In the kitchen at Lucketts’ Place there was a stool made by sawing off about six inches of the butt of a small ash tree.  The bark remained on, and it was not smoothed or trimmed in any way.  This mere log was Cicely Luckett’s favourite seat as a girl; she was Hilary’s only daughter.  The kitchen had perhaps originally been the house, the rest having been added to it in the course of years as the mode of life changed and increasing civilisation demanded more convenience and comfort.  The walls were quite four feet thick, and the one small lattice-window in its deep recess scarcely let in sufficient light, even on a summer’s day, to dispel the gloom, except at one particular time.

The little panes, yellow and green, were but just above the ground, looking out upon the road into the rickyard, so that the birds which came searching along among the grasses and pieces of wood thrown carelessly aside against the wall could see into the room.  Robins, of course, came every morning, perching on the sill and peering in with the head held on one side.  Blackbird and thrush came, but always passed the window itself quickly, though they stayed without fear within a few inches of it on either hand.

There was an old oak table in the centre of the room — a table so solid that young Aaron, the strong labourer, could only move it with difficulty.  There was no ceiling properly speaking, the boards of the floor above and a thick beam which upheld it being only whitewashed; and much of that had scaled off.  An oaken door led down a few steps into the cellar, and over both cellar and kitchen there sloped a long roof, thatched, whose eaves were but just above the ground.

Now, when there was no one in the kitchen, as in the afternoon, when even the indoor servants had gone out to help in the hayfield, little Cicely used to come in here and sit dreaming on the ash log by the hearth.  The rude stool was always placed inside the fireplace, which was very broad for burning wood, faggots and split pieces of timber.  Bending over the grey ashes, she could see right up the great broad tunnel of the chimney to the blue sky above, which seemed the more deeply azure, as it does from the bottom of a well.  In the evenings when she looked up she sometimes saw a star shining above.  In the early mornings of the spring, as she came rushing down to breakfast, the tiny yellow panes of the window which faced the east were all lit up and rosy with the rays of the rising sun.

The beautiful light came through the elms of the rickyard, away from the ridge of the distant Down, and then for the first hour of the day the room was aglow.  For quite two hundred years every visible sunrise had shone in at that window more or less, as the season changed and the sun rose to the north of east.  Perhaps it was that sense of ancient homeliness that caused Cicely, without knowing why, to steal in there alone to dream, for nowhere else indoors could she have been so far away from the world of to-day.

Left much to herself, she roamed along the hedgerow as now and then a mild day came, soon after the birds had paired, and saw the arrow-shaped, pointed leaves with black spots rising and unrolling at the sides of the ditches.  Many of these seemed to die away presently without producing anything, but from some there pushed up a sharply conical sheath, from which emerged the spadix of the arum with its frill.  Thrusting a stick into the loose earth of the bank, she found the root, covered with a thick wrinkled skin which peeled easily and left a white substance like a small potato.  Some of the old women who came into the kitchen used to talk about ‘yarbs,’ and she was told that this was poisonous and ought not to be touched — the very reason why she slipped into the dry ditch and dug it up.  But she started with a sense of guilt as she heard the slow rustle of a snake gliding along the mound over the dead, dry leaves of last year.

In August, when the reapers began to call and ask for work, she found the arum stalks, left alone without leaves, surrounded with berries, some green, some ripening red.  As the berries ripen, the stalk grows weak and frequently falls prone of its own weight among the grasses.  This noisome fruit of clustering berries, like an ear of maize stained red, they told her was ‘snake’s victuals,’ and to be avoided; for, bright as was its colour, it was only fit for a reptile’s food.

She knew, too, where to find the first ‘crazy Betties,’ whose large yellow flowers do not wait for the sun, but shine when the March wind scatters king’s ransoms over the fields.  These are the marsh marigolds:  there were two places where she gathered them, one beside the streamlet flowing through the ‘Mash,’ a meadow which was almost a water-meadow; and the other inside a withy-bed.  She pulled the ‘cat’s-tails,’ as she learned to call the horse-tails, to see the stem part at the joints; and when the mowing-grass began to grow long, picked the cuckoo-flowers and nibbled the stalk and leaflets to essay the cress-like taste.  In the garden, which was full of old-fashioned shrubs and herbs, she watched the bees busy at the sweet-scented ‘honey-plant,’ and sometimes peered under the sage-bush to look at the ‘effets’ that hid there.

