t to share.

With the coming of our present Vicar, the Rev. H. W. Brock, our
Otterbourne story ends, as the times are no longer _old times_. The
water works for the supply of Southampton are our last novelty, by which
such of us benefit, as either themselves or their landlords pay a small
contribution. They have given us some red buildings at one end and on
the Hill a queer little round tower containing the staircase leading to
the underground reservoir, a wonderful construction of circles of brick
pillars and arches, as those remember who visited it before the water was
let in. And, verily, we may be thankful that our record has so few
events in it, no terrible disasters, but that there has been peace and
health and comfort, more than falls to the lot of many a parish. Truly
we may thankfully say, "The lot is fallen unto me in a fair ground, yea,
I have a goodly heritage."

{Birds on fence: p42.jpg}

Old Remembrances.

{Bridges over river: p43.jpg}

I remember, I remember,
Old times at Otterbourne,
Before the building of the Church,
And when smock frocks were worn!

I remember, I remember,
When railroads there were none,
When by stage coach at early dawn
The journey was begun.

And through the turnpike roads till eve
Trotted the horses four,
With inside passengers and out
They carried near a score.

"Red Rover" and the "Telegraph,"
We knew them all by name,
And Mason's and the Oxford coach,
Full thirty of them came.

The coachman wore his many capes,
The guard his bugle blew;
The horses were a gallant sight,
Dashing upon our view.

I remember, I remember,
The posting days of old;
The yellow chariot lined with blue
And lace of colour gold.

The post-boys' jackets blue or buff,
The inns upon the road;
The hills up which we used to walk
To lighten thus the load.

The rattling up before the inn,
The horses led away,
The post-boy as he touched his hat
And came to ask his pay.

The perch aloft upon the box,
Delightful for the view;
The turnpike gates whose keepers stood
Demanding each his due.

I remember, I remember,
When ships were beauteous things,
The floating castles of the deep
Borne upon snow-white wings;

Ere iron-clads and turret ships,
Ugly as evil dream,
Became the hideous progeny
Of iron and of steam.

You crossed the Itchen ferry
All in an open boat,
Now, on a panting hissing bridge
You