I mean that the memory of the time wants but that to render it perfect in bliss.

Even in the cold days of spring, when, after being shut up all the winter, the cattle were allowed to revel again in the springing grass and the venturesome daisies, there was pleasure enough in the company and devices of the cowherd, a freckle-faced, white-haired, weak-eyed boy of ten, named--I forget his real name: we always called him Turkey, because his nose was the colour of a turkey's egg.

Who but Turkey knew mushrooms from toadstools?
Who but Turkey could detect earth-nuts--and that with the certainty of a truffle-hunting dog?
Who but Turkey knew the note and the form and the nest and the eggs of every bird in the country?
Who but Turkey, with his little whip and its lash of brass wire, would encounter the angriest bull in Christendom, provided he carried, like the bulls of Scotland, his most sensitive part, the nose, foremost?
In our eyes Turkey was a hero.

Who but Turkey could discover the nests of hens whose maternal anxiety had eluded the _finesse_ of Kirsty?
and who so well as he could roast the egg with which she always rewarded such a discovery?
Words are feeble before the delight we experienced on such an occasion, when Turkey, proceeding to light a fire against one of the earthen walls which divided the fields, would send us abroad to gather sticks and straws and whatever outcast combustibles we could find, of which there was a great scarcity, there being no woods or hedges within reach.

Who like Turkey could rob a wild bee's nest?
And who could be more just than he in distributing the luscious prize?
In fine, his accomplishments were innumerable.