Parish records however do not at present show that Hannah Bint, London Jack or Isaac the mole-catcher, the subjects of the two stories at the bottom of this page, as being anything other than fictional characters. We may though, through these pages, capture a more romantic glimpse of 1820s country life and perhaps ignore for a brief period how tough just existing would have been for our Shinfield and neighbouring Arborfield farm labouring ancestors.

Additionally I do have a suspicion that a modern 'shrink' would find some similarities in Mary's own relationship with her father and the fictional one of Hannah Bint and London Jack.

Shinfield Literary and Historical notes - August 1936

Mary Russell Mitford (1787 - 1855)

Mary Russell Mitford was born on the 16th of December 1787. She was the only child of her parents, who were well connected; her mother was an heiress. Her father belonged to the Mitfords of the North. Mary was a very precocious child. She describes herself as 'a puny child, with an affluence of curls which made her look as if she were twin sister to her own great doll.' She could read at three years old and she learnt the Percy ballads by heart almost before she could read. 

In 1797, she drew a prize in the Irish Lottery worth £20,000. The child herself insisted on choosing the number, 2224, because its digits made up the sum of her age. On the strength of this, Dr. Mitford built a fashionable town house on the London Road in Reading before moving to 'Bertram House', a small country estate in nearby Grazeley. 

Between 1798 and 1802, Mary was in a good school at 22 Hans Place, London, kept by Mrs. St.Quintin, a French refugee, where Lady Caroline Lamb had been an earlier pupil. 

In 1802, Mary settled at home with her parents and her literary taste began to develop. She read enormously. In 1806, she mastered fifty-five volumes in thirty-one days and, in 1810, appeared her first published work, 'Miscellaneous Poems.'

Mary aged 3

 Long after, she used to describe how she first studied her beloved ballads in the breakfast-room lined with books, warmly spread with its Turkey carpet, with its bright fire, easy chairs, and the windows opening to a garden full of flowers,--stocks, honeysuckles, and pinks. It is touching to note how, all through her difficult life, her path was (literally) lined with flowers, and how the love of them comforted and cheered her from the first to the very last. In her saddest hours, the passing fragrance and beauty of her favourite geraniums cheered and revived her. Even when her mother died she found comfort in the plants they had tended together, and at the very last breaks into delighted descriptions of them.

By March 1820, Dr. Mitford's spend-thrift irregularities had reduced his family to the utmost poverty and it was necessary for Mary to turn to literature for their means of livelihood. The household moved to Three Mile Cross, Shinfield, a village on the turnpike road between Reading and Basingstoke, and lived there in "an insufficient and meanly furnished labourer's cottage". The largest room was about eight feet square. Miss Mitford resided there for more than thirty years, allowing herself only one luxury - a flower garden. She wrote much for the magazines, but soon grew convinced that her talent lay in tragedy, a view in which Coleridge, on reading 'Blanch of Castile,' had encouraged her.

Her mother died on 1st January 1830, and was buried in the parish church at Shinfield, while her father's increasing extravagances kept her poor. She confessed to Miss Barrett that "although want, actual want has not come, yet fear and anxiety have never been absent."

An older Mary

This series of sketches of village scenes and vividly drawn characters was based upon life in Three Mile Cross, a hamlet in the parish of Shinfield, near Reading  where she lived. Shinfield had also featured twice in the works of Thomas Hardy, who called it Gaymead. Its principal appearance was as the setting for The Son’s Veto from Life’s Little Ironies. Sophy, the chief character, even married the local rector in the church there. Later, Hardy wrote of Jude the Obscure working as a decorator in a church near Gaymead, though its exact location is uncertain.

Mary Russell Mitford is one of those lively, unpretentious writers who-without knowing it, since she could not foresee the changes of the next hundred and fifty years - has left us some precious glimpses of a vanished past. Her style is so simple and natural that she could be thinking aloud by the parlour fire, or writing a long and cheerfully familiar letter. 

'Oh what a watery world!' she cries, exasperated with the English weather. 'I will look at it no longer. I will walk on. The road is alive again. Noise is re-born. Waggons creak, horses splash, carts rattle, and pattens paddle through the dirt with more than their usual clink ... She is making her way home through the village of Three Mile Cross, her white greyhound Mayflower bounding before her and the January rain soaking her bonnet and shawl. We are in the early eighteen-twenties. George IV is on the throne, Jane Austen was still alive only a few years ago, and Byron is setting out for Missolonghi. And Miss Mitford, the plump little lady whom everyone in the village knows and likes, is thinking out, for The Lady's Magazine, the next instalment of Our Village, the collection of rural tales and sketches which was to make her famous. 

