alighted only a few paces in front, all on one bush, and waited again.

Far away down the lane something moved.

For a moment it was impossible to be certain, and yet surely a living thing had stirred in the distant shadow of the hedgerow.

Then, just beyond a clump of dark gorse, I could distinguish the stooping figure of an old woman. Her clothes also were old and had taken on autumnal hues. Faded with the summer sun and weather-stained by rain, her skirt and shawl, whatever their original colours, were in keeping with the landscape, and mellow and unobtrusive as the russet-grey on the back and wings of a song-thrush. Sometimes she crept down into the ditch; then came out into the lane and stooped to take something from the ground, which for the time being she put into her apron. At last she stood up and shook one of the guinea-laden branches. She was gathering crab-apples.

What could she want with them?

The uses of the crab, forgotten long ago in the village, are known only to the lover of old customs. Verjuice is but a name, pomatum almost an unread line in the dictionary. Could this old crone, whose face was brown and wrinkled like the shell of a walnut, season the dryness of a parish loaf and secretly comfort her elderly heart with some old-world bowl, in which a roasted crab should bob against her lips, ' and on her withered dew-lap pour the ale'? She looked old enough even for that. On the ground beside her was a sack half filled. Imagination refused to picture an orgie so extensive.

She was the first to speak. In the rural parts of this West Country people do not meet and pass without a word.

Nice weather,' said she.

'Beautiful weather,' said I.

'Zo 'tis,' said she, and stepped aside to pour a stream of little yellow, rosy apples out of her apron into the open mouth of the sack. 'But what be about then, mother? What good is it to pick up such stuff as that?'

'Lauk-a-massy, master,' she laughed, 'I do often zay to myzelf this time o' year I be but like the birds that do pick a liven off the hedges.'

'But what do you do with them? '

'Zell 'em.'

"And what do they do with them?' 'Pay vor 'em.'

In spite of rags and poverty she was a humorous old soul. However she presently put a sudden check upon her mirth, and answered with quiet civility.

They don't use 'em here,' she explained. The man that do buy 'em o' I do zend 'em to London. I do believe they do use 'em to gie a bitter flavour to a jelly. I really do.'

Then she chuckled. The thing seemed so amusing. She was laughing at an unknown world, distant and strange, where people pay such heed to the flavour of a jelly.

At the mention of London the recollection of two boys from Pimlico, whom I had met in a lane about three months before, came into my mind. Philanthropy had sent them down here, but until then they had never seen a green field. Their inferences were strange enough. I wondered what impressions the mind of this old woman of the hedgerows would gather if suddenly she could be transplanted to a city street.

'I do live across to Sutton,' she answered, 'in the little old cottage that do lie under the hill.'

'I suppose you've lived there a long time?'

'All my life, as mid zay,' she laughed. 'I wur out to sarvice dree year; but I wur married when I wur nineteen. I wur brought to the little cottage then, an' vrom thik day to theäs I ha'n't never laid head to piller under another roof.'

It was by the merest accident, and only for the sake of hearing her talk, that I remarked: 'Then for certain you can't have been to London to look after the crab-apples.'

In a moment her good-humour vanished. The wrinkles deepened, and the weather-beaten, upright furrows between her brows. Her eyes regarded me sharply and with suspicion.

'Who put 'ee up vor to come here an' ax me 'bout that, then?' she inquired, angrily.

I asserted my innocence. I pointed out that after all the idea of a visit to London had been rendered incredible, if not impossible, by her statement that she had never been away for a night from the little cottage under the hill.

She scanned me attentively, was satisfied with the explanation, and consoled.

An'

'Ah, well! They do laugh at I about that, an' I thought mayhap you knowed,' she cried merrily. I have a-bin to London. I ha'n't never a-bin away vrom home. An' I baint no liar for all that.'

She delighted in this quibbling manner of the clowns of the sixteenth century. But old-fashioned West Country folk still love to riddle in their speech. She stood expectant, eager for an invitation to go on, but fully determined to loiter.

'I can't make that out,' said I.

'An' never went inzide a house,' said she.

I only shook my head.

'Nor zet voot in a street.'

She paused; then raised her voice in the excitement of success.

