few houses are to be seen. But down in the valley all is fertile and
full of life. It is here that the old-fashioned villagers dwell. How
well I remember the first time I came upon it! One fine September
evening, having left all traces of railways and the ancient Roman town
of Cirencester some seven long miles behind me, with wearied limbs I
sought this quiet, sequestered spot. Suddenly, as I was wondering how
amid these never ending hills there could be such a place as I had been
told existed, I beheld it at my feet, surpassing beautiful! Below me was
a small village, nestling amid a wealth of stately trees. The hand of
man seemed in some bygone time to have done all that was necessary to
render the place habitable, but no more. There were cottages, bridges,
and farm buildings, but all were ivy clad and time worn. The very trees
themselves appeared to be laden with a mantle of ivy that was more than
they could bear. Many a tall fir, from base to topmost twig, was
completely robed with the smooth, five-pointed leaves of this rapacious
evergreen. Through the thick foliage, of elm and ash and beech, I could
just see an old manor house, and round about it, as if for protection,
were clustered some thirty cottages. A murmuring of waters filled my
ears, and on descending the hill I came upon a silvery trout stream,
which winds its way down the valley, broad and shallow, now gently
gliding over smooth gravel, now dashing over moss-grown stones and rock.
The cottages, like the manor house and farm buildings, are all built of
the native stone, and all are gabled and picturesque. Indeed, save a few
new cottages, most of the dwellings appeared to be two or three hundred
years old. One farmhouse I noted carefully, and I longed to tear away
the ivy from the old and crumbling porch, to see if I could not discern
some half-effaced inscription telling me the date of this relic of the
days of "Merrie England."

This quaint old place appeared older than the rest of the buildings. On