The English Coun­try Cot­tage

This England - - The Editor's Letter -

A cot­tage — no — a minia­ture house, with many ad­di­tions, lit­tle odds and ends of places, pantries, and what not; all an­gles, and of a charm­ing in-and-out­ness; a lit­tle bricked court be­fore one half, and a lit­tle flower-yard be­fore the other; the walls old and weather-stained, cov­ered with hol­ly­hocks, roses, hon­ey­suck­les, and a great apri­cot-tree; the case­ments full of gera­ni­ums (ah! there is our su­perb white cat peep­ing out from among them); the clos­ets (our land­lord has the as­sur­ance to call them rooms) full of con­trivances and cor­ner-cup­boards; and the lit­tle gar­den be­hind full of com­mon flow­ers, tulips, pinks, lark­spurs, peonies, stocks, and car­na­tions, with an ar­bour of privet, not un­like a sen­try-box where one lives in a de­li­cious green light, and looks out on the gayest of all gay flower-beds. That house was built on pur­pose to show in what an ex­ceed­ing small com­pass com­fort may be packed. MARY RUS­SELL MITFORD (1787-1855)

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