A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 95 



have gone by. In the whole morning but two little 

 companies of garland-bearers knocked at my door for 

 the customary pennies. They had no song ; the 

 wreaths drooped dismally, having been made over- 

 night, not in this morning's dew. The flowers were 

 hidden under a clout, only withdrawn on receipt of 

 coppers. One wreath made of crossed hoops covered 

 with blue-bells and cowslips had a small doll sitting 

 at the intersection of the circles a relic, perhaps, of 

 older imagery. One of the children told me his 

 granfer used to be Jack-in-the-Green forty years ago, 

 and he likes them to go round. Altogether it was a 

 depressing visit ; and perhaps the custom would be 

 better extinct, with that other of carol-singing at 

 Christmas, an even unhappier pretence. 



Considering these pretty superstitions giving way 

 before the present manner of Progress (which the 

 County Council's great steam-roller seemed to typify 

 for me, as it puffed and growled over the Arnington 

 road, a peremptory macadamiser), I fell into one of 

 those idle fits which are best suffered to tire them- 

 selves out. About noon I betook myself to the little 

 oak copse which stands below the red stems of the 

 fir-clump, where the thick underwood opens at one 

 or two places upon noble prospects both to north 

 and south. I always feel, on entering a wood, some 



