3.

'Twas moonset at starting; but, while we drew near Lokeren, the cocks crew and twilight dawned clear; At Boom, a great yellow star came out to see;

At Düffeld, 'twas morning as plain as could be ; And from Mecheln church-steeple we heard the half-chime,

So Joris broke silence with: 'Yet there is time!'

4.

At Aerschot, up leaped of a sudden the sun,
And against him the cattle stood black every one,
To stare through the mist at us galloping past,
And I saw my stout galloper, Roland, at last,
With resolute shoulders each butting away,
The haze, as some bluff river headland its spray;

5.

And his low head and crest, just one sharp ear bent back

For my voice, and the other pricked out on his track ;
And one eye's black intelligence—ever that glance
O'er its white edge at me, his own master, askance !
And the thick, heavy spume-flakes which aye and anon
His fierce lips shook upwards in galloping on.

6.

By Hasselt, Dirck groaned; and cried Joris: 'Stay, spur!
Your Roos galloped bravely, the fault's not in her,
We'll remember at Aix'-for one heard the quick

wheeze

Of her chest, saw the stretched neck, and staggering

knees,

And sunk tail, and horrible heave of the flank,

As down on her haunches she shuddered and sank.

7.

So we were left galloping, Joris and I,

Past Loos and past Tongres, no cloud in the sky;

The broad sun above laughed a pitiless laugh,

'Neath our foot broke the brittle bright stubble like chaff; Till over by Dalhem a dome-tower sprang white,

And Gallop,' cried Joris, 'for Aix is in sight!'

8.

'How they'll greet us!' and all in a moment his roan
Rolled neck and croup over, lay dead as a stone;
And there was my Roland to bear the whole weight
Of the news which alone could save Aix from her fate,
With his nostrils like pits full of blood to the brim,
And with circles of red for his eye-sockets' rim.

9.

Then I cast my loose buff-coat, each holster let fall,
Shook off both my jack-boots, let go belt and all,
Stood up in the stirrup, leaned, patted his ear,

Called my Roland his pet name, my horse without peer; Clapped my hands, laughed and sang, any noise, bad or good,

Till at length into Aix Roland galloped and stood.

10.

And all I remember is friends flocking round

As I sate with his head 'twixt my knees on the ground,
And no voice but was praising this Roland of mine,
As I poured down his throat our last measure of wine,
Which the burgesses voted by common consent

Was no more than his due who brought good news from
Ghent.

VILLAGE PURSUITS.

I have already mentioned my visits to the tailor, carpenter, and the brickmaker; but there was not a trade in the whole village but was a matter of many an hour's observation to us, and very interesting they are to all young folks; and there is a deal of useful knowledge to be picked up from watching them. It was a delight to us-not only to make our shoe-heel bricks, but to watch old Samuel Poundall moulding his also on a sort of rude table, and handing them over rapidly to a parcel of bare-legged lads, who laid them down in rows on the smooth clay-floor of the brick-yard. To see the men digging, turning, and grinding the clay, or the lads turning and clapping those that were drying in the yard; to see them pile them up on open walls to dry still faster, and lay straw on the top to prevent the sun and rain and frost from injuring them, which shewed us why the Israelities in Egypt could not do without straw, when they were compelled to make bricks for Pharaoh. It was a grand sight to see them pile their unbaked bricks in the great kiln, and cover them over with earth or ashes, and make great fires in fireplaces all round. To see it blazing away like a huge furnace in the dark night; and then to see them, when it was cool, open it, and take out the bricks red and hard, and fit to build houses to last five hundred years.

And it was next a subject of great interest to see these bricks turned into houses. Many and many were the hours that we spent in watching Abraham Street and his man in their building-work. First, we found them where some old house stood, busy at work some

morning on the very top of it, and beginning to strip off the roof, and pull it down. Off came old thatch, down came dusty old beams and spars, down came the walls; and in a few days, the place was cleared, and they were digging out the foundation for a new erection; while a man sat with a curiously-shaped instrument, having an edge at each end, dressing the old bricks, as they called it-that is, hewing off the old mortar, and preparing them again for use. It was a matter of daily speculation and notice what sort of a place they would raise. Everything was a very interesting concern to us: the putting down the great timber-centres, as they called them, or framework on which to build an arch; then the gradual growing of the walls, with spaces left for doors and windows; then the putting in the window-frames and door-frames, and laying across the joists and beams of the floors; then the putting up of the roof; and then the tilers coming and covering it. Every degree of progress was a fresh source of curiosity and pleasure to us. The glazing-work, and the laying of the floors, and the putting in of fireplaces and cupboards, and setting up the stairs and draining the walls, and the putting on the first fires; and above all, to see the tenants come in, with all their furniture, to a real housethe work of Sam Poundall, the brickmaker; Abraham Street, the bricklayer; Brough, the carpenter; Jackson, the tiler; and Allen, the glazier. Palaces may be built, and thousands may stand from day to day and watch and wonder; but I do not believe that any one of those spectators feel more wonder or pleasure than a villagelad does over the building of a cottage.

But every rural trade had its attractions for us. We made our visits to the old shoemaker as often as to the

builder; and I don't know that I could not put a shoe together if I were to try-though I never did-for every part of the mystery is familiar to me. I liked to sit and watch him hammering away at a leather sole on his lapstone. I watched, with curious eyes, the making of his wax, which is pitch and oil melted together, and made into balls. The great old water-pot, too, in which he floated his waxed balls, to keep them firm and hard, I see it as plainly as possible standing behind his door. I see the merry old man twisting his tacking-ends, as he called his waxed thread, soaking his soling leather in water, cutting out upper-leathers, and explaining to me all the time that the leather was the skin of cows or calves, seals or kids, as it happened to be, which had been tanned and curried, or dressed in different ways, and coloured or dyed by different methods, till it assumed its proper appearance and smell. All this was curious information to me, as well as the making of the welts, the stitching on the soles, and, lastly, the binding and polishing.

Then there were the miller and baker, whose arts were also favourite studies. I loved to hear the clack of the mill as I ran up the hill where it stood, of a holidayafternoon, and mounted the steps that seemed to sink and tremble under my feet as I went up; and there was the 'rusty, dusty miller,' as we called him, always looking as happy and composed as possible. It used to seem to me that there was something in the very air of a mill that made people comfortable. One never seemed to see people noisy and quarrelling in a mill as in other places. The very rocking and knocking and humming sound of the mill seemed to subdue and soothe all boisterous humours and bad passions. Boom and rattle went the