, but we must keep a sharp lookout for
cyclists, who seldom ring their bells, but rush swiftly and silently
past, and perhaps shout something rude to us for being on their track.
There are no fences or hedges, but a straggling row of tall
poplar-trees on each side of the road, and beyond them square fields
of rye or pasturage divided by ditches of stagnant water.

It will not be long before we come to a village, a row of white
cottages with roofs of red tiles, and outside window-shutters painted
green. In front of each cottage there is a pathway of rough stones,
and a gutter full of dirty water. There are about fifty of these
cottages, of which half a dozen or so have signboards with _Herberg_,
which means public-house, over their doors. The railway passes close
in front of them. A little way back from the road there is a church,
with a clock-tower, and a snug-looking house, standing in a garden,
where the parish priest lives.

Just outside the village we notice a meadow, in which there is a
wooden shed open at one side, with benches in it, and reminding us of
the little pavilions we often see on village cricket-grounds in
England. The part of the meadow just in front of this shed is covered
with cinders or gravel, in the middle of which rises a very high pole,
tapering towards the top, and looking like a gigantic fishing-rod
stuck in the ground. It is crossed, a long way up, by slender spars,
like the yards of a ship, only they are no thicker than a
walking-stick. On these spars, and along the pole itself near the top,
a number of little wooden pegs, with tufts of yellow worsted attached
to them, are fixed. One bigger than the rest is perched on the very
summit of the pole, which bends over slightly to one side. They look
like toy canaries, but are called "pigeons," and they are put there as
marks to be shot at with bows and arrows.

Presently a number of men come from the village, each with a long-bow
and some arrows. It is a holiday, and the local Society of Archers is
going to spend the afternoon shooting for prizes. One of them takes
his stand close to the foot of the pole, fits an arrow on his
bowstring, aims steadily, and shoots straight up. It needs a good deal
of strength, as the bow is stiff to bend. The arrow flies whistling
among the "birds," touches one or two without bringing them down,
rises high above the top of the pole, turns in the air, and comes down
again to the ground with a thud. It is the duty