A thin smoke,
that did not scare the birds away, went up from the dilapidated
chimney. There was a great bench at the door between two huge
honey-suckle bushes, that were pink with blossom and full of scent.
The walls could scarcely be seen for branches of vine and sprays of
rose and jessamine that interlaced and grew entirely as chance and
their own will bade them; for the inmates of the cottage seemed to pay
no attention to the growth which adorned their house, and to take no
care of it, leaving to it the fresh capricious charm of nature.
Some clothes spread out on the gooseberry bushes were drying in the
sun. A cat was sitting on a machine for stripping hemp; beneath it lay
a newly scoured brass caldron, among a quantity of potato-parings. On
the other side of the house Raphael saw a sort of barricade of dead
thorn-bushes, meant no doubt to keep the poultry from scratching up
the vegetables and pot-herbs. It seemed like the end of the earth. The
dwelling was like some bird's-nest ingeniously set in a cranny of the
rocks, a clever and at the same time a careless bit of workmanship. A
simple and kindly nature lay round about it; its rusticity was
genuine, but there was a charm like that of poetry in it; for it grew
and throve at a thousand miles' distance from our elaborate and
conventional poetry.
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