MY OLD VILLAGE. 



' JOHN BROWN is dead,' said an aged friend and visitor 

 in answer to my inquiry for the strong labourer. 



' Is he really dead ? ' I asked, for it seemed im- 

 possible. 



1 He is. He came home from his work in the 

 evening as usual, and seemed to catch his foot in the 

 threshold and fell forward on the floor. When they 

 picked him up he was dead.' 



I remember the doorway ; a raised piece of wood 

 ran across it, as is commonly the case in country 

 cottages, such as one might easily catch one's foot 

 against if one did not notice it ; but he knew that bit 

 of wood well. The floor was of brick, hard to fall on 

 and die. He must have come down over the crown of 

 the hill, with his long slouching stride, as if his legs had 

 been half pulled away from his body by his heavy boots 

 in the furrows when a ploughboy. He must have 

 turned up the steps in the bank to his cottage, and so, 

 touching the threshold, ended. He is gone through the 

 great doorway, and one pencil-mark is rubbed out. 

 There used to be a large hearth in that room, a larger 

 room than in most cottages ; and when the fire was lit, 

 and the light shone on the yellowish red brick beneath 

 and the large rafters overhead, it was homely and 

 pleasant In summer the door was always wide open. 

 Close by on the high bank there was a spot where the 



