Chapter 9 Farnborough Recalled 
N one of my many visits to the farm 
at Frimley the smell of weeds burning 
in the fields seemed to wake up my 
uncle’s brain, as certainly it did my own, 
to remote memories. ‘To me, the most frequent 
recollection was of the old house at Farnborough, 
and especially of the kitchen there with its perfume 
of turf fires; but my uncle indulged in memories 
of earlier date. Again and again, throughout 
one afternoon and evening, they oozed out of 
him, no doubt set flowing, more than either of 
us guessed, by the scents floating through the 
O€tober air. Most of his tales that day have 
been told already, and must not be told again; 
but the setting of the talk is pleasant to think 
over—‘the happy autumn fields,” and John 
Smith chatting and interpreting the country 
like a part of it all, as indeed he was. 
The stream of reminiscences welled out first 
as we came to two antiquated waggons under 
a shed, at the corner of a field. This shed, 
with its back to the afternoon sun, gave outlook 
only upon the field and the high hedgerow right 
across at the farther side. ‘Three women were 
at work there—one of them a gipsy girl, said to 
be “‘ the quietest one of the lot, and a very good 
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