s of age and his three sons. Keen sportsmen these,
who dearly love to walk for hours in pursuit of game in the autumn, on
the chance of bagging an occasional brace of partridges or a wild
pheasant (for everything here is wild), or, in winter, when lake and fen
are frostbound, by the river and its withybeds after snipe and
wildfowl--for the Cotswold stream has never been known to freeze!

In this small hamlet I noticed that there were no less than three huge
barns. At first I thought they were churches, so magnificent were their
proportions and so delicate and interesting their architecture. One of
these barns is four hundred years old.

Fifty years ago, what with the wool from his sheep and the grain that
was stored in these barns year by year, the Cotswold farmer was a rich
man. Alas! _Tempora mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis!_ One can picture
the harvest home, annually held in the barn, in old days so cheery, but
now often nothing more than a form. Here, however, in this village, I
learnt that, in spite of bad times, some of the old customs have not
been allowed to pass away, and right merry is the harvest home. And
Christmastide is kept in real old English fashion; nor do the mummers
forget to go their nightly rounds, with their strange tale of "St.
George and the dragon."

As I walk down the road I come suddenly upon the manor house--the "big
house" of the village. Long and somewhat low, it stands close to the
road, and is of some size. Over the doorway of the porch is the
following inscription, engraven on stone in a recess:--

"PLEAD THOU MY CAVSE; OH LORD."
"BY JHON COXWEL ANO DOMENY 1590."

Underneath this inscription, and immediately over the entrance, are five
heads, elaborately carved in stone. In the centre is Queen Elizabeth; to
the right are portrayed what I take to be the features of Henry VIII.;
whilst on the left is Mary. The other two are uncertain, but they are
probably Philip of Spain and James I.

I was enchanted with the place. The quaint old Elizabethan gables and
sombre bell-tower, the old-fashioned entrance gates, the luxuriant
growth of ivy, combined together to give that air of peace, that charm
which belongs so exclusively to the buildings of the middle ages.
Knowing that the house was for the time being unoccupied, I walked
boldly into the outer porch, meaning to go no further. But another
inscription over the solid oak door encouraged me to enter:

"PORTA PATENS ESTO