ly turned
the hay. There was, however, one man of whom we children were much
afraid, a fierce red-eyed old labourer who acted as foreman, and did not
hesitate to show that he thought us out of place in a hay-field.

One sound there was peculiar to Down,--I mean the sound of drawing water.
In that dry chalky country we depended for drinking-water on a deep well
from which it came up cold and pure in buckets. These were raised by a
wire rope wound on a spindle turned by a heavy fly-wheel, and it was the
monotonous song of the turning wheel that became so familiar to us. The
well-house, gloomily placed among laurel bushes, had a sort of terrifying
attraction for us, and I remember dropping pebbles and waiting--it seemed
ages--for them to fall into the water below. We believed the well to be
365 feet deep, also that this was the height of the dome of St. Paul's--I
have never tested the truth of either statement. The opening was roofed
in by a pair of hinged flaps, or doors, and I especially liked the moment
when the rising bucket crashed into the doors from below, throwing them
open with a brutal and roystering air, which one forgave it as having
made a long and dangerous journey up from the distant water. But the
best was when the empty bucket went down, and the fly-wheel spun round
till its spokes were invisible. Then was the time to remember the death
of a dog (called Dick) who was killed by jumping through the flying
wheel. I envied my elder brothers who could actually remember Dick: to
me he was only a tragic myth. I imagine that in hot dry weather more
water was drawn, or else that being more constantly out of doors we heard
more of it. It is at least certain that the sound of the well came to be
associated with peaceful days and happy weather in that dear garden.

Another sound I like to recall is connected with the memory of my father.
He daily took a certain number of turns round a little wood planted by
himself, and christened the Sandwalk. As he paced round it he struck his
heavy iron-shod walking-stick against the ground, and its rhythmical
click became a familiar sound that spoke of his presence near us, and was
associated with his constant sympathy in our pursuits. It is a sound
that seems to me to have lasted all those years that stretch from misty
childish days until his death. I am sure that all his children loved
that sound.

_February_