DECEMBER IN BROADLAND. 135 



birds except a dabchick disporting himself under an overhanging bank. 

 The wind suddenly springs up and flings in airy circles the descending snow- 

 flakes. Ere we reach the village, the canopy of blackness which has been shutting 

 out the blue above us is pouring forth its accumulation of snow. It eddies and 

 twirls around us in the blast which whisks up the flakes already fallen, and drifts 

 them under the hedgerows. The first that fell have melted, but the myriads 

 following lie one upon the other, and remain until all Nature is covered with a 

 pall of dazzling whiteness. The bell in the village steeple is tolling ominously. 

 Surely Death has not been visiting Broadland ? Alas ! he has, and ' the fair have 

 fallen.' Dong-dong! at short intervals reverberates from the ivy-clad steeple as 

 the old sexton, at measured periods, tolls the passing-bell. He has left his spade 

 resting against a moss-grown headstone that marks the last resting-place where 

 one of ' the rude forefathers of the hamlet sleeps.' Yawning beside this is a freshly- 

 dug grave into which the spotless snow is gently falling, as if to carpet the bare 

 earth with unsullied purity. There is a stir in the village. Apron-clad matrons 

 are quietly hurrying to see the last of a little maiden whose burial takes place to- 

 day. Some have donned all the black in their possession as a mark of respect for 

 the departed. They are making for the church-yard. In the distance a solemn 

 procession is wending its way hither also. An old white pony is drawing its 

 precious burden upon a cart. Over the coffin a velvet pall is spread. Snowflakes 

 are falling lightly on it. Immediately behind follow the classmates of the dead 

 maiden, each with a snowdrop and a sprig of southernwood in her hand, to throw 

 directly upon the little coffin. Then follow the bereaved parents and their chil- 

 dren, and the friends of the family of whom muster a goodly number, for half 

 the village has turned out to pay homage to the little one gone to the Land where 

 there is no winter. 



Scarce a word is spoken; and even then it is in subdued whispers. The 

 parson meets them at the church door with due solemnity ; and the procession 

 files in slowly under the shelter of the old thatched roof, two or three old men, 

 bent with age, and leaning upon their sturdy staves, bringing up the rear. Even 

 they have a tiny slip of crape tied round the left arm. 



The church service over, the coffin is borne out, and lowered into the open 

 grave. There is a strange feeling of awe displayed upon every feature as the soil 

 drops with a thud upon the coffin-lid, and the quivering lips of the white-headed 

 parson pronounce the well-known sentence, 'Earth to earth.' Sobs are heard from 

 relatives, and sturdy fellows, holding their broad-brimmed hats in one hand, brush 