The house at Three Mile Cross

Jane Austen in 1815

HANNAH BINT

The Shaw, leading to Hannah Bint's habitation, is, as I perhaps have
said before, a very pretty mixture of wood and coppice; that is to
say, a tract of thirty or forty acres covered with fine growing
timber--ash, and oak, and elm, very regularly planted; and
interspersed here and there with large patches of underwood, hazel,
maple, birch, holly, and hawthorn, woven into almost impenetrable
thickets by long wreaths of the bramble, the briony, and the
brier-rose, or by the pliant and twisting garlands of the wild
honeysuckle. In other parts, the Shaw is quite clear of its bosky
undergrowth, and clothed only with large beds of feathery fern, or
carpets of flowers, primroses, orchises, cowslips, ground-ivy,
crane's-bill, cotton-grass, Solomon's seal, and forget-me-not,
crowded together with a profusion and brilliancy of colour, such as
I have rarely seen equalled even in a garden. Here the wild
hyacinth really enamels the ground with its fresh and lovely purple; there,

'On aged roots, with bright green mosses clad,
Dwells the wood-sorrel, with its bright thin leaves
Heart-shaped and triply folded, and its root
Creeping like beaded coral; whilst around
Flourish the copse's pride, anemones,
With rays like golden studs on ivory laid
Most delicate; but touch'd with purple clouds,
Fit crown for April's fair but changeful brow.'

The variety is much greater than I have enumerated; for the ground
is so unequal, now swelling in gentle ascents, now dimpling into
dells and hollows, and the soil so different in different parts,
that the sylvan Flora is unusually extensive and complete.

The season is, however, now too late for this floweriness; and
except the tufted woodbines, which have continued in bloom during
the whole of this lovely autumn, and some lingering garlands of the
purple wild vetch, wreathing round the thickets, and uniting with
the ruddy leaves of the bramble, and the pale festoons of the
briony, there is little to call one's attention from the grander
beauties of the trees--the sycamore, its broad leaves already
spotted--the oak, heavy with acorns--and the delicate shining rind
of the weeping birch, 'the lady of the woods,' thrown out in strong
relief from a background of holly and hawthorn, each studded with
coral berries, and backed with old beeches, beginning to assume the
rich tawny hue which makes them perhaps the most picturesque of
autumnal trees, as the transparent freshness of their young foliage
is undoubtedly the choicest ornament of the forest in spring.

A sudden turn round one of these magnificent beeches brings us to
the boundary of the Shaw, and leaning upon a rude gate, we look over
an open space of about ten acres of ground, still more varied and
broken than that which we have passed, and surrounded on all sides
by thick woodland. As a piece of colour, nothing can be well finer.
The ruddy glow of the heath-flower, contrasting, on the one hand,
with the golden-blossomed furze--on the other, with a patch of
buck-wheat, of which the bloom is not past, although the grain be
ripening, the beautiful buck-wheat, whose transparent leaves and
stalks are so brightly tinged with vermilion, while the delicate
pink-white of the flower, a paler persicaria, has a feathery fall,
at once so rich and so graceful, and a fresh and reviving odour,
like that of birch trees in the dew of a May evening. The bank that
surmounts this attempt at cultivation is crowned with the late
foxglove and the stately mullein; the pasture of which so great a
part of the waste consists, looks as green as an emerald; a clear
pond, with the bright sky reflected in it, lets light into the
picture; the white cottage of the keeper peeps from the opposite
coppice; and the vine-covered dwelling of Hannah Bint rises from
amidst the pretty garden, which lies bathed in the sunshine around it.

The living and moving accessories are all in keeping with the
cheerfulness and repose of the landscape. Hannah's cow grazing
quietly beside the keeper's pony; a brace of fat pointer puppies
holding amicable intercourse with a litter of young pigs; ducks,
geese, cocks, hens, and chickens scattered over the turf; Hannah
herself sallying forth from the cottage-door, with her milk-bucket
in her hand, and her little brother following with the milking-stool.

My friend, Hannah Bint, is by no means an ordinary person. Her
father, Jack Bint (for in all his life he never arrived at the dignity of being called John, 

indeed in our parts he was commonly known by the cognomen of London Jack), 

was a drover of high repute in his profession. 