Nor so much as laid out a penny-piece vor a bit or a zup.'

It was no good. I implored her to relieve me from further mental effort by telling me without delay; but, once started, her story became a monologue-an epic of the 'little old cottage that do lie under the hill.' For the emotions which prompted her to undertake that memorable journey were still warm in her heart, and they carried her back even to the days of early motherhood under that little ridge of brown thatch.

'Wull, then, master,' she cried, 'I'll just tell ee how it all comed about. My man an' I we dragged up a terr'ble long family, we did. Massy 'pon us! Things wur different in them days. We did all goo out in groun' to work then, wimmin an' men. An' need o' it too. There werden much wheaten bread vor poor volks them days. The wimmin vokes an' maidens did all goo out a bit to leasey a'ter the wheat wur a-hauled. We did carr' the corn down to mill. But la! The little grist-mill down to brook, he is but vower walls an' a hatchhole now. He valled in years agone. Miller couldn' make a liven, an' zo he gi'ed un up. 'Tis the big mills, zo the tale is, do zell zo low. But I tell 'ee what, master, vokes wur jollier, one wi' another, them times than they be now. They mid eat better victuals nowadays, but there's more pride. They baint zo simple as they wur. All they do want now is to save up a vew ha'pence, an' put viner clothes to their backs, an' forget who they be.'

Ah!

She stopped to laugh. No philosopher ever took a more genial view of human folly than this old woman of the hedgerow.

'But I wur a-gwaine to tell 'ee,' she went on, suddenly remembering that the visit to London was the real subject before us. Iss. We had zixteen, an' reared 'em all but one. Nine o' 'em bwoys, an' all growed up tall an' straight as the poplar trees along the churchyard wall. Ay, 'twur a many bellies to vill. An' a house o' childern, master, is like a nest o' drushes wi' their mouths ever agape. But somehow or another God-a-Mighty did send a crust. An' then the biggest bwoy growed up to sar a little a bird-kippen, or to drave roun' the wold hoss for the chaffcutter or the cider-maken. An' the biggest maid did mind the childern for I to go out. An' zo we knocked along till the bwoys had a-growed up hardish lads like. An' then there wur a rabbit, now an' then. Wull, there wur a rabbit pretty often, on along then. An' then there comed a bother. An' two o' 'em, master, they had a-tookt the Queen's shillen an' drinked un, an' marched off wi' the sergeant wi' the colours in their hats, afore the summons wur out. An' they wouldn't none o' 'em bide here in parish. Two o' 'em went to furrin parts, but we never heard o' 'em since, an' whither they be live or dead is more 'an I can tell. They be all o' 'em one place or tother, an' I hope they be doen well. An' the maidens be all married away. Little Benjamin he wur the last to goo. I wur terr'ble sorry, too. But I said: 'Tis no more 'an a brood o' dunnocks, an' when they be vlush they do vly."

She paused again, picked up half a dozen crab-apples, and dropped them into her apron.

'But I wur a-gwaine to tell 'ee,' she quickly resumed. 'Benjamin's wife she did use to zend a letter, an' one o' the school childern did read un out to me. He wur a porter to London, but house rent, her zaid, wur most wonderful dear. When I wur out quiet a-picken berries, Benjamin wur a'most for ever in my mind. Mus' be up ten year agone, an' I carr'd in nineteen peck o' berries. I do mind 'twur nineteen peck at tenpence in to factory. I can see the foreman dyer now, out in yard a-measuren o' 'em out wi' a peck measure. An' the men wur all a-chacklen about the next year's wayzgoose. "What? zaid I, "do 'ee arrange next zummer's holiday afore the winter is begun ?" "We be gwaine to London for the day, an' you can come too if you be a-minded," zaid he, though to be sure 'twur no more 'an a joke. But jus' the very nick o' time the master his own zelf comed by; an' the foreman dyer he up an' laughed. "Here's Mary do think to go to London wi' we next zummer." Then they did all grin at I. But the master, he said. "How many years have 'ee brought berries in to I, Mary?" I zaid: ""Tis a score or one-an'twenty, master." Zaid he: "Come an' ax me next zummer-fair, an' I'll gie 'ee a ticket, Mary." An' wi' the very zame on he went.

