A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 135 



circle within which Lucy Sayers' brush may not come. 

 Any nonsense is possible to "scientific" people ; and 

 so my sanity escapes graver reflection. Outside the 

 circle Lucy dusts with double zeal, and our under- 

 standing about the matter provides that if ever the 

 criminals break their sanctuary, they shall go. Lucy 

 is wholly without that respect for the spider and its 

 works which she attributes to the inferior race 

 summarily characterised as " gells." " Spiders lucky ? " 

 says Lucy : " I reckon they're middlin' unlucky when 

 they comes near me!" 



Next to the spiders I note my main bookcase, a 

 roomy lodging for other things than books. Papers 

 of garden seeds share a shelf with broken-down 

 fishing-tackle ; an ancient hortus-siccus lies in com- 

 pany with candle-snuffers and a mole-trap. The 

 books are, I reflect, as I look at the somewhat ragged 

 array of backs, mostly of the old world ; cracked calf 

 and warped vellum outnumber the cloth-gilt moderns ; 

 " Esmond " in an early edition is, I think, my nearest 

 point to modern romance ; my science stops at the 

 earlier Darwin. Being once scolded by Mrs. Kitty 

 because I had not read a serious novel of last week, 

 I explained that I had thought I ought to begin at 

 the beginning of literature, and work downwards in 

 order to the moderns. "Well, and where did you. 



