Here and there an
old black and white farmhouse, with its rambling outbuildings,
speaks of other times and other occupations than those which now
absorb the population of the neighbourhood. Here in their seasons
may be seen the country business of haymaking, ploughing, etc.,
which are such pleasant mysteries for townspeople to watch: and
here the artisan, deafened with noise of tongues and engines, may
come to listen awhile to the delicious sounds of rural life: the
lowing of cattle, the milkmaid's call, the clatter and cackle of
poultry in the farmyards. You cannot wonder, then, that these
fields are popular places of resort at every holiday time; and you
would not wonder, if you could see, or I properly describe, the
charm of one particular stile, that it should be, on such occasions,
a crowded halting place. Close by it is a deep, clear pond,
reflecting in its dark green depths the shadowy trees that bend over
it to exclude the sun. The only place where its banks are shelving
is on the side next to a rambling farmyard, belonging to one of
those old world, gabled, black and white houses I named above,
overlooking the field through which the public footpath leads.
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