bothered with their armfuls of purchases; but nine times
out of ten their faces look hopeful; there is no sound of grievance or
of worry in their talk; their smiling "Good-morning" to you proves
somehow that it is not a bad morning with them. One day a woman going
to the town a little late met another already returning, loaded up with
goods. "'Ullo, Mrs. Fry," she laughed, "you be 'bliged to be fust,
then?" "Yes; but I en't bought it _all_, I thought you'd be comm', so I
left some for you." "That's right of ye. En't it a _nice mornin'_?"
"Jest what we wants! My old man was up an' in he's garden...." The words
grow indistinguishable as you get farther away; you don't hear what the
"old man" was doing so early, but the country voices sound for a long
time, comfortably tuned to the pleasantness of the day.

This sort of thing is so common that I seldom notice it, unless it is
varied in some way that attracts attention. For instance, I could not
help listening to a woman who was pushing her baby in a perambulator
down the hill. The baby sat facing her, as bland as a little image of
Buddha, and as unresponsive, but she was chaffing it. "Well, you _be_ a
funny little gal, _ben't_ ye? Why, you be goin' back'ards into the town!
Whoever heared tell o' such a thing--goin' to the town _back_'ards. You
_be_ a funny little gal!" To me it was a funny little procession, with a
touch of the pathetic hidden away in it somewhere; but it bore
convincing witness to happiness in at least one home in our valley.

It is not so easy to discover, or rather to point out, the corresponding
evidence in the demeanour of the men, although when one knows them one
is aware that their attitude towards life is quite as courageous as the
women's, if not quite so playful. I confess that I rarely see them until
they have put a day's work behind them; and they may be more lightsome
when they start in the morning, at five o'clock or soon after it. Be
that as it may, in the evenings I find them taciturn, nonchalant rather
than cheerful, not much disposed to be sprightly. Long-striding and
ungainly, they walk home; between six o'clock and seven you may be sure
of seeing some of them coming up the hill from the town, alone or by
twos and threes. They speak but little; they look tired and stern; very
often there is nothing but a twinkle in their eyes to prove to you that
they are not morose. But in fact they are still taking life seriously;
their thoughts, and