ies there close under the oak, under our very nose. We
are more than ever puzzled, and drink our second glass of ale, wondering
what will come next. "Like to hear un, sir?" says mine host, setting
down Toby Philpot on the tray, and resting both hands on the "Stwun." We
are ready for anything; and he, without waiting for a reply, applies his
mouth to one of the ratholes. Something must come of it, if he doesn't
burst. Good heavens! I hope he has no apoplectic tendencies. Yes, here
it comes, sure enough, a gruesome sound between a moan and a roar, and
spreads itself away over the valley, and up the hillside, and into the
woods at the back of the house, a ghost-like, awful voice. "Um do say,
sir," says mine host, rising purple-faced, while the moan is still
coming out of the Stwun, "as they used in old times to warn the
country-side by blawing the Stwun when the enemy was a-comin', and as
how folks could make un heered then for seven mile round; leastways, so
I've heered Lawyer Smith say, and he knows a smart sight about them old
times." We can hardly swallow Lawyer Smith's seven miles; but could the
blowing of the stone have been a summons, a sort of sending the fiery
cross round the neighbourhood in the old times? What old times? Who
knows? We pay for our beer, and are thankful.

"And what's the name of the village just below, landlord?"

"Kingstone Lisle, sir."

"Fine plantations you've got here?"

"Yes, sir; the Squire's 'mazing fond of trees and such like."

"No wonder. He's got some real beauties to be fond of. Good-day,
landlord."

"Good-day, sir, and a pleasant ride to 'ee."

And now, my boys, you whom I want to get for readers, have you had
enough? Will you give in at once, and say you're convinced, and let me
begin my story, or will you have more of it? Remember, I've only been
over a little bit of the hillside yet--what you could ride round easily
on your ponies in an hour. I'm only just come down into the Vale, by
Blowing Stone Hill; and if I once begin about the Vale, what's to stop
me? You'll have to hear all about Wantage, the birthplace of Alfred, and
Farringdon, which held out so long for Charles the First (the Vale was
near Oxford, and dreadfully malignant--full of Throgmortons, Puseys,
and Pyes, and such like; and their brawny retainers). Did you ever read
Thomas Ingoldsby's "Legend of Hamilton Tighe"? If you haven't, you ought
to have. Well, Farringdon is where he lived, before he went to sea;
h