the
county has nothing more interesting than this. The church is cruciform,
as all churches should be, and there is a little east window in the
north transept through which, it is conjectured, arrows were intended to
be shot at marauding Danes; for an Englishman's church was once his
castle. Archaeologists familiar with Worth church have been known to pass
with disdain cathedrals for which the ordinary person cannot find too
many fine adjectives.

[Sidenote: MR. BLUNT'S BALLAD]

[Sidenote: THE OLD SQUIRE]

To regain Crabbet. The present owner, Mr. Wilfred Scawen Blunt, poet,
patriot, and breeder of Arab horses, who is a descendant of the Gales,
has a long poem entitled "Worth Forest," wherein old Leonard Gale is a
notable figure. Among other poems by the lord of Crabbet is the very
pleasantly English ballad of

THE OLD SQUIRE.

I like the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
I like the joyous morning air,
And the crowing of the cocks.

I like the calm of the early fields,
The ducks asleep by the lake,
The quiet hour which Nature yields
Before mankind is awake.

I like the pheasants and feeding things
Of the unsuspicious morn;
I like the flap of the wood-pigeon's wings
As she rises from the corn.

I like the blackbird's shriek, and his rush
From the turnips as I pass by,
And the partridge hiding her head in a bush,
For her young ones cannot fly.

I like these things, and I like to ride
When all the world is in bed,
To the top of the hill where the sky grows wide,
And where the sun grows red.

The beagles at my horse heels trot,
In silence after me;
There's Ruby, Roger, Diamond, Dot,
Old Slut and Margery,--

A score of names well used, and dear,
The names my childhood knew;
The horn, with which I rouse their cheer,
Is the horn my father blew.

I like the hunting of the hare
Better than that of the fox;
The new world still is all less fair
Than the old world it mocks.

I covet not a wider range
Than these dear manors give;
I take my pleasures without change,
And as I lived I live.

I leave my neighbours to their thought;
My choice it is, and pride,
On my own lands to find my sport,
In my own fields to ride.

The hare herse