If we suppose the time, instead of June, to be
August or September, there would not even be the singing of the birds.
But as you sat on the wall, by-and-by the pheasants, tame as chickens,
would come up the hedge and over into the churchyard.
Leaving the church to stroll by the footpath across the meadow towards
the wood, at the first gateway half-a-dozen more pheasants scatter
aside, just far enough to let you pass. In the short dusty lane more
pheasants; and again at the edge of the cornfield. None of these show
any signs of alarm, and only move just far enough to avoid being trodden
on. Approaching the wood there are yet more pheasants, especially near
the fir plantations that come up to the keeper's cottage and form one
side of the enclosure of his garden. The pheasants come up to the door
to pick up what they can--not long since they were fed there--and then
wander away between the slender fir trunks, and beyond them out into the
fields.
The path leads presently into a beautiful park, the only defect of which
is that it is without undulation. It is quite level; but still the
clumps of noble timber are pleasant to gaze upon. In one spot there
still stands the grey wall and buttress of some ancient building,
doubtless the relic of an ecclesiastical foundation. The present mansion
is not far distant; it is of large size, but lacks elegance. Inside,
nothing that modern skill can supply to render a residence comfortable,
convenient, and (as art is understood in furniture) artistic has been
neglected.
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