Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 097.djvu/258

246 roads of her favourite coppice, and amidst its steep declivities, sunny slopes, and sudden swells and falls, with the dark verdure of fir-plantations hanging over the picturesque unequal paling, partly covered with moss and ivy—the firs interspersed with shining orange-leaved beech, and the glossy stems of the "lady of the woods," the delicate weeping birch; while beneath grows a rich underwood, where the old thorn's red-spotted leaves and redder berries, and the bramble's scarlet festoons, and tall fern of every hue, seem to vie with the brilliant mosaic of the ground, now covered with dead leaves, and strewn with fir-cones, now, where a little glade intervenes, gay with various mosses and splendid fungi. On she guides us, on a calm mild November day, along a beautiful lane, decorated with a thousand colours: the brown road, and the rich verdure that borders it, strewed with the pale yellow leaves of the elm, just beginning to fall; hedge-rows glowing with long wreaths of the bramble in every variety of purplish red; and overhead the unchanged green of the fir, contrasting with the spotted sycamore, the tawny beech, and the dry sere leaves of the oak, which rustle as the light wind passes through them; a few common yellow flowers, still blowing in spite of the season, and ruddy berries growing through all. On she posts us up the hill where the road widens, with the group of cattle by the way-side, and the little boy-messenger, trundling his hoop at full speed, making all the better haste in his work, because he cheats himself into thinking it play; and so we reach the patch of common on the hill-top with the clear pool, where three cottar's children—elves of three, and four, and five years old—without any distinction of sex in their sunburnt faces and tattered drapery, are dipping up water in their little homely cups, shining with cleanliness, and a small brown pitcher with the lid broken, which, when it is filled, their united strength will never be able to lift: and, as we gaze, we ex animo subscribe assent to our guide's assertion that these infants are quite a group for a painter, with their rosy cheeks, and chubby hands, and round merry faces; and the low cottage in the back-ground, peeping out of its vine leaves and china roses, with the good wife at the door, tidy, and comely, and smiling, preparing the potatoes for the pot, and watching the tiny labourers at the pool. Or she makes us cross the river, and lean, as by instinct, over the rails of the bridge, and gaze on the fine grounds of the Great House, with their magnificent clusters of limes, and firs, and poplars; the green meadows opposite, studded with oaks and elms; the clear winding Loddon itself; the mill with its picturesque old buildings bounding the scene. Not a ramble do we take with her, but her pretty Italian greyhound, Mayflower, is there also—for May is as welcome a presence as the season of that name—and, confesses her mistress, to accomplish a walk in the country without her, would be like an adventure of Don Quixote without his faithful 'squire Sancho. And then, what real village life-and-blood personages we are introduced to! That retired publican, for instance, who piques himself on independence and idleness, talks politics, reads newspapers, hates the minister, and cries out for reform—who, in chronic ennui, hangs over his gate, and tries to entice passengers to stop and chat; who volunteers little jobs all round, smokes cherry-trees to cure the blight, and traces and blows up all the wasp-nests in the parish. And big, burly Tom Cordery—that gentlest of savages, and wildest of civilised men—rat-catcher, hare