their friends in the street, have a chat, wind
up with a visit to the public-house, and so homewards at any time
between seven and ten o'clock, trooping up the hill happily enough as a
rule. Now and then one comes across solitary couples making one another
miserable. Thus one night I heard a woman's voice in the dark, very
tired and faint, say, "It's a long hill!" to which the surly tones of a
man replied: "'Ten't no longer than 'twas, is it?" Brutishness like
this, however, is quite the exception.

As a sample of what is normal, take the following scraps of talk
overheard one summer night some years ago. The people were late that
night, and indeed, it was pleasant to be out. Not as yet were there any
of those street lamps along the road which now make all nights alike
dingy; but one felt as if walking into the unspoiled country. For though
it was after ten, and the sky overcast, still one could see very clearly
the glimmering road and the hedgerows in the soft midsummer twilight.
Enjoying this tranquillity, I passed by a man and woman with two
children, and heard the man say invitingly: "Shall I carry the basket?"
The wife answered: "'E en't 'eavy, Bill, thanks.... Only I got this 'ere
little Rosy to git along."

Her voice sounded gentle and cheerful, and I tried to hear more,
checking my pace. But the children were walking too slowly. I was
getting out of earshot, missing the drift of the peaceful-sounding
chatter, when presently the woman, as if turning to the other child,
said more loudly: "Come along, Sonny!" The man added: "Hullo, old man!
Come along! You'll be left behind!"

The children began prattling; their father and mother laughed; but I was
leaving them farther and farther behind. Then, however, some other
homeward-goer overtook the little family. For the talk grew suddenly
louder, the woman beginning cheerily: "Hullo, Mr. Weatherall! 'Ow's your
poor wife?... I didn't see as 'twas you, 'till this here little Rosy
said...."

What Rosy had said I failed to catch. I missed also what followed,
leading up to the woman's endearing remark: "This 'ere little Rosy,
she's a reg'lar gal for cherries!" The neighbour seemed to say
something; then the husband; then the neighbour again. And at that there
came a burst of laughter, loudest from the woman, and Mr. Weatherall
asked: "Didn't you never hear that afore?"

The woman, laughing still, was emphatic: "No; I'll take my oath as I
never knowed that."

"Well, you