176 MY FARM. 



and successive dips in the sugar. The Scotch fruit 

 was acid, I must admit, but the size was monument- 

 al. 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 Grindel- 

 wald, and had just accomplished the first lift of the 

 Wengern Alp tired and thirsty when a little peas- 

 ant girl appeared with a tray of blue saucers, brim- 

 ming with Alpine berries so sweet, so musky, so 

 remembered, 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 before 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 red clusters, but the spurs are 

 somewhat mossy, and the boughs have a straggling, 

 dejected air. With a little care, severe pruning, 

 due enrichment, and a proper regard to varieties 



