an old local family named
Vaughton, who owned considerable property in the neighbourhood of the
present Gooch Street.

Where Gooch Street now crosses the Rea, I remember there was a
footbridge, and beyond that the river was a pretty, purling, sylvan
stream, with bushes and rushes growing on its green banks. A field walk
past an old farm house led on to Moseley Hall, which was looked upon as
being quite away in the country. As for Moseley itself, it was a pretty
little village in those days. The old village green, the rustic country
inns (of which the "Fighting Cocks" was the chief), and some low-roofed,
old-fashioned houses, backed by the parish church tower, made up a
picture which still remains in my mind's eye. The railway tunnel which
is now looked upon as only a long bridge, was then regarded as something
large in its way, and, perhaps, slightly dangerous, almost justifying a
little something strong to sustain courage when travelling through it.

Beyond Moseley Church was a pretty road to Moseley Wake Green, in which
were, if I remember rightly, one or two timbered houses and some
old-fashioned residences, surrounded by high trees. Many of these have
now disappeared. In another direction from the church was a country road
running to Sparkbrook, and near which were an important house and lands
belonging to the wealthy Misses Anderton, whose possessions have been
heard of in more recent days.

I now often visit Moseley, and change, but not decay, in all around I
see. The prevailing colour of the old village green is now red brick,
and the modern colour does not agree so well with my vision as the more
rustic tones of a bygone day; whilst the noise and bustle of tram cars,
the swarms of suburban residents that emerge from the railway station
(especially at certain times in the day), are fast wiping out the
peaceful, pretty Moseley of my youthful days.

These new old villages often present some curious anachronisms. A grey
old church, partly buried by a hoary fat churchyard, is surrounded by
the most modern of shops and stores; and a primitive little bow-windowed
cottage, with a few flower pots in the window, has, perchance, a glaring
gin shop next door. This is more or less the case at Moseley, and it is
pretty much the same at Handsworth.

I remember when old Handsworth Church stood surrounded by fields, and
now it is built up to with villas on nearly every side, and has a
neighbouring liquor vault instead of th