292 MY FARM. 



of England ! Not the paths of owners only ; not 

 cautiously gravelled walks ; but all men's paths, 

 where any wayfarer may go ; worn smooth by poor 

 feet and rich feet, idle feet and working feet ; open 

 across the fields from time immemorial ; God's paths 

 for his people, which no man may shut ; winding 

 coiling over stiles leaping on stepping-stones through 

 brooks with curves more graceful than Hogarth's 

 hieroglyphics of the Great Master written on the land, 

 which, being interpreted, say Love one another. 



We call ours a country of privilege, yet what 

 rich man gives right of way over his grounds ? 

 What foot-path or stile to cheat the laborer of his 

 fatigue ? 



Shrubbery. 



DOES the reader remember that upon the June 

 day on which I first visited My Farm, I de- 

 scribed the air as all aflow with the perfume of pur- 

 ple lilacs ; and does he think that I would ungrate- 

 fully forget it, or forget the lilacs ? The Lilac is one 

 of those old shrubs which I cling to with an admira- 

 tion that is almost reverence. The Syringo (Phila- 

 delphus) is another; and the Guelder-rose (Viburnum) 

 is another. They are all infamously common; but so 

 is sunshine. 



The Mezereum, the Forsythia, and the Weigelia 



