The Natural Beauty Of The Place Which I Was Visiting Was Very Great.
The Trees Were Fine And Well Scattered Over The Large, Park-Like
Pastures, And The Ground Was Broken On Every Side Into Hills.
There
was perhaps too much timber, but my friend seemed to think that that
fault would find a natural remedy only too quickly.
"I do not like
to cut down trees if I can help it," he said. After that I need not
say that my host was quite as much an Englishman as an American. To
the purely American farmer a tree is simply an enemy to be trodden
under foot, and buried underground, or reduced to ashes and thrown
to the winds with what most economical dispatch may be possible. If
water had been added to the landscape here it would have been
perfect, regarding it as ordinary English park-scenery. But the
little rivers at this place have a dirty trick of burying themselves
under the ground. They go down suddenly into holes, disappearing
from the upper air, and then come up again at the distance of
perhaps half a mile. Unfortunately their periods of seclusion are
more prolonged than those of their upper-air distance. There were
three or four such ascents and descents about the place.
My host was a breeder of race-horses, and had imported sires from
England; of sheep also, and had imported famous rams; of cattle too,
and was great in bulls. He was very loud in praise of Kentucky and
its attractions, if only this war could be brought to an end.
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