2 Woodside. 



the broken chalk, whilst the bushes which form a narrow 

 margin along the edge are festooned with the slender climb- 

 ing stems of the Clematis or Traveller's Joy. Just behind 

 me the hill is capped with clays and sands of newer age 

 than the chalk, and on these stretch for many miles the far- 

 famed Cobham woods, broken here and there by villages and 

 outlying farms. 



It is a perfect morning in the early days of leafy June. 

 A faint smoky haze still hangs over the busy city, and its 

 still busier neighbour, Strood, in front of me. Between the 

 two a silver streak may be seen, which is the river Medway 

 flowing placidly down to the sea. As I rise and turn my 

 back on this view, I face the two roads in front of me 

 uncertain which to choose for a stroll. The one to Graves- 

 end is broad and well kept, but dusty from the abundance 

 of traffic ; the other, which leads to Cobham, is narrow and 

 rough, with deep ruts and muddy places, but is overhung 

 now and again with tall hedges and trees, here passing 

 through trim parks, there through lordly woods, its banks 

 strewn with wild flowers galore. My mind, however, is 

 soon made up ; we will, dear reader, take the road to Cob- 

 ham. 



We shall miss Gad's Hill, the last residence of Charles 

 Dickens, but we shall see a favourite spot of his, the far- 

 famed inn in Cobham. I often saw him, some twenty-five or 

 thirty years ago, as he passed through the single, long, 

 rambling street of Strood to the old city which he has made 

 so familiar to the world. 



The pasture-fields are studded with buttercups, twin 

 favourite with daisies of little children, and a near relation 

 of that brilliant little flower that charms us 



