A railway from Chicago had
just reached Joliet, and had been opened three days before. It was
an invitation to start, and I accepted it.
Nobody ever loved his native land better than I do when I am away
from it. I can call to mind its innumerable beauties, and in fancy
saunter once more through the summer woods, among the bracken, the
bluebells, and the foxglove. I can wander by the banks of the Brock,
where the sullen trout hide in the clear depths of the pools. I can
walk along the path--the path to Paradise--still lined with the
blue-eyed speedwell and red campion; I know where the copse is
carpeted with the bluebell and ragged robin, where grow the alders,
and the hazels rich with brown nuts, the beeches and the oaks; where
the flower of the yellow broom blazes like gold in the noontide sun;
where the stockdove coos overhead in the ivy; where the kingfisher
darts past like a shaft of sapphire, and the water ouzel flies up
stream; where the pheasant glides out from his home in the wood to
feed on the headland of the wheat field; where the partridge broods
in the dust with her young; where the green lane is bordered by the
guelder-rose or wayfaring tree, the raspberry, strawberry, and
cherry, the wild garlic of starlike flowers, the woodruff, fragrant
as new-mown hay; the yellow pimpernel on the hedge side.
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