138 MY FARM. 



member the beautiful checker-work of crops, wliich 

 shine, in lustrous green, on either bank beyond the 

 old Norman city of Rouen. Before yet the quaint 

 and gorgeous towers of the town have gone down in 

 the distance, these newer beauties of the cleanly cul- 

 tivated shore-land challenge his wonder and admira- 

 tion. I name the scene now, because it shows a cul- 

 tivation without enclosures ; nothing but a traditional 

 line which some aged poplar, or scar on the chalk 

 cliff marks, between adjoining proprietors ; a belt 

 of wheat is fringed with long-bearded barley ; and 

 next, the plume-like tufts of the French trefoil, 

 make a glowing band of crimson. A sturdy peas- 

 ant woman, in wooden sabots, is gathering up a 

 bundle of the trefoil to carry to her pet cow, under 

 the lee of the stone cottage that nestles by the river's 

 bank. 



And I indulge my fancy with the idea of some 

 weazen-faced New England farmer looking down 

 upon all this from some shattered loop-hole of the 

 wrecked chateau Gaillard, and saying " Gosh, ef a 

 crittur were to break loose, I guess they'd have a 

 time on't." 



There are some things we New England farmers 

 have not learned yet. 



