stream, which utters no murmur-it is only an indication that the period is approaching when dove-eyed spring will spread her pinions over the land, and breathe the breath of life into tree and flower, awaken the chorus of the woods, cause the wells to gush with a brighter treasure, and the streams to resound with a shout of gladness.

Well may the heart of even the Hedger and Ditcher be cheered by the objects which are presented around, and the notes which greet his ear. The song of the thrush resounds in the neighbouring wood, or of the blackbird in the adjacent copse. The call of the partridge is heard along the furrows, as each is finding its mate for the season; and the small birds are busy in their respective communities. Along the lines of the hedge-rows, the primrose is unfolding its blossom, wooing the sunbeam with a look of coyness, straying through the woods, or assembling in harmonious groups, like the sweet thoughts which inhabit the mind of purity, or fall from the lip or pen of eloquence, and truth, and powerthe herald of the spring, the pursuivant of the birth of the violet, the first opening of whose gentle eye catches the deep blue of heaven,

offering up the incense of praise from the inmost recesses of his own perfumed heart

"Bayleaves betweene,

And primroses greene,

Embellish the sweete violet."*

Through scenes like these, and amid sounds. like these, stroke after stroke reverberates through the valley, and is taken up by the adjacent woods. It is the stroke of the Hedger and Ditcher driving his stake. He proceeds with great regularity, and does everything neatly and in perfect order. His skill and experience enable him to strike with the required force the supple branches, and to intertwine them in the firmest way, without destroying their growth, and to twist the bindings in the most even manner, brushing away the underwood, and forming the required ditch. The neatness and firmness with which all his operations are performed, evince the skill ―nay, the pride-of the experienced hand. Amongst agricultural labourers, however, there is not one in ten a good Hedger and Ditcher. In some instances, there is only one in a whole parish. Hence the estimation in which he is

* Spencer. Shepherd's Calender.

held; and the extreme usefulness of all his operations as one important portion in the economy of the farm. Viewing him as he proceeds with his work-observing him when he has paused to enjoy his humble meal with a relish enhanced by exercise and by breathing the breath of a pure atmosphere—a relish wholly unknown to the pampered sons and daughters of sloth and effeminacy, stretched upon the couch of luxury, wiling away the hours of tediousness by the frivolities of fashion, and contributing only to swell the mob of mere mediocre characters ;-marking his return to his comfortable and unviolated home, after the labours of the day-the nature of his toil-the neatness of his work-the tidiness of his dress-the excellence of his tools-his sense of order-his feeling of propriety-his selfesteem, with the addition of other qualities which contribute to the perfection of his character-truly,

"Twere well if some folks, who are greater and richer,

Would copy John Tomkins, the Hedger and Ditcher."

THE OLD BRIDLE ROAD.

O, the bridle-way, the bridle-way,
Is a merry path on the bridal-day.

Old Song.

It is not merely a participation in the beauties of the scenes which are presented around with a liberal hand;-it is not merely the splendour of the distant prospect, or the magnificence of the woods with their immense mass of dense and variegated foliage, and with the countless songs of their countless choristers ;nor the green sunny slopes which form the most appropriate margin to the high sylvan sanctuary, and which also present a striking contrast to the hue of the summer fallows ;-nor the belts of thriving plantations formed for the purpose of use, as well as for ornament, shielding off the cold north-east winds and affording a sure protection for game, feathered or furred;

-nor the gushing of the tireless springs, which, uniting their waters with a turbulence of glad ness, form the gentle murmuring stream, which, hushed by the ancient pollard willows, supplies the dam of the old corn mill;-nor the distant white-walled farm-homesteads, with the welstored garner and the well-stored stack yard, the produce of the last harvest, after weeks of severe toil, and months of deep anxiety; nor the tower of the old village church, looking over all with an aspect of paternal, yet unostentatious grandeur; -nor the old hall, with its ivied porch and its windows oriel;—nor the welcome call of the plover along the old commons and the low grounds; -nor the lowing of cattle; -nor the bleating of sheep; nor the voice of the milk-maid as she proceeds to the distant pasture, in the rich exuberance of health, and the joyousness of a heart unstained by the wickedness of a heartless, turbulent, and selfish world;-nor all sounds from the stroke after stroke of the hedger driving his stake, to the shout of the farmer's boy tending the young wheat lands-from the loud laugh of the haymakers to the cheerful voices of the reapers;-nor the flight of all the children of the air from the lark on high to the merry little sedge-warbler below; nor the