The Coachmaster 



the leaves of the bramble, and dimmed the 

 beauty of the dog-rose that garlanded the 

 wayside in pink and white, and the air was 

 sweet with stricken grass and buttercups, 

 and hay-makers tilted back their shady 

 battered hats the better to see and grin at 

 us. Or later still, to enter a Sussex lane 

 when the gnats were humming all about 

 the honeysuckles, and children with tin 

 cans were deep In every bramble-bush 

 gathering blackberries, and the reapers in 

 the fields bent over their work, sickle 

 In hand, and had scarce a glance for us 

 save when they stayed In their work to 

 mop their tanned faces, so precious was 

 every moment of the gorgeous golden 

 afternoon. Or even much later, when the 

 fields were bare and the roads hard and 

 folks' noses were red, and they talked of 

 fires and the woeful big price one must 

 needs pay for them ; and the hot elderberry 

 wine at the Tangier tasted like nectar, and 

 the crowd of sparrows fiew out of the 

 stout holly tree we passed on the road, the 

 poor wretches finding little enough of food 

 otherwhere in such hard season . . . . 

 yes, they were all pleasant enough In their 

 several ways, were the four seasons to the 

 traveller of those days ; provided he had a 

 kindly heart and simple tastes. 

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