'I thought a lot about thik ticket. I thought a lot about Benjamin too. There comed a letter in the spring, that zaid that Benjamin's wife 'tis his second wife-had just a-got her third. I wur a-picken watercresses, an' 'twur most wonderful cold. I really do believe I veeled wolder them days 'an now I be sich a ancient wold 'ooman. I do mind I wur wet-vooted an' vinger-cold. That wur about the time my wold man wur a-tookt. I thought then I werden a-gwaine to live myself zo very long. I did long to zet eyes 'pon Benjamin-most terr❜ble.

Wull, when comed zummer-fair I bucked up courage an' in I went. There wur the ticket sure 'nough. I carried un home. But lauk! Afore night 'twur the talk o' all the parish, an' folk did run in an' out all day long for a week to look at un. An' I got a basket o' apples an' a papern bag o' lollipops for the childern to carr' in my pocket. An' the neighbours they all zaid: "Do 'ee step in an' pick what vlowers you do want in the early marnen afore you do start." Zo I had a tutty-a nosegay, master, bigger-ay, zix times zo big as the biggest picklen cabbage that ever wur growed. A'most zo zoon as the zun wur up I wur 'pon the road. An' 'twur sich a beautiful day, wi' a dew like vrost, an' the sky misty clear in the marnen. The train did start at vive. But I waited vor un a good half-hour, I did. An' on the road the foreman dyer he said: "You do know how to act when you do get there, don't 'ee, Mary?" An' I told un: "My son 'ull be at the station for certain sure."

'But when we got out to London station, master, sure there wur

nivver sich a hurry-push in theäs world afore. Made I that mazeheaded I wur bound to zit down 'pon the seat to let 'em all pass. But zo zoon as one train wur gone there wur another. I wur aféard o' my life to move, an' there I zot. An' when comed to a lull like, I up an' zaid to a porter: "Can 'ee run an' tell young Benjamin Bracher that his mother is here?" Zo he said: "Who?" An' I told un again. "I nivver heard the name," said he. "But he's a porter like yourself to London Station." "Which station?" he axed "Why, London Station," said I. "Oh, there's vifty London stations an' more," said he. "Then how shall I get at un?" said I. "Do 'ee know where he do live? he axed me. ""Tis in Silver Street," said I. "There's a hundred Silver Streets," said he; an' then he wur gone.

me.

6

They ha'n't got no time to talk to a body in London. I wur afeard to move. I put the basket o' apples under the seat, an' there I zot.

'Come midday the zun did strike down most terr'ble hot, an' the place were like a oven. The nosegay o' vlowers beginned to quail in my han'. Zoon enough they went off zo dead as hay. Volk did stop an' stare at me. The childern did turn their heads. But there I zot.

'I wur afeard o' my life to move. Come a'ternoon I put down my han' for my hankercher to mop my face. But the lollipops had all a-melted drough the papern bag, an' he wur a-stickt to my pocket. Zo I just pat my face wi' my sleeve. An' there I zot.

'I wur too much to a mizmaze, master, ever to think. You nivver zeed sich crowds, an' like a river never stop. There I zot till come the cool o' the evenen. An' then the forman dyer comed along. An' he hollered to me: "Mary, Mary, you'll be lef' behine!" an' he pushed me on by the shoulders afore un, a'most like a wheelbarrer, an' bundled me into the train.

""Twur midnight when the train got to Yeovil town, an' I had up vive mile to walk. 'Twur daylight when I got home, an' a marnen misty-clear like when I started. I took the kay down out o' the thatch an' put un in kayhole. But fur the life o' me I couldn' turn un, an' I zot down 'pon step an' cried.'

In a moment she was merry again.

'Zo now they do ax me if I've a-bin to London,' she said; but I do laugh wi' the rest.'

She told me in quaint phrase all about the harvest of the hedgerows -how the blackberries were the first to come, with the black-ripe, the red, and the green all on one bunch; and the little pale purple flowers still in bloom on the same spray, and looking as fresh as spring until the frost. They were sold not by measure but by weight. It paid better to pick at a penny when they were plenty than for three