The simplicity and enjoyments of a country life depicted.

A quiet day was Sunday on Southwood Farm. Joe used to slumber in the meadows among the buttercups, or in the loft, or near the kitchen-fire, as the season and weather invited. That is to say, until such time as, coming out of Sunday School (for to Sunday School he sometimes went) he saw one of the fairest creatures he had ever read about either in the Bible or elsewhere! It was a very strange thing she should be so different from everybody else: not even the clergyman’s daughters—no, nor the Squire’s daughters, for the matter of that—looked half so nice as pretty Polly Sweetlove, the housemaid at the Vicar’s.

“Now look at that,” said Joe, as he went along the lane on that Sunday when he first beheld this divine creature. “I’m danged if she beant about the smartest lookin o’ any on ’em. Miss Mary beant nothing to her: it’s a dandelion to a toolup.”

So ever since that time Joe had slept less frequently in the hay-loft on a Sunday afternoon; and, be it said to his credit, had attended his church with greater punctuality. The vicar took great notice of the lad’s religious tendencies, and had him to his night-school at the vicarage, in consequence; and certainly no vicar ever knew a boy more regular in his attendance. He was there waiting to go in ever so long before the school began, and was always the very last to leave the premises.

Often he would peep over the quick-set hedge into the kitchen-window, just to catch a glance of this lovely angel. And yet, so far as he could tell, she had never looked at him. When she opened the door, Joe always felt a thrill run through him as if some extraordinary thing had happened. It was a kind of jump; and yet he had jumped many times before that: “it wasn’t the sort of jump,” he said, “as a chap gits either from bein’ frit or bein’ pleased.” And what to make of it he didn’t know. Then Polly’s cap was about the loveliest thing, next to Polly herself, he had ever seen. It was more like a May blossom than anything else, or a beautiful butterfly on the top of a water-lily. In fact, all the rural images of a rude but not inartistic mind came and went as this country boy thought of his beautiful Polly. As he ploughed the field, if he saw a May-blossom in the hedgerow, it reminded him of Polly’s cap; and even the little gentle daisy was like Polly herself. Pretty Polly was everywhere!

Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin, on a fine Sabbath afternoon, would take their pastime in the open air. First Mr. Bumpkin would take down his long churchwarden pipe from its rack on the ceiling, where it lay in close companionship with an ancient flint-gun; then he would fill it tightly, so as to make it last the longer, with tobacco from his leaden jar; and then, having lighted it, he and his wife would go out of the back door, through the garden and the orchard, and along by the side of the quiet river. By their side, as a matter of course, came Tim the Collie (named after Mrs. Bumpkin’s grandfather Timothy), who knew as well as possible every word that was being said. If Mrs. Bumpkin only asked, “Where is Betsy?” (that was the head Alderney cow) Tim would bark and fly across to the meadow where she was; and then, having said to her and to the five other Alderney cows and four heifers, “Why, here’s master and missus coming round to look at you, why on earth don’t you come and see them?” up the whole herd would come, straggling one after the other, to the meadow where Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin were waiting for them; and all would look over the hedge, as much as to say, “How d’ye do, master, and how d’ye do, missus; what a nice day, isn’t it?” exactly in the same manner as men and women greet one another as often as they meet. And then there was the old donkey, Jack, whom Tim would chaff no matter when or where he saw him. I believe if Tim had got him in church, he would have chaffed him. It was very amusing to see Jack duck his head and describe a circle as Tim swept round him, barking with all his might, and yet only laughing all the while. Sometimes Jack, miscalculating distances—he wasn’t very great at mathematics—and having no eye for situations, would kick out vigorously with his hind legs, thinking Tim was in close proximity to his heels; whereas the sagacious and jocular Tim was leaning on his outstretched fore-feet immediately in front of Jack’s head.