By the footpath through the meadows there were now small places where the mowers had tried their new scythes as they came home, a little warm with ale perhaps, from the market town.  They cut a yard or two of grass as they went through the fields, just to get the swing of the scythe and as a hint to the farmer that it was time to begin.  With the first June rose in the hedge the haymaking commenced — the two usually coincide — and then Cicely fluctuated between the haymakers and the mowers, now watching one and now the other.  One of the haymaking girls was very proud because she had not lost a single wooden tooth out of her rake, for it is easy to break or pull them out.  In the next field the mowers, one behind the other in echelon, left each his swathe as he went.  The tall bennets with their purplish anthers, the sorrel, and the great white ‘moon-daisies’ fell before them.  Cicely would watch till perhaps the sharp scythe cut a frog, and the poor creature squealed with the pain.

Then away along the hedge to the pond in the corner, all green with ‘creed,’ or duckweed, when one of the boys about the place would come timidly up to offer a nest of eggs just taken, and if she would speak to him would tell her about his exploits ‘a-nisting,’ about the bombarrel tit — a corruption apparently of nonpareil — and how he had put the yellow juice of the celandine on his ‘wurrut’ to cure it.  Then they pulled the plantain leaves, those that grew by the path, to see which could draw out the longest ‘cat-gut;’ the sinews, as it were, of the plant stretching out like the strings of a fiddle.

In the next meadow the cows had just been turned into fresh grass, and were lazily rioting in it.  They fed in the sunshine with the golden buttercups up above their knees, literally wading in gold, their horns as they held their heads low just visible among the flowers.  Some that were standing in the furrows were hidden up to their middles by the buttercups.  Their sleek roan and white hides contrasted with the green grass and the sheen of the flowers:  one stood still, chewing the cud, her square face expressive of intense content, her beautiful eye — there is no animal with a more beautiful eye than the cow — following Cicely’s motions.  At this time of the year, as they grazed far from the pens, the herd were milked in the corner of the field, instead of driving them to the yard.

One afternoon Cicely came quietly through a gap in the hedge by this particular corner, thinking to laugh at Aaron’s voice, for he milked there and sang to the cows, when she saw him sitting on the three-legged milking-stool, stooping in the attitude of milking, with the bucket between his knees, but firm asleep, and quite alone in his glory.  He had had too much ale, and dropped asleep while milking the last cow, and the herd had left him and marched away in stately single file down to the pond, as they always drink after the milking.  Cicely stole away and said nothing; but presently Aaron was missed and a search made, and he was discovered by the other men still sleeping.  Poor ‘young Aaron’ got into nearly as much disgrace through the brown jug as a poaching uncle of his through his ferrets and wires.

When the moon rose full and lit up the Overboro’-road as bright as day, and the children came out from the cottages to their play, Cicely, though she did not join, used to watch their romping dances and picked up the old rhymes they chanted.  When the full moon shone in at her bedroom window, Cicely was very careful to turn away or cover her face; for she had heard one of the mowers declare that after sleeping on the hay in the moonlight one night he woke up in the morning almost blind.  Besides the meadows around Lucketts’ Place, she sometimes wandered further to the edge of Hilary’s great open arable fields, where the green corn, before it came out in ear, seemed to flutter, flutter like innumerable tiny flags, as the wind rushed over it.

She learned to rub the ripe ears in her hands to work the grain out of the husk, and then to winnow away the chaff by letting the corn slowly drop in a stream from one palm to the other, blowing gently with her mouth the while.  The grain remained on account of its weight, the chaff floating away, and the wheat, still soft though fully formed, could thus be pleasantly tasted.  The plaintive notes of the yellowhammer fell from the scanty trees of the wheat-field hedge, and the ploughboy who was put there to frighten away the rooks told her the bird said, repeating the song over and over again, ’A little bit of bread and no cheese.’  And indeed these syllables, with a lengthening emphasis on the ‘no,’ come ludicrously near to represent the notes.  The ploughboy understood them very well, for to have only a hunch of bread and little or no cheese was often his own case.

