hock-headed children staring at the equipages over the hatch at the
barn.

Within a mile there is a similar fire, which by day is not noticeable,
because the spot is under a hedge two meadows back from the road. At
night it shows brightly, and even as late as eleven o'clock dusky
figures may be seen about it, as if the family slept in the open air. A
third fire is kept up in the same neighbourhood, but in a different
direction, in a meadow bordering on a lonely lane. There is a thatched
shed behind the hedge, which is the sleeping-place--the fire burns some
forty yards away. Still another shines at night in an open arable field,
where is a barn.

One day I observed a farmer's courtyard completely filled with groups of
men, women, and children, who had come travelling round to do the
harvesting. They had with them a small cart or van--not of the kind
which the show folk use as movable dwellings, but for the purpose of
carrying their pots, pans, and the like. The greater number carry their
burdens on their backs, trudging afoot.

A gang of ten or twelve once gathered round me to inquire the direction
of some spot they desired to reach. A powerful-looking woman, with
reaping-hook in her hand and cooking implements over her shoulder, was
the speaker. The rest did not appear to know a word of English, and her
pronunciation was so peculiar that it was impossible to understand what
she meant except by her gestures. I suppose she wanted to find a farm,
the name of which I could not get at, and then perceiving she was not
understood her broad face flushed red and she poured out a flood of
Irish in her excitement. The others chimed in, and the din redoubled. At
last I caught the name of a town and was thus able to point the way.

About harvest time it is common to meet an Irish labourer dressed in the
national costume: a tall, upright fellow with a long-tailed coat,
breeches, and worsted stockings. He walks as upright as if drilled, with
a quick easy gait and springy step, quite distinct from the Saxon stump.
When the corn is cut these bivouac fires go out, and the camp
disappears, but the white ashes remain, and next season the smoke will
rise again.

The barn here with its broad red roof, and the rickyard with the stone
staddles, and the litter of chaff and straw, is the central rendezvous
all the year of the resident labourers. Day by day, and at all hours,
there is sure to be some of them about the place. The stamp of th