luggage — that enchanting book, which I now knew for the first time. At other times we would fly a large kite, made by my father and his host for me out of sheets of the Times newspaper. One after- noon when flying this, a flock of turkeys came into the field, and got their legs entangled in a quantity of the string, which had been allowed to lie on the grass. The violent tugs that my father gave to the string in trying to disentangle it from the birds, filled me with wonder and astonishment that birds’ legs should be so strong as to go through such an ordeal unbroken. Another afternoon, I saw the last harvest load carried amid the shouts of the men and the shrill cries of the women ; and peep- ing into the kitchen one evening on my way to bed, I saw the farm-labourers enjoying their harvest-supper, or “horkey,” as it was called in those regions.
My father’s holiday came to an end, as all holidays will, but why will the end always come so soon ? We returned to the house at Langham Place. My father had to get into harness again, and I to go to school. Changes unknown to me were about to take place, and my father did not seem so cheerful on our return. Before leaving the old home, let me record an incident or two connected with it. Here I heard the bells tolling for the death of William IV. I remember my mother reading to
