slippery descent, and a shocking bad road. At the bottom, however, there
is a pleasant public; whereat we must really take a modest quencher, for
the down air is provocative of thirst. So we pull up under an old oak
which stands before the door.

"What is the name of your hill, landlord?"

"Blawing STWUN Hill, sir, to be sure."

[READER. "Stuym?"

AUTHOR: "Stone, stupid--the Blowing Stone."]

"And of your house? I can't make out the sign."

"Blawing Stwun, sir," says the landlord, pouring out his old ale from a
Toby Philpot jug, with a melodious crash, into the long-necked glass.

"What queer names!" say we, sighing at the end of our draught, and
holding out the glass to be replenished.

"Bean't queer at all, as I can see, sir," says mine host, handing back
our glass, "seeing as this here is the Blawing Stwun, his self," putting
his hand on a square lump of stone, some three feet and a half high,
perforated with two or three queer holes, like petrified antediluvian
rat-holes, which lies 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