MEMORIES 79 



his face was as yellow as a guinea, and the next 

 day but one he died. Peace to thy shade, dear 

 Peter; I shall never know a truer or a kindlier 

 friend. 



Just below the forge a little brook runs under 

 the road. One field higher up it is scarcely to be 

 distinguished from the bog, which earlier in the 

 year is one golden wealth of marsh-marigold. The 

 bog water is quite red, for there is iron in the soil. 

 Long ere the days of Sub-wealden exploration the 

 ore was worked, and such local names as " Furnace 

 House," " Iron Mill," point back to foundries that 

 long have ceased to be. The king was wont to 

 get his cannon from these foundries, and there is 

 a quaint old field-piece on the rectory lawn which 

 was found when the dam of the big pond broke 

 one year, and all that summer the pond lay dry. 



But here the brook goes tinkling on about the 

 roots of alder-bushes whose leaves meet overhead. 

 The redpoles love these alders when they come in ^ccJ^f^cL. 

 later summer, and twitter there in little parties all ^ - 



day long, hanging back-downwards, and pecking 

 into the old seed capsules for what little they may 

 find. Between the alders the stream is spanned 

 by bramble and dewberry and boughs of guelder 



IB 



