It was a delightful evening about the end of August. The sun, setting in a pure sky, illuminated the tops of the western hills, and tipped the opposite trees with a yellow lustre.
A traveller, with sunburnt cheeks and dusty feet, strong and active, having a knapsack at his back, had gained the summit of a steep ascent, and stood gazing on the plain below.
This was a wide tract of champaign country, checkered with villages, whose towers and spires peeped above the trees in which they were embosomed. The space between them was chiefly arable land, from which the last products of the harvest were busily carrying away.
A rivulet wound through the plain, its course marked with gray willows. On its banks were verdant meadows, covered with lowing herds, moving slowly to the milkmaids, who came tripping along with pails on their heads. A thick wood clothed the side of a gentle eminence rising from the water, crowned with the ruins of an ancient castle.
Edward (that was the traveller’s name) dropped on one knee, and clasping his hands, exclaimed, “Welcome, welcome, my dear native land. Many a sweet spot have I seen since I left thee, but none so sweet as thou! Never has thy dear image been out of my memory; and now with what transport do I retrace all thy charms! O, receive me again, never more to quit thee!” So saying, he threw himself on the turf; and having kissed it, rose and proceeded on his journey.
As he descended into the plain, he overtook a little group of children, merrily walking along the path, and stopping now and then to gather berries in the hedge.
“Where are you going, my dears?” said Edward.
“We are going home,” they all replied.
“And where is that?”
“Why, to Summerton, that town there among the trees, just before us. Don’t you see it?”