YORK COUNTY.

A Summer Tramp Among the Farmers Notes picked up by the Way, about Places and People. To ride shank’s mare along the pleasant country roads of the Metropolitan County is, to a man with strong boots and constitution plenty of time and a good conscience, which fears neither ghosts nor the sheriff, affords knowledge, pleasure, a good appetite and a sound digestion to him who has the courage to undertake it. At least so thought a GLEANER correspondent, whose heart was as light as his pocket, and who having to go, and being provided as all connected with the press are, or at least ought to be, with a free pass over the highway, went up the river and then back into the country, tramping by road and lane or forest path, just as necessity compelled or taste suggested. His first halt was at Spring Hill, that place where, if the truth is told, so many halt for spiritual refreshment. Spring Hill is not what it once was. Ichabod is written on its fences, its glory has departed. The mills are idle and out of repair; the workmen’s cottages are closed, the raftsmen do not congregate about the hotel. Perhaps when the stock farm comes here a little new life will be infused into the neighbourhood; but most probably this very charming locality, which for beauty of surroundings can scarcely be excelled, will remain for many years in its present quiet. But the correspondent’s course lay onward, and so over the hills he tramped enjoying the magnificent view of the Keswick Valley, and admiring the fine houses of farmer, among which those of the Messrs. Murray are conspicuous for their architecture beauty and completeness, French Village was reached, an odd bit of country with no apparent connection with its surroundings, a sort of crazy quilt patch inserted in the middle of a white counterpane. Now the correspondent does not wish us to say that around and about French Village there are not many excellent people; but the Indians and many of the French, and all of the half breeds make rather a queer community to find in the County of York within a short drive of Fredericton. There is a snug white chapel here, and Rev. Father Walsh ministers to the spiritual wants of the people. He is highly esteemed by all those with whom he comes in contact, whether they are members of the communion to which he belongs or not. The land about French Village is good; but the habits of the people are not favorable to the development of a prosperous community. Here and there are some who have accumulated not a little means, although they make very few presentations. As the correspondent went along he heard many stories of the haunted bridge. A short distance below Burgoyne’s ferry stands this bridge which spans a ravine of 50 or 60 feet. It is a solid abutment all the way across with an outlet in the centre for the passage of a small creek which flows here in high water. The superstitious have ever associated with this bridge all manner of airy shapes and fantastic shadows. People have been stopped, so it is said, midway on it by some unseen hand, ominous clouds have settled over it and unearthly noises have been heard. Many look upon it as the abode of the King of Terrors, which its dark and uncanny surroundings are in good keeping with Bristol is a pretty country village, nestling in a lovely valley between hills, which in this level country seems quite lovely. Everyone who knows Bristol knows George A. Hammond, the principal business man and postmaster of the village. Mr. Hammond is a type of the Christian country gentleman, with a scholarly mind, well read and clear in judgement. He is not without a spark of Devine poetic fire, as his poems, printed by himself on his own hand press, give abundant testimony. Not many singers write their verses, set them in type and print them, as does the grey haired bard of Bristol. This little village will be more active in a business point of view in a short time, when Mr. Gibson, who has gone in partnership with Mr. Geo McEwen, of Marysville, begins work at the Tannery, which has been closed for some time. On Sunday, our correspondent rested at the house of Mr. Henry Kelly, one of the pioneers of the village, whose health, his many friends will regret to hear, is not all that they could desire. After a pleasant tramp through Prince William, our correspondent found his way to Lake George, and here he saw many signs of progress. The new school house here is the second largest in the country, and a fine new Methodist Church is rapidly approaching completion. The farms look thrifty, and as year succeeds year great improvement is shown in the care of houses, out-buildings and fences. Within doors there is also a change. In nearly every parlor is a cabinet organ, and a music and song from a favorite pastime when the days work is ended. Nothing is at present being done at the Anthony Mines, and this has taken away the stir and life, which was seen here in former years; but the farmers seem to have abundance, and to be happy and contended. Wishing to reach Kitchen Settlement, and there being no direct road, our correspondent, like the old darkey in the story, who was told by his colored pastor that the broad road led to eternal punishment and the narrow one to everlasting condemnation, said “in that case, dis chile ‘ ill take to de woods,” struck out a path for himself through the forest glades. As a barefoot boy he had years ago roamed through these leafy shades, and visited the adjoining farms. And as he sat upon a knoll to rest his thoughts took shape in this fashion. Well I know the secret places, And the nests in hedge and tree; At what doors are friendly faces, In what hearts a thought of me. Through New Market and Smithfield the signs of labor rewarded are many and great. This is a promising land, and there are people of great promise in it – little people, whose bright faces, as they go to and from their schools, are full of promise for the future. How the time slips around. It seems only yesterday that the fathers and mothers of these little ones were trudging along, dinner basket in hand, to the old log school house. But years have guided by, and the boys and girls have grown to be men and women, and have farms and cattle and, best of all, children of their own, while our correspondent, who preferred to roam in search of knowledge, is roaming still. Better far is contentment than restless searching after knowledge. For what availeth to them, availeth to know That Truth is Falsehood, or that bliss is woe. But as it ever was, and as it ever will be, there are those that wander and those who stay at home, and having tramped over many routes of New Brunswick’s finest parts, our correspondent is convinced that those who stay at home market the wiser choice.