Cambridge Days. 95 



dispersing to their stalls when business is 

 over. All kinds have mustered there, and 

 the supply of ginger-bread nuts in the drawer 

 must have been unlimited. Then we get 

 among the eight-day waggons and a pair of 

 the 'bluejacket and white hat line,' stopping 

 for refreshment at one of the old road-side 

 inns near the orthodox trough and tree. 

 Wood-piling and hop-picking are not for- 

 gotten. It seems that there is a family in 

 the neighbourhood who especially pride 

 themselves on the former accomplishment ; 

 and accordingly, at half-past six one summer 

 mornino-, Mr. Herring sallied out and caught 

 them by appointment just at the most pictu- 

 resque crisis, when the timber is slung aloft, 

 and the truck is beings backed under it. In 



o 



the other, the artist in a straw hat with a 

 black ribbon and mahogany tops, plays 

 1 Farmer Oldfield,' and does not look, as 

 he gazes complacently at the fast-filling bins, 

 as if the iron of the Chancellor of the Ex- 

 chequer was piercing his soul. The jaunty 

 ribbons and tunics of the hop-pickers blend 

 very prettily with the green avenues which 

 they are ruthlessly rifling, and the farmer's 

 daughter with her bonnet carelessly tossed 



