A JOURNAL KEPT IN THE COUNTRY. 243 



settles down again on the orange and silver lichens, 

 flirting its wings and sitting close to the warm brick. 

 Through a mile of gold-coloured air, steamed up from 

 copse and meadow and yard, redolent of grass and 

 mould, of smoke, hayricks, woodland tangle, comes 

 the stroke of one o'clock, no more stringent monition 

 than the thin shadow of the dial half hidden in the 

 peach leaves on the gable end. I take the forwardest 

 peach and throw the stone over the wall no garden- 

 party peaches approach the Noblesse from one's own 

 south corner and move towards the house, bowing 

 to Pomona as I pass beneath the branches bent with 

 heavy-headed Louises, and pleasantly conscious of a 

 right salad and a certain Sauterne to come. At the 

 steps Zero uncoils and greets me with prodigious 

 yawn and elaborate stretching of fore and hind legs 

 in due order, and with a subdued tail-wagging which 

 approves both myself and the coming dinner-time. 

 It is a day when all seems well. Here the garden 

 prosperously meets September. Down in the village 

 the Sunday dinners are being turned out, generous as 

 fits the good times : no one is out of work ; there is 

 hardly any sickness in the houses. Down in the lane 

 I can see Liza Packham and her young man, rather 

 late for the Packham dinner-hour, but by no means 



