84 NATUBE NEAR LONDON. 



shoulder, was the speaker. The rest did not appear 

 to know a word of English, and her pronuncia- 

 tion was so peculiar that it was impossible to under- 

 stand what she meant except by her gestures. I 

 suppose she wanted to find a farm, the name of 

 which I could not get at, and then perceiving she 

 was not understood her broad face flushed red and 

 she poured out a flood of Irish in her excitement. 

 The others chimed in, and the din redoubled. At 

 last I caught the name of a town and was thus able 

 to point the way. 



About harvest time it is common to meet an Irish 

 labourer dressed in the national costume: a tall, 

 upright fellow with a long-tailed coat, breeches, and 

 worsted stockings. He walks as upright as if drilled, 

 with a quick easy gait and springy step, quite distinct 

 from the Saxon stump. When the corn is cut these 

 bivouac fires go out, and the camp disappears, but 

 the white ashes remain, and next season the smoke 

 will rise again. 



The barn here with its broad red roof, and the 

 rickyard with the stone staddles, and the litter of 

 chaff and straw, is the central rendezvous all the 

 year of the resident labourers. Day by day, and at 

 all hours, there is sure to be some of them about 

 the place. The stamp of the land is on them. They 

 border on the city, but are as distinctly agricultural 

 and as immediately recognizable as in the heart of 

 Xhe country. This sturdy carter, as he comes round 

 the corner of the straw rick, cannot be mistaken. 



He is short and thickly set, a man of some fifty 

 years, but hard and firm of make. His face is broad 



