I replied that the apple was a "Blenheim Orange" and no American. [Sidenote: "NO NEED OF FOREIGN STUFF"] "No need of foreign stuff in Shropshire," answered Burbidge, proudly. "Our late apples are as sound as if they were only fruited yesterday." Then I told him that the potato was one of the same sort that I had last night at dinner--floury, sweet and mealy. "Then I'll be bound," he replied, "you had an Up-to-Dater, or may be a Sutton's Abundance; they be both sound as a sovereign, real gold all through. No blotches or specks in they. We had four roods of both on the farm. Fresh land, no manure and a dusty summer, and tatters will take care of theirselves; but come a wet year, a field potato is worth two in a garden, although I says it as shouldn't, but truth is truth, although you have to look up a black chimney to find it, as folks say." Then old Burbidge went on to tell me how "Potatoes be right house wenches in a garden, or same as clouts to floors; but don't you go to takin' 'em from their nature too early, for when the tops bleed the tubers will never be fit for squire's food, only fit for a petty tradesman's table," and this with Burbidge is always a dark, and outer land of disgrace. Bess, Burbidge and I paced along the neat swept paths. At last I got my word in. "No damage done by the snow?" I asked. "I don't allow no damage," was our old retainer's stern reply; "leastways, not after daylight. I and lads were out again with poles this morning." We wandered round the close-clipped yews, and peeped over into the borders beyond, while Burbidge talked of "how all had been put to bed" with pride. "Them as wants next year must mind this," he exclaimed. All my tea-roses, Chinese peonies, and tender plants had been duly covered up with fern; and branches of spruce and Austrian fir had been carefully placed in front of my clematises Flammula, Montana, and Jackmanni, and round the posts on which my Crimson Rambler, jessamine, and vine ramped in summer. "They are just resting comfortable," said Burbidge, complacently. "We all want sleep--plants and men--but let the plants have it suitable, same as childer in their beds." We had come to the end of the red-walled garden, and as he said this, Burbidge opened the wrought-iron gate, and I passed down the flight of stairs which leads to the front drive. "To-morrow we must talk about the list of flowers," I cried, before he was out of sight and hearing; "we must not forget the butter-beans, and the foreign golden lettuces." Burbidge nodded, but not enthusiastically. He doesn't what he calls "hold to foreign things." England is his country, and, above all, Shropshire his county, but being very faithful, he is indulgent to my foibles. As Bess and I walked along the pathway, we lingered in the cloisters, and for a moment looked away at the far distance.