In the deepest part of the coombe, in the middle of the village, therewas a well where the cottagers drew their water; and in the summerevenings the youths and maidens came there, with or without jugs andbuckets, to indulge in conversation, which was mostly of the rustic,bantering kind, mixed with a good deal of loud laughter. Close by wasthe inn, where the men sat on benches in the tap-room in grave discourseover their pipes and beer.

Wishing to make their acquaintance, I went in and sat down among them,and found them a little shy--not to say stand-offish, at first. Rusticsare occasionally suspicious of the stranger within their gates; but afterpaying for beer all round, the frost melted and we were soon very deep intalk about the ferocious life of the place; always a safe and pleasantsubject in a village. 0ne rough-looking, brown-faced man, with iron-greyhair, became a sort of spokesman for the company, and said in reply to most ofmy questions.