Two meadows distant from the lower woods of the Chace there is what seems from afar a remarkably wide hedge irregularly bordered with furze.  But on entering a gateway in it you find a bridge over a brook, which for some distance flows with a hedge on either side.  The low parapet of the bridge affords a seat — one of Cicely’s favourite haunts — whence in spring it is pleasant to look up the brook; for the banks sloping down from the bushes to the water are yellow with primroses, and hung over with willow boughs.  As the brook is straight, the eye can see under these a long way up; and presently a kingfisher, bright with azure and ruddy hues, comes down the brook, flying but just above the surface on which his reflection travels too.  He perches for a moment on a branch close to the bridge, but the next sees that he is not alone, and instantly retreats with a shrill cry.

A moorhen ventures forth from under the arches, her favourite hiding-place, and feeds among the weeds by the shore, but at the least movement rushes back to shelter.  A wood-pigeon comes over, flying slowly; he was going to alight on the ash tree yonder, but suddenly espying some one under the cover of the boughs increases his pace and rises higher.  Two bright bold bullfinches pass; they have a nest somewhere in the thick hawthorn.  A jay, crossing from the fir plantations, stays awhile in the hedge, and utters his loud harsh scream like the tearing of linen.  For a few hours the winds are still and the sunshine broods warm over the mead.  It is a delicious snatch of spring.

Every now and then a rabbit emerges from the burrows which are scattered thickly along the banks, and, passing among the primroses, goes through the hedge into the border of furze, and thence into the meadow-grass.  Some way down the brook they are so numerous as to have destroyed the vegetation on the banks, excepting a few ferns, by their constant movements and scratching of the sand; so that there is a small warren on either side of the water.  It is said that they occasionally swim across the broad brook, which is much too wide to jump; but I have never seen such a thing but once.  A rabbit already stung with shot and with a spaniel at his heels did once leap at the brook here, and, falling short, swam the remainder without apparent trouble, and escaped into a hole on the opposite shore with his wet fur laid close to the body.  But they usually cross at the bridge, where the ground bears the marks of their incessant nightly travels to and fro.

Passing now in the other direction, up the stream from the bridge, the hedges after a while cease, and the brook winds through the open fields.  Here there is a pond, to which at night the heron resorts; for he does not care to trust himself between the high hedgerows.  In the still shallow, but beyond reach, there floats on the surface a small patch of green vegetation formed of the treble leaves of the water crow-foot.  Towards June it will be a brilliant white spot.  The slender stems uphold the cup-like flowers two or three inches above the surface, the petals of the purest white with a golden centre.  They are the silver buttercups of the brook.  Where the current flows slowly the long and somewhat spear-shaped leaves of the water-plantain stand up, and in the summer will be surmounted by a tall stalk with three small pale pink petals on its branches.  The leaf can be written on with a pencil, the point tracing letters by removing the green colouring where it passes.

Far larger are the leaves of the water-docks; they sometimes attain to immense size.  By the bank the ‘wild willow,’ or water-betony, with its woody stem, willow-shaped leaves, and pale red flowers, grows thickly.  Across where there is a mud-bank the stout stems of the willow herb are already tall.  They quite cover the shoal, and line the brook like shrubs.  They are the strongest and the most prominent of all the brook plants.  At the end of March or beginning of April the stalks appear a few inches high, and they gradually increase in size, until in July they reach above the waist, and form a thicket by the shore.  Not till July does the flower open, so that, though they make so much show of foliage, it is months before any colour brightens it.  The red flower comes at the end of a pod, and has a tiny white cross within it; it is welcome, because by August so many of the earlier flowers are fading.  The country folk call it the sod-apple, and say the leaves crushed in the fingers have something of the scent of apple-pie.

Farther up the stream, where a hawthorn bush shelters it, stands a knotted fig-wort with a square stem and many branches, each with small velvety flowers.  If handled, the leaves emit a strong odour, like the leaves of the elder-bush; it is a coarse-growing plant, and occasionally reaches to a height of between four and five feet, with a stem more than half an inch square.  Some ditches are full of it.  By the rushes the long purple spike of the loose-strife rises, and on the mud-banks among the willows there grows a tall plant with bunches of flower, the petals a bright yellow:  this is the yellow loose-strife.  Near it is a herb with a much-divided leaf, and curious flowers like small yellow buttons.  Rub one of these gently, and it will give forth a most peculiar perfume — aromatic, and not to be compared with anything else; the tansy once scented will always be recognised.

