“Oh,” protested Mrs. Nye, “purple? Nay—’tis too grave, purple is. Do but cast your mind back to the bright brambles, an’ the creeper, an’ the hips an’ haws—all red; and the beeches an’ the hoaks, all yaller, an’ the ricks a-baskin’, an’ the very stubble shinin’, an’ the happles in the horchards a-colourin’, an”
“No, no, but them daisies at the Castle, an’ the sea-lavender Joe’d bring in from the marshes,” persisted Mrs. Stone dreamily, and with pauses, “an’ the loosun” (lucerne), “an’ ’arebells, an’ gipsy-roses—pincushies some calls ’em—from the downs . . . an’ the downs theirsel’s a-greyin’, wi’ the crops all gethered an’ the sainfoin done, an’ the Channel mistifying in the sunshine . . . heverythink a-palin, an’ a-soothin’ down, an’ a-goin’ off to sleep, like. That’s hautumn, dear; very peaceful,” said the old soul simply.
There was a little pause, each woman brooding over her memories as the sun broods over the straw-ricks. Then,
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Nye, doubtfully, “my Ted will ’ave it as there’s so much old at ’Ome, it keeps the new growth back. ‘Henglan’s full of old walls’, says he, ‘for to keep the pore man in, an’ old notions,’ ’e says, ‘for to keep ’im down. Gimme room,’ ’e says, ‘to rise, if so be there’s risin’ in me,’ says ’e’—an’ I aren’t denyin’ but what ’e ’ave got a better wage out ’ere, nor I don’t see no low-class lot about, neither, like them London ’op-pickers of ours, all rogues an’ rags. But I dunno! Maybe, as you get on in years, what you like best is what you know best. I remember when I was young, I used to get fair out o’ hand in spring,