No man, between Salisbury Plain and Smithfield,
was thought to conduct a flock of sheep so skilfully through all the
difficulties of lanes and commons, streets and high-roads, as Jack
Bint, aided by Jack Bint's famous dog, Watch; for Watch's rough,
honest face, black, with a little white about the muzzle, and one
white ear, was as well known at fairs and markets as his master's
equally honest and weather-beaten visage. Lucky was the dealer that
could secure their services; Watch being renowned for keeping a
flock together better than any shepherd's dog on the road--Jack, for
delivering them more punctually, and in better condition. No man
had a more thorough knowledge of the proper night stations, where
good feed might be procured for his charge, and good liquor for
Watch and himself; Watch, like other sheep dogs, being accustomed to
live chiefly on bread and beer. His master, though not averse to a
pot of good double X, preferred gin; and they who plod slowly along,
through wet and weary ways, in frost and in fog, have undoubtedly a
stronger temptation to indulge in that cordial and reviving
stimulus, than we water-drinkers, sitting in warm and comfortable
rooms, can readily imagine. For certain, our drover could never
resist the gentle seduction of the gin-bottle, and being of a free,
merry, jovial temperament, one of those persons commonly called good
fellows, who like to see others happy in the same way with
themselves, he was apt to circulate it at his own expense, to the
great improvement of his popularity, and the great detriment of his finances.

All this did vastly well whilst his earnings continued proportionate
to his spendings, and the little family at home were comfortably
supported by his industry: but when a rheumatic fever came on, one
hard winter, and finally settled in his limbs, reducing the most
active and hardy man in the parish to the state of a confirmed
cripple, then his reckless improvidence stared him in the face; and
poor Jack, a thoughtless, but kind creature, and a most affectionate
father, looked at his three motherless children with the acute
misery of a parent who has brought those whom he loves best in the
world to abject destitution. He found help, where he probably least
expected it, in the sense and spirit of his young daughter, a girl
of twelve years old.

Hannah was the eldest of the family, and had, ever since her
mother's death, which event had occurred two or three years before,
been accustomed to take the direction of their domestic concerns, to
manage her two brothers, to feed the pigs and the poultry, and to
keep house during the almost constant absence of her father. She
was a quick, clever lass, of a high spirit, a firm temper, some
pride, and a horror of accepting parochial relief, which is every
day becoming rarer amongst the peasantry; but which forms the surest
safeguard to the sturdy independence of the English character. Our
little damsel possessed this quality in perfection; and when her
father talked of giving up their comfortable cottage, and removing
to the workhouse, whilst she and her brothers must go to service,
Hannah formed a bold resolution, and without disturbing the sick man
by any participation of her hopes and fears, proceeded after
settling their trifling affairs to act at once on her own plans and
designs.

Careless of the future as the poor drover had seemed, he had yet
kept clear of debt, and by subscribing constantly to a benefit club,
had secured a pittance that might at least assist in supporting him
during the long years of sickness and helplessness to which he was
doomed to look forward. This his daughter knew. She knew also,
that the employer in whose service his health had suffered so
severely, was a rich and liberal cattle-dealer in the neighbourhood,
who would willingly aid an old and faithful servant, and had,
indeed, come forward with offers of money. To assistance from such
a quarter Hannah saw no objection. Farmer Oakley and the parish
were quite distinct things. Of him, accordingly, she asked, not
money, but something much more in his own way--'a cow! any cow! old
or lame, or what not, so that it were a cow! she would be bound to
keep it well; if she did not, he might take it back again. She even
hoped to pay for it by and by, by instalments, but that she would
not promise!' and, partly amused, partly interested by the child's
earnestness, the wealthy yeoman gave her, not as a purchase, but as
a present, a very fine young Alderney. She then went to the lord of
the manor, and, with equal knowledge of character, begged his
permission to keep her cow on the Shaw common. 'Farmer Oakley had
given her a fine Alderney, and she would be bound to pay the rent,
and keep her father off the parish, if he would only let it graze on
the waste;' and he too, half from real good nature--half, not to be
outdone in liberality by his tenant, not only granted the requested
permission, but reduced the rent so much, that the produce of the
vine seldom fails to satisfy their kind landlord.

Now Hannah showed great judgment in setting up as a dairy-woman.
She could not have chosen an occupation more completely unoccupied,
or more loudly called for. One of the most provoking of the petty
difficulties which beset people with a small establishment in this
neighbourhood, is the trouble, almost the impossibility, of
procuring the pastoral luxuries of milk, eggs, and butter, which