-garden, where the hops were
just ready to blossom. 'What are these? Vines? No, not vines, and they
twine the wrong way to beans.' He began to draw in his ready book.

'Hops. New since your day,' said Puck. 'They're an herb of Mars, and
their flowers dried flavour ale. We say--

'Turkeys, Heresy, Hops, and Beer
Came into England all in one year.'

'Heresy I know. I've seen Hops--God be praised for their beauty! What is
your Turkis?'

The children laughed. They knew the Lindens turkeys, and as soon as they
reached Lindens orchard on the hill the full flock charged at them.

Out came Hal's book at once. 'Hoity-toity!' he cried. 'Here's Pride in
purple feathers! Here's wrathy contempt and the Pomps of the Flesh! How
d'you call _them_?'

'Turkeys! Turkeys!' the children shouted, as the old gobbler raved and
flamed against Hal's plum-coloured hose.

''Save Your Magnificence!' he said. 'I've drafted two good new things
today.' And he doffed his cap to the bubbling bird.

Then they walked through the grass to the knoll where Little Lindens
stands. The old farmhouse, weather-tiled to the ground, took almost the
colour of a blood-ruby in the afternoon light. The pigeons pecked at the
mortar in the chimney-stacks; the bees that had lived under the tiles
since it was built filled the hot August air with their booming; and the
smell of the box-tree by the dairy-window mixed with the smell of earth
after rain, bread after baking, and a tickle of wood-smoke.

The farmer's wife came to the door, baby on arm, shaded her brows
against the sun, stooped to pluck a sprig of rosemary, and turned down
the orchard. The old spaniel in his barrel barked once or twice to show
he was in charge of the empty house. Puck clicked back the garden-gate.

'D'you marvel that I love it?' said Hal, in a whisper. 'What can town
folk know of the nature of housen--or land?'

They perched themselves arow on the old hacked oak bench in Lindens
garden, looking across the valley of the brook at the fern-covered
dimples and hollows of the Forge behind Hobden's cottage. The old man
was cutting a faggot in his garden by the hives. It was quite a second
after his chopper fell that the chump of the blow reached their lazy
ears.

'Eh--yeh!' said Hal. 'I mind when where that old gaffer stands was
Nether Forge--Master John Collins's foundry. Many a night has his big
trip-hammer shook me in my bed here. _Boom-bitty! Boom-bitty!_ If the
wind was east, I coul