



bleating of sheep borne from a distant 

 pasturage. 



These familiar sights and sounds touched 

 me with a sudden pathos ; there is nothing 

 in human associations so venerable, so 

 familiar, as the lowing of the home-coming 

 kine and the bleating of the flocks. They 

 carry one back to the first homes and the 

 most ancient families. Older than history, 

 more ancient than civilisation, are these 

 familiar tones which unite the low-lying 

 meadows and the upland pastures with the 

 fire on the hearthstone and the nightly care 

 of the fold. When the shadows deepen 

 over the country-side, the oldest memories 

 are revived and the oldest habits recalled by 

 the scenes about the farm-house. The same 

 offices fall to the husbandman, the same 

 sights reveal themselves to the housewife, 

 the same sounds, mellow with the resonance 

 of uncounted centuries, greet the ears of the 

 children as in the most primitive ages. 



The highway itself stands as a memorial 

 of the most venerable customs and the most 

 ancient races. As I lift my eyes from its 

 36 



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