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VI.
NUTTING.
It seems a day,
(I speak of one from many singled out)
One of those heavenly days which cannot die,
When forth I sallied from our Cottage-door[1],
With a huge wallet o'er my shoulder slung,
A nutting-crook in hand, and turn'd my steps
Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,
Tricked out in proud disguise of cast-off weeds
Which for that service had been husbanded,
By exhortation of my frugal Dame.
Motley accoutrement of power to smile
At thorns, and brakes, and brambles,—and, in truth,
More ragged than need was. Among the woods,
And o'er the pathless rocks, I forced my way
- ↑ The house at which I was boarded during the time I was at School.
