MY OLD VILLAGE. 313 
fifteen he was no taller than the sons of well-to-do people 
at eleven ; he scarcely seemed to grow at all till he was 
eighteen or twenty, and even then very slowly, but at last 
became a tall bigman. That slouching walk, with knees 
always bent, diminished his height to appearance; he 
really was the full size, and every inch of his frame had 
been slowly welded together by this ceaseless work, 
continual life in the open air, and coarse hard food. 
This is what makes a man hardy. This is what makes 
aman able to stand almost anything, and gives a power 
of endurance that can never be obtained by any amount 
of gymnastic training. 
I used to watch him mowing with amazement. 
Sometimes he would begin at half-past two in the 
morning, and continue till night. About eleven o’clock, 
which used to be the mowers’ noon, he took a rest on a 
couch of half-dried grass in the shade of the hedge. 
For the rest, it was mow, mow, mow for the long sum 
mer day. 
John Brown was dead: died in an instant at his cot- 
tage door. I could hardly credit it, so vivid was the 
memory of his strength. The gap of time since I had 
seen him last had made no impression on me ; to me he 
was still in my mind the John ‘Brown of the hayfield ; 
there was nothing between then and his death. 
- He used to catch us boys the bats in the stable, and 
tell us fearful tales of the ghosts he had seen ; and bring 
the bread from the town in an old-fashioned wallet, half 
in front and half behind, long before the bakers’ carts 
began to come round in country places. One evening 
he came into the dairy carrying a yoke of milk, stagger- 
irg, with tipsy gravity ; he was quite sure he did not want 
any assistance, he could pour the milk into the pans. 
He tried, and fell at full length and bathed himself from 
