"dp Pearson's Xane 



folk, needed all these trees to influence him. 

 Usually two or three are enough. 



Perhaps I do him wrong. I did expect he 

 would calculate the width of the lane on entering 

 it, and estimate its length by staring down the 

 wagon-track. To his credit, he did neither ; to our 

 discredit, neither had noticed the old worm fences 

 that hemmed us in. It was only as we were pass- 

 ing from the lane to the door-yard that we saw 

 them. But then who ever did see everything 

 as he passed along lane, road, or wood-path, or 

 across lots? We can only aim to overlook as little 

 as possible. 



It was just one hour later in the day when we 

 left the lane and stood before the farm-house. 

 This is such loitering as I dearly love, a whole 

 hour given to just one furlong. No surly watch- 

 dog questioned our right, and no crabbed pro- 

 prietor spoke to us of trespassing. The dog is a 

 thing of the past, the several owners widely scat- 

 tered, and the accommodating tenant not at home. 

 We had but to people the place as we chose, and 

 I, posing as local historian, proceeded to do so. 



There was not a single feature of the old yard 

 that was intact. This was fortunate. Any linger- 

 ing newness robs all old objects of their charm. 

 It is not enough to be old ; they must look it. 

 We were among ruins; not the product of sudden 

 disaster, but the havoc brought about by long use, 

 no attempt at repair, and the general ravages of 

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