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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