Over the Mendips. 63 



his sermons in stones only, and is not enamoured of any- 

 thing that cannot be chipped with the hammer. A West- 

 country hedge is always worth looking at, if you know how 

 to look, and these of fat Somersetshire are in their glory. 

 Wild hop and clematis let fall their graceful pendants ; the 

 blackberry appears black, red, and green on the same bough ; 

 the wild geraniums twinkle with sweet modesty below ; 

 startling crimson bunches set the mountain-ash on fire, 

 putting out of countenance the hips and haws that, with the 

 fruit of the elder-tree, are warning us of the approach of 

 ripe autumn ; among the sombre nettles gleam the orange- 

 coloured berries of the cuckoo-pint, shunned by the children 

 as poisonous, and fit only for snake's food; the harebells 

 meekly nod their delicate cups ; the scabious, wild mint, 

 thistle, and many another wild flower, keep them company ; 

 higher up you may find clusters of the ripening hazel-nut, 

 and wreaths of honey-scented woodbine. The fields are 

 white with harvest ; the orchards are heavy with bounteous 

 fruit. 



At Stanton Drew the church bells are ringing to welcome 

 us, and across the lane flags are suspended, and garlands 

 of dahlias. If any timid passenger has till now been fearful 

 of the coachman's talent, the masterly way in which he tools 

 us over the rough, tortuous roadway must reassure him. 

 We alight in a meadow near a venerable barn, and follow 

 the conductors of the excursion into the orchard. Our 

 conductor-in-chief is a worthy prebendary, an eminent 

 archaeologist. 



Stanton Drew is Stonehenge in miniature. There are in 

 different fields three circles of stones. A rustic of pure 

 Somersetshire type confidentially says to me — 



" They be all right, maister. I've tried 'em lots o' times 

 wi' a crowbar." 



