country where the birds sing, the leaves of the trees rustle in the wind, and the stream gurgles on its way—all in the minor key truly, still noticeable—to which may be added the sounds that proceed, and carry far, from the many farmsteads, the lowing of cattle, the bleating of sheep, the bark of dog, the call of shepherd, the rattle of the mowing or reaping machine. No, for perfect quietness (or deadly dulness, if you will) commend me to some old, dreamy, decayed market-town at mid-day!
Wragby is not a picturesque place, not by any stretch of the imagination; nor, in the usual acceptance of the term, is it in any possible way interesting. Yet it interested us, in a mild manner, on account of its homely naturalness, its mellow look, and the indescribable old-world air that brooded over all. It seemed to belong to another day, as though in driving into it we had driven into a past century as well. There was a sense of remoteness about the spot, both of time and space, that appealed strongly to our feelings. A mere matter of sentiment all this, a purely poetic illusion that we gladly gave way to for the time; it is a good thing to be able to romance, now and then, in this most unromantic age!
We drove under the archway of the drowsy and weather-beaten old inn that faced us here, a plain structure enough, but it appealed to us as a relic of the old coaching days. The stable-yard was deserted, erstwhile so busy; for Wragby was an important posting place in the pre-railway age, being the half-way house between Lincoln and Louth, as
