THE OLD COUNTRY ROAD 



79 



ers; and if we were not all three in fairy- 

 land, certainly I was. The scent of a 

 geranium leaf to this day strikes me, . . . 

 and then I see a straw hat and bine rib- 

 bons, and a quantity of curls, and a little 

 black dog being held up in two slender 

 arms, against a bank of blossoms and 

 bright leaves.'' 



And how charmingly again he pictured 

 David. How at six o'clock in the morning 

 he bought a bouquet for Dora at Co vent 

 Gardens. How he carried flowers to 

 Dora sitting in the garden, ''among the 

 butterflies, in a white chip bonnet and a 

 dress of celestial blue,'' and how she looked 

 so lovely that he — poor, smitten David — 



wanted to say, "Let me die here !" 



"Then Dora held my flowers to Jip to 

 smell. Then Jij) growled and wouldn't 

 smell them. Then Dora laughed, and 

 held them a little closer to Jip, to make 

 him. Then Jip laid hold of a bit of 

 geranium with his teeth, and worried im- 

 aginary cats in it. Then Dora beat him, 

 and pouted, and said, 'My poor, beautiful 

 flowers !' as compassionately as if Jip had 

 laid hold of me." 



Dear little Dora ! Dear little child 

 wife ! Lovingly Dickens has interwoven 

 in her brief life this, the flower of his 

 heart. A\T.iat his genius has immortalized, 

 let us never again call common. 



The Old Country Road 



By Charles 



A winding road that leads to a ford, 

 Away from the scrambling, struggling 

 horde, 

 Of the city's rush. 

 Pressed close by walls of emerald green, 

 Scented by flowers that grow between. 

 Watched over by sentinels, tall and lean. 

 Haunts of the thrush. 



In width it is scarcely a single rod, 

 By hoof of beast it is seldom trod, 



^ustin Hartley 



Down by the stream. 

 Few wheels pass along that shaded way, 

 Its dust undisturbed full many a day. 

 It is a pretty road you will surely say, — 



A sylvan dream. 



The hare steals out at dusk of eve, 

 The spider her web in peace can weave. 



Nature's safe retreat. 

 The murmuring stream, the rustling leaf, 

 A glimpse of Heaven, no vain belief, 

 For the ills of life a sure relief, 



The rarest treat. 



A breath of frost is in the air, 

 Traces of Fall are here and there. 



In bramble and tree. 

 A warning is screamed by the soaring jay, 

 The songsters will shortly hasten away, 

 But come back again the first Spring day. 



Light-hearted and free. 



