nd of your house? I can't make out the sign."

"Blawing STWUN, sir," says the landlord, pouring out his old ale from
a Toby Philpot jug,[66] with a melodious crash, into the long-necked
glass.

"What queer names!" say we, sighing at the end of our draught, and
holding out the glass to be replenished.

"Bean't queer at all, as I can see, sir," says mine host, handing
back our glass, "seeing that this here is the Blawing Stwun itself";
putting his hand on a square lump of stone, some three feet and a
half high, perforated with two or three queer holes, like petrified
antediluvian[67] rat-holes, which lies there close under the oak,
under our very nose. We are more than ever puzzled, and drink our
second glass of ale, wondering what will come next. "Like to hear
un,[68] sir?" says mine host, setting down Toby Philpot on the tray,
and resting both hands on the "Stwun." We are ready for anything;
and he, without waiting for a reply, applies his mouth to one of
the rat-holes. Something must come of it, if he doesn't burst. Good
heavens! I hope he has no apoplectic tendencies. Yes, here it comes,
sure enough, a grewsome[69] sound between a moan and a roar, and
spreads itself away over the valley, and up the hill-side, and into
the woods at the back of the house, a ghost-like awful voice. "Um[70]
do say, sir," says mine host, rising, purple-faced, while the moan is
still coming out of the Stwun, "as they used in old times to warn the
country-side, by blawing the Stwun when the enemy was a comin'--and as
how folks could make un heered then for seven mile round; leastways,
so I've heerd lawyer Smith say, and he knows a smart sight about them
old times." We can hardly swallow lawyer Smith's seven miles, but
could the blowing of the stone have been a summons, a sort of sending
the fiery cross[71] round the neighborhood in the old times? What old
times? Who knows? We pay for our beer, and are thankful.

"And what's the name of the village just below, landlord?"

"Kingstone Lisle, sir."

"Fine plantations[72] you've got here."

"Yes, sir, the Squire's[73] 'mazin' fond of trees and such like."

"No wonder. He's got some real beauties to be fond of. Good-day,
landlord."

"Good-day, sir, and a pleasant ride to 'e."[74]

[66] #Toby Philpot jug#: a large brown pitcher, shaped like a
jolly old gentleman of the olden time.

[67] #Antediluvian#: before the deluge.

[68] #Un#: it; also him or her.

[69] #G