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is narrow, and you would despair of ever reaching the opposite bank, through such a width and depth of mud; and just as you are about to give the ferryman a word or two of a sort," up strides a huge broad-shouldered, powerful fellow, half buried in boots, and with a, “Now, sir," walks you off on his back, and sees nothing in it, on his part, but a daily and common occurrence. Should a lady remonstrate, he has but one answer; and that he is polite enough to give, sometimes in the shape of a question, as he says, "Why, Mam, you would not surely like to walk?" For our part, we laughed heartily, and thought of Robin Hood and the ducking he got, in the old ballad; and we felt thankful that Big Boots had not fallen, and buried us in the mud. We were told that he won his wife by such an accident. It was a feast time, and he had taken too much drink, but he apologized in so handsome a manner, that Betty in a few weeks consented to become Mrs. Boots; for by that name is he called by the ferrymen and passengers. His father was

boots to the boat before him.

Next to the ferries, in beauty, is the ford; only passable in the summer and fine dry months of autumn. To those who are strangers to such a sight, it has a startling effect, to see a laden waggon, axle deep in the water, and drawn by oxen or horses, moving slowly across a wide river. In harvest time it forms a beautiful picture: the yellow and hanging corn, thrown and shadowed upon the water, with the varied colours of the oxen, moving double"-is a scene scarcely to be surpassed, as a painting in English scenery. Many accidents have occurred in passing these fords: when the current has set in too strong, men and cattle have been washed away and drowned; and we well remember putting off in a boat to rescue a milkman, who, with his cans and

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horse, was swimming down the stream at a rapid and dangerous rate. The wicked said, he had gone in to water his milk; for it had a strange blue look when skimmed in the morning.

Primitive and quaint are those little old-fashioned drawbridges such a one, especially, do we remember across the ancient Roman fossdyke near Lincoln; which was opened and shut by two old women, each of whom turned round a large handle, while the bridge moved with a heavy, cumbrous and groaning sound. A great treat was it, for us boys, to stand and ride on that old drawbridge. We fancied ourselves knights, crossing the moat to some enchanted castle : and well could one of those worthy old dames play the part of the dragon, especially on a washing-day.

And where art thou now, Dedemiah (strange name for a farmer's pretty daughter!)? Twenty years ago did we cross Hazelford Ferry with thee, on a beautiful morning in summer; we were the only passengers, and our path lay the same way for a long and pleasant distance. Forty-five miles was not then a day's walk to be frightened at. Many a time have we done it, and been laughed at by older men for our boast-men who have cleared fifty miles of ground within fourteen hours-but that day, Dedemiah, we fell far short of our task; thy father's cottage stood in our path, it was the village-feast, and we entered together. How our cheek burnt, when in thy brother's face we recognized an old companion; and thou lookedst not up, but drooped thy long eye-lids to the ground-the roses that stood peeping in at the old diamond-paned window, looked not more lovely than thou didst at that moment look! And thy mother, with her searching eyes, when she found how brief had been the term of our acquaintanceship, stood serious for a moment,

then smiled, and forgave us both. A few months were to elapse, and then thou wert to have "been mine own," and for thee then he would

"Have herded cattle on the hills :"

very poetical with thee beside us; but thy father thought "the lad would never make a good farmer, who was so fond of books." We thought him but an industrious clod, and marvelled how such a sweet flower as thyself could spring from it; and so we parted."

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What glimpses of beautiful scenery has her name recalled!-Moonlight on the road and on the river! The still village, with its white-washed cottages, sleeping in the silvery moonshine, and looking, with their ivied porches, and thatched roofs, and overhanging trees, as if they formed a part of a great picture!-a night scene, in which nothing ever moved!—where all things ever seemed the same! And that old ferryman, who grumbled when we aroused him from his bed, was he ever young, or ever in love? We thought not, Dedemiah. And thy aunt's cottage, on the opposite side of the river, how lovely it looked in the moonlight, every window-pane flashing back the dazzling beams! Then the murmuring sound that the rippling water made, all night long, as it rolled its surging silver to the shore, dreamy, calm, peaceful, beautiful; a land which fancy had lighted up with sweet poetry!

How oft memory withdraws the curtain to reveal the past! What a blank would life seem were it not for such scenes as are again revealed! Who covets the solace of forgetfulness, or would wish to blot out all, and again begin anew? To obliterate the beauty of that great landscape, because there hangs over it a few dark clouds? Jenny, and

the apple-tree, and the two old men, who have ceased to become friends, and whose reminiscences are, we think, so finely depicted by Mackenzie, in one of our old periodicals, is a beautiful illustration of this feeling. Old age, but for memory, would indeed be solitary. It is the everlasting lamp of the ancients, lighting up what would otherwise be the dark tomb of the mind. They who love not old home feelings, and delight not in calling up images of the past, live in a land unvisited by poetry; each day is but to them a "great fact," and they are unhappy if the next produces not a greater. We love to sit and dream in the "green old world," and shall be sorry to witness the destruction even of our OLD ENGLISH FERRIES.

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"When my old wife lived, upon

This day she was both pantler, butler, cook;
Both dame and servant: welcomed all, served all :
Would sing her song, and dance her turn: now here
At the upper end o' the table; now i' the middle;
On his shoulder, and his: her face o' fire
With labour; and the thing she took to quench it,
She would to each one sip."

SHAKSPERE'S " WINTER'S TALE."

THE most beautiful description that we can recall of a sheep-shearing feast is in the "Winter's Tale:" it may be somewhat too poetical for the generality of readers; but,

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