The large rough leaves of the wild comfrey grow in bunches here and there; the leaves are attached to the stem for part of their length, and the stem is curiously flanged.  The bells are often greenish, sometimes white, occasionally faintly lilac; they are partly hidden under the dark-green leaves.  Where undisturbed the comfrey grows to a great size, the stems becoming very thick.  Green flags hide and almost choke the shallow mouth of a streamlet that joins the brook coming from the woods.  Though green above, the flag where it enters its sheath is white.

Tracing it upwards, the brook becomes narrower and the stream less, though running more swiftly; and here there is a marshy spot with willows, and between them some bulrushes and great bunches of bullpolls.  This coarse grass forms tufts or cushions, on which snakes often coil in the sunshine.  Yet though so rough, in June the bullpoll sends up tall slender stalks with graceful feathery heads, reed-like, surrounded with long ribbons of grass.  In the ditches hereabout, and beside the brook itself, the meadow-sweet scents the air; the country-folk call it ‘meadow-soot.’  And in those ditches are numerous coarse stems and leaves which, if crushed in the fingers, yield a strong parsnip-like smell.  The water-parsnip, which is poisonous, is said to be sometimes gathered for watercress; but the palate must be dull, one would think, to eat it, and the smell is a sure test.  The blue flower of the brooklime is not seen here; you must look for it where the springs break forth, where its foliage sometimes quite conceals the tiny rill.

These flowers do not, of course, all appear together; but they may be all found in the summer season along the brook, and you should begin to look for them when the brown scum, that sign of coming warmth, rises from the bottom of the waters.  Returning to the pond, it may be noticed that the cart-horses when they walk in of a summer’s day paw the stream, as if they enjoyed the cool sound of the splash; but the cows stand quite still with the water up to their knees.

There is a spot by a yet more quiet bridge, where the little water-shrews play to and fro where the bank overhangs.  As they dive and move under water the reddish-brown back looks of a lighter colour; when they touch the ground they thrust their tiny nostrils up just above the surface.  There are many holes of water-rats, but no one would imagine how numerous these latter creatures are.  One of Hilary’s sons, Hugh, kept some ferrets, and in the summer was put to it to find them enough food.  The bird-keepers brought in a bird occasionally, and there were cruel rumours of a cat having disappeared.  Still there was not sufficient till he hit on the idea of trapping the water-rats; and this is how he did it.

He took three small twigs and ran them into the bank of the brook at the mouth of the water-rat’s hole and just beneath the surface of the stream.  These made a platform upon which the gin was placed — the pan, and indeed all the trap, just under the water, which prevented any scent.  Whether the rat came out of his hole and plunged to dive or started to swim, or whether he came swimming noiselessly round the bend and was about to enter the burrow, it made no difference; he was certain to pass over and throw the gin.  The instant the teeth struck him he gave a jump which lifted the trap off the twig platform, and it immediately sank in the deep water and soon drowned him; for the water-rat, though continually diving, can only stay a short time under water.  It proved a fatal contrivance, chiefly, as was supposed, because the gin, being just under the water, could not be smelt.  No fewer than eleven rats were thus captured in succession at the mouth of one hole.  Altogether 150 were taken in the course of that summer.

Hugh kept a record of them by drawing a stroke with chalk for every rat on the red brick wall of the stable, near his ferret-hutch.  He only used a few traps — one was set not at a hole, but at a sharp curve of the brook — and the whole of these rats were taken in a part of the brook about 250 or 300 yards in length, just where it ran through a single field.  The great majority were water-rats, but there were fifteen or twenty house-rats among them:  these were very thin though large, and seemed to be caught as they were migrating; for sometimes several were trapped the same day, and then none (of this kind) for a week or more.  Three moorhens were also caught; a fourth was only held by its claw in the gin; this one, not being in the least injured, he let go again.

It had been observed previously that the water-rats, either in making their burrows or for food, gnawed off the young withy-stoles underneath the ground in the withy-beds, and thus killed a considerable amount of withy; but after all this slaughter the withy-beds recovered and bore the finest crop they ever grew.  But who could have imagined in walking by the brook that only in its course through a single meadow it harboured 150 rats?  Probably, though, some of them came up or down the stream.  The ferrets fared sumptuously all the summer.