82 A KENTISH PARISH 



cottager may not always be sensible of the sources of 

 the pleasures that console him for his toils, yet he 

 realises his blessings quickly enough if misadventure 

 deprives him of them. Send him into a bare white- 

 washed ward in the parish union, stow him away in 

 the steerage of a New York or Australian liner, even 

 let him consent to take up his quarters with the well- 

 to-do son who exchanged the country for the town 

 when a boy, and the shadows of home-sickness settle 

 heavily down upon him. It is then he remembers the 

 brightness of the open prospect before his door, and 

 the fresh breath of the breezes that braced him uncon- 

 sciously against hardship and exposure. It is then his 

 wife will sigh for the cottage door where she used to 

 sit over her sewing or her spinning-wheel, listening to 

 the hum of her industrious bees, in a bower of roses, 

 wallflowers, and gilliflowers. They miss the song of 

 the birds and the friendly twitter of the sparrows, and 

 the neighbours they had known all their lives, with the 

 kindly gossip and greetings. Nor, although never 

 much given to moralising, can they recall, without 

 some pricking of conscience, the indifference, not to 

 say the ingratitude, with which they used to receive the 

 attentions of the rector, and the help in time of sick- 

 ness or distress they could count upon from the great 

 houses around them. For we are bound to say that 

 the Kentish cottager has little of the sturdy self- 

 dependence of the Scotch peasant. You need never 

 cast about for an excuse to prevail on him to accept a 

 half-crown or a shilling. Should he have any morbid 



