carts ; and the 

 scene alive with the cluck of matronly hens, conduct- 

 ing broods of gleesome chickens, and with the side- 

 long waddle of a bevy of ducks, I have a recollec- 

 tion, too, of certain long-necked turkeys, who eyed 

 me curiously on my first visit, with an oblique twist 

 of their heads, and of a red-tasselled Tom, who 

 sounded a gobble of alarm, as I marched upon the 

 premises, and met me with a formidable strut. These 

 birds are very human. I never go to the town but I 

 see men who remind me of the gobblers ; and I never 

 see my gobblers but they remind me pleasantly of 

 men in the town. 



Immediately beyond the gates, which opened upon 

 the farmery, was a quaint square box of red trimmed 

 off with white (whose old-fashioned coloring I mam- 

 tain), being a tenant house of most venerable age, 

 and standing in the middle of a wild and ragged 

 garden. The road has made two easy curves up to 

 this point, and skirts a great hill that rises boldly on 



