CHAPTER XXII 

 GOLDFINCHES AT RYME INTRINSICA 



THERE is much in a name, and when I left Yeovil to 

 run to Dorchester by that lonely beautiful road which 

 takes you by the clear swift Cerne and past the ancient 

 figure of a giant with a club on the down side over 

 against Cerne Abbas, I went a little distance out of 

 my way to look at a small village solely on account 

 of its singular and pretty name. Or rather two 

 villages Yetminster and Ryme Intrinsica. Who 

 would not go a dozen miles out of his road for the 

 pleasure of seeing places with such names ! At the first 

 I was unlucky, since the only inhabitant I made ac- 

 quaintance with was an unprepossessing voluble old 

 woman with greedy eyes who, though not too poor, 

 at once set herself to conjure a shilling out of my 

 pocket. In the end we quarrelled and I went away re- 

 gretting I had met her, seeing that her unpleasing 

 image would be associated in my mind with the picture 

 of Yetminster its noble, ancient church standing in 

 its wide green space, surrounded by old stone-built 

 thatched houses with valerian and ivy-leaved toad-flax 

 and wallflower growing on the crumbling walls. 



At Ryme Intrinsica I was more fortunate. It was 

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