. Our village. actually her-self addicted to administering the conjugal discipline,the infliction of which she was pleased to impute to herluckless husband. Xow we cross the stile, and walk up the fields tothe Shaw. How beautifully green this pasture looks !and how finely the evening sun glances between theboles of that clump of trees, beech, and ash, and aspen Iand how sweet the hedgerows are with woodbine andwild scabious, or, as the country people call it, the gipsy-rose ! Here is little Dolly Weston, the unconsciouswitness, with cheeks as red as a real rose, tottering upthe path to meet he
. Our village. actually her-self addicted to administering the conjugal discipline,the infliction of which she was pleased to impute to herluckless husband. Xow we cross the stile, and walk up the fields tothe Shaw. How beautifully green this pasture looks !and how finely the evening sun glances between theboles of that clump of trees, beech, and ash, and aspen Iand how sweet the hedgerows are with woodbine andwild scabious, or, as the country people call it, the gipsy-rose ! Here is little Dolly Weston, the unconsciouswitness, with cheeks as red as a real rose, tottering upthe path to meet her father. And here is the carroty-poled urchin, George Coper, returning from work, andsinging Home ! sweet Home ! at the top of his voice ; THE SHAW 93 and then, when the notes prove too high for him, con-tinuing the air in a whistle, until he has turned theimpassable corner ; then taking up again the song andthe words, Home! sweet Ihnne ! and looking as ifhe felt their full import, ploughbo)- though he be. And. so he does ; for he is one of a large, an honest, a kind,and an industrious family, where all goes well, andwhere the poor ploughboy is sure of finding cheerfulfaces and coarse comforts—all that he has todesire. Oh, to be as cheaply and as thoroughly con-tented as George Coper! All his luxuries a cricket-match !—all his wants satisfied in home ! sweet home ! O 194 OUR VlLLACiK Nothing but noises to-day ! They are clearingI^irmer l^rookcs great bean-field, and crying theHarvest Home! in a chorus, before which all othersounds—the song, the scolding, the gunnery—fadeaway, and become faint echoes. A pleasant noise isthat! though, for ones ears sake, one makes somehaste to get away from it. And here, in happy time,is that pretty wood, the Shaw, with its broad pathway,its tangled dingles, its nuts and its honeysuckles ;—and, carrying away a faggot of those sweetest flowers,we reach Hannah Bints: of whom, and of whosedoings, we shall say more another time. No
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Keywords: ., bookauthorritchieannethackeray1, bookcentury1800, bookdecade1890