Then there was another sight, not the least interesting on these afternoon rambles: in the far meadow, right under “the lids,” as they were called, lived the famous Bull of Southwood Farm. He was Mrs. Bumpkin’s pet. She had had him from a baby, and used to feed him in his infant days from a bottle by the kitchen fire. And so docile was he that, although few strangers would be safe in intruding into his presence, he would follow Mrs. Bumpkin about, as she said, “just like a Christian.” The merits of this bull were the theme, on all appropriate occasions, of Mrs. Bumpkin’s unqualified praise. If the Vicar’s wife called, as she sometimes did, to see how Mrs. Bumpkin was getting on, Mrs. Bumpkin’s “baby” (that is the bull) was sure to be brought up—I don’t mean by the nurse, but in conversation. No matter how long she waited her opportunity, Mrs. Goodheart never left without hearing something of the exploits of this remarkable bull. In truth, he was a handsome, well-bred fellow. He had come from the Squire’s—so you may be sure his breed was gentlemanly in the extreme; and his grandmother, on the maternal side, had belonged to the Bishop of Winchester; so you have a sufficient guarantee, I hope, for his moral character and orthodox principles. Indeed, it had been said that no dissenter dared pass through the meadow where he was, in consequence of his connection with the Establishment. Now, on the occasions when Mr. and Mrs. Bumpkin took their walks abroad through the meadows to see their lambkins and their bull skip, this is what would invariably happen. First, Mrs. Bumpkin would go through the little cosy-looking gate in the corner of the meadow, right down by the side of the old boat-house; then Mr. Bumpkin would follow, holding his long pipe in one hand and his ash-stick in the other. Then, away in the long distance, at the far end of the meadow (he was always up there on these occasions), stood “Sampson” (that was the bull), with his head turned right round towards his master and mistress, as if he were having his photograph taken. Thus he stood for a moment; then down went his huge forehead to the ground; up went his tail to the sky; then he sent a bellow along the earth which would have frightened anybody but his “mother,” and started off towards his master and mistress like a ship in a heavy sea; sometimes with his keel up in the air, and sometimes with his prow under water: it not only was playful, it was magnificent, and anybody unaccustomed to oxen might have been a little terrified by the furious glare of his eyes and the terrible snort of his nostrils as he approached.

Not so Mrs. Bumpkin, who held out her hand, and ejaculated,

“My pretty baby; my sweet pet; good Sampson!” and many other expressions of an endearing character.

“Good Sampson” looked, snorted, danced, plunged and careered; and then came up and let Mrs. Bumpkin stroke and pat him; while Bumpkin looked on, smoking his pipe peacefully, and thinking what a fine fellow he, the bull, was, and what a great man he, Bumpkin, must be to be the possessor of “sich!”

Thus the peaceful afternoon would glide quietly and sweetly away, and so would the bull, after the interesting interview was over.

They always returned in time for tea, and then Mrs. Bumpkin would go to evening service, while Mr. Bumpkin would wait for her on the little piece of green near the church, where neighbours used to meet and chat of a Sunday evening; such as old Mr. Gosling, the market gardener, and old Master Mott, the head gardener to the Squire, and Master Cole, the farmer, and various others, the original inhabitants of Yokelton; discussing the weather and the crops, the probability of Mr. Tomson getting in again at the vestry as waywarden; what kind of a highway rate there would be for the coming year; how that horse got on that Mr. Sooby bought at the fair; and various other matters of importance to a village community. They would also pass remarks upon any striking personage who passed them on his way to church. Mr. Prigg, for instance, the village lawyer, who, they said, was a remarkably upright and down-straight sort of man; although his wife, they thought, was “a little bit stuck up like” and gave herself airs a little different from Mrs. Goodheart, who would “always talk to ’em jist the same as if she was one o’ th’ people.” So that, on the whole, they entertained themselves very amicably until such time as the “organ played the people out of church.” Then every one looked for his wife or daughter, as the case might be, and wished one another good night: most of them having been to church in the morning, they did not think it necessary to repeat the performance in the evening.