With White's thrush, the gold-breasted thrush, and the nightingale-thrush, we have nothing to do; for they can barely be called visitors in our land. I have only given a short account of our British thrushes proper.

CHAPTER VII.

IN 'THE GOOD OLD TIMES."

BEFORE SO much machinery came into use, in the days when labourers were precious in the sight of the farmer, he and his, with the men - servants, usually constituted one large family in our part of the country. How I delighted in "The Coombe," as one of these old-fashioned farmsteads was fitly called, sheltered as it was from the north winds by a hill that rose immediately behind it! The old house was a large, substantial, rambling building. The huge chimney-stacks alone were worth going far to see. Age had given them that peculiar tone of colouring which only the brush, not the pen, can give any idea of. Starry lichens, small patches of stonecrop, larger ones of house-leek, and other

plants that love to fix themselves on ancient brickwork, grew there in luxuriance. As for the brickwork itself, it was all weather-beaten and stained in greys and browns, varied by the vegetable growth, the whole showing a scale of colouring that would drive an inferior artist wild. For the true painter it was a mine of wealth, so far as rich broken tones were concerned.

Day after day a friend of my younger days stood near the old house, adding touch to touch, with skilful hand, on his canvas. I am glad to say that his picture was afterwards hung on the walls at Burlington House, and that it attracted much notice. there.

Changes have come- some say for the betterbut we are not all carried away, thank God! by those interested agitators who, in their crass ignorance, speak of our true agricultural population as if they were down-trodden serfs. Ranting, emptyheaded windbags these intruding strangers have been called by some of us rural folk. In past times, at any rate, there was a stubborn spirit of independence among the genuine sons of the soil that forbade oppression and resented interference. The

new order of things was no doubt inevitable, but it has thrown the working parts of the old machinery completely out of gear. The older members of many of our rural communities speak regretfully of past times. Quite recently I was talking with an old fellow who had served the master of The Coombe for many years. Memories came thick and fast as we smoked a pipe together; and this is how the faithful old farm labourer talked :

66

Ah, you knowed him well; you were about here times enough. Now you'd hardly think it, but I never growed afore I went to live there at The Coombe. It waun't tu be expected as I could shoot up much, seein' as I on'y got two shillin's a-week rook-mindin', though I wus at it from mornin' tu night. Bread, mind ye, wus a terrible price then; an' many an' many a time hev I gone rook-tendin' with on'y a hunch o' bread an' a injun or two in my sotchel fur tu last me all day. home at night, there wus taters an' an' glad enough we wus tu git that.

When I got

hard puddin',

'Twas a hard

scratch tu git much in the shape o' vittles fur the lot on us there wus. The young uns nowadays don't know the meanin' o' hard times.

'Well, I heerd as a carter-boy wus wanted at The Coombe, an' I goes there an' asks fur the place. The master, he looks down on me, an' he eyes me all over. He wus just six foot two in his stockings, you 'member. a little chap; ken ye eat?'

'An', sez he, 'you be

I told him I jest about He stood thear, 'siderin'

could ef I could git it. me, when the missus-a good un she wus-sez, 'Try him, father; I think 't is on'y belly timber the poor little chap wants. If he is but little, it ain't no fault o' his, poor chap! an' 't is a fault he'll soon grow out of here.' They wus the werry words she said.

"So he took me inter his sarvice, an' I 'members his fust words after I'd cum jest as if 'twas yesterday. 'Now boy,' he sez, 'eat an' drink as much as ye want, but waste nuthin'. Mind what's said tu ye an' do yer work. Then ye'll git on.' I did git on an' no mistake; an' I growed. He brewed reg'lar, one lot under the other. Two pints a-day, year in an' year out, we got; an' more in harvesttime. It wus good too; real malt an' hops; no swishet, mind ye. An' he killed lots o' pigs, an' cured his own pork an' bacon; but we had butcher's