Two Old Inns in the Vale of White Horse 
A CORNER OF THE TAP ROOM IN “THE 
CRAVEN ARMS ” 
From a Sketch by the Author 
the place where tradition says St. George 
killed the dragon. There is actually at the 
present moment a curious formation of the 
soil which the country folk say was caused 
by the blood of the dragon running down 
from his place of slaughter. An old Berk¬ 
shire rhyme, by Job Cork, the shepherd 
poet, contains a reference to this supersti¬ 
tion, which shows that even the rustics throw 
doubt on the tale : 
“ If it is true, as I heerd zay. 
King Gaarge did here the dragon zlay, 
And down below on yonder hill 
They buried he, as I’ve heerd tell.” 
The whole countryside abounds with odds 
and ends which would be food for the super¬ 
stitions of tenders of flocks and herds. 
There is the Blowing Stone within a couple 
of miles of White Horse Hill. It is a red 
sandstone block, about three feet high, 
pierced with holes—seven in front, three be¬ 
hind, and others on top. The owner of the 
inn close by will, if you like, put his lips to 
these holes and produce a sound not unlike 
the bellowing of a calf. It can be heard six 
miles away, and there is probably some truth 
in the story that the stone was used as a sig¬ 
nal by the Saxons in time of danger. 
We must not leave the neighborhood of 
the downs until a visit has been paid to 
“ Seven Barrows,” circular mounds where 
the slain in battle received their burial. 
Wayland Smith’s cave should also be hunted 
out. It lies amongst the grassy hillocks to¬ 
wards Lambourne. This strange spot is 
variously given as the work of Danish and 
British tribes. Local tradition, as usual, 
supplies the most plausible theory, at which, 
of course, all the twentieth century wiseacres 
will smile. Be this as it may, Sir Walter 
Scott found it of value sufficient for a base 
to one of his most striking scenes in “ Ken¬ 
ilworth.” It is said that an invisible smith 
named Wayland dwelt in the cave. He 
shod horses for sixpence—no more, no less, 
and the ill-advised traveler who tendered more 
than the right amount was sure to come to 
grief on his way home. Let us take the 
road now towards Uffington ; not the old 
Roman Ridgway, for that would soon he 
lost. It is grown over with grass in many 
parts ; but antiquarians can still trace out the 
path trod by travelers in the days when 
England was little better than a wilderness. 
We shall leave the bleak downs, where on 
the hottest day in summer a breeze will al¬ 
ways be found, and gradually approach one 
of the most charming old villages in this 
part of England. 
You have all read your “ Tom Brown’s 
School Days.” You remember how the young 
scapegrace used to go fishing in the canal; 
UFFINGTON COTTAGES 
From a Sketch by the Author 
9 2 
