THE FIELD-PLAY. 13 



the partridges were dispersed, the sportsmen having 

 broken up the coveys, the black swifts had departed 

 they built every year in the grey stone slates on the 

 lonely house and nothing was left to be done but to 

 tend the cattle morning and evening, to reflect on 

 the losses, and to talk ceaselessly of the new terror 

 which hung over the whole district. 



It was rick-burning. Probably, gentlemen in 

 London, who "sit at home at ease," imagine rick- 

 burning a thing of the past, impossible since insurance 

 robbed the incendiary of his sting, unheard of and 

 extinct. Nothing of the kind. That it is not general 

 is true, still to this day it breaks out in pkces, and 

 rages with vehemence, placing the country side under 

 a reign of terror. The thing seems inexplicable, but it 

 is a fact ; the burning of ricks and farm-sheds every 

 now and then, in certain localities, reaches the dimen- 

 sions of a public disaster. 



One night from the garret window, Mr. Roberts, and 

 Bill, his man, counted five fires visible at once. One 

 was in full sight, not a mile distant, two behind the 

 wood, above which rose the red glow, the other two 

 dimly illumined the horizon on the left like a rising 

 moon. While they watched in the dark garret the 

 rats scampered behind them, and a white barn owl 

 floated silently by. They counted up fourteen fires 

 that had taken place since the beginning of the month, 

 and now there were five together. Mr. Roberts did 

 not sleep that night Being so near the woods and 

 preserves it was part of the understanding that he 

 should not keep a gun he took a stout staff, and went 

 out to his hayricks, and there stayed till daylight. By 



