Ii2 WOODLAND, MOOR, AND STREAM 



gentry, who had been amongst them from time 

 immemorial, which they miss now. Their homes 

 and the land they till are owned by new men of 

 capital, who do not dress or walk like the traditional 

 country gentleman, and the picturesque spots are 

 haunted by an artist class who get workmen from 

 London to build their ' furrin-looking ' bright red 

 villas, and whose provisions come, as their goods and 

 chattels do, from great firms in town. The cottagers 

 hate to see them painting on their commons, and will 

 often surlily refuse to let themselves be put in a 

 picture. ' They does us no good,' they say, ' an' 

 they wants to get our common from us.' 



Two graves, one on the hill and one in the valley, 

 I was wishful to revisit. The first was that of my 



friend George , a fine fellow who had faded 



gradually away after taking a severe cold in the 

 forest. I remembered his funeral well. 



The churchyard where George was buried is on 

 the top of a high hill. The church and its surround- 

 ings are sheltered by grand old trees and upland 

 meadows. Two miles down in the valley, at the 

 foot of the firs, he had his home. Round the door 

 and on the little grass plot the neighbours gathered 

 from far and near to pay the last mark of respect to 

 him. There was no lack of bearers, though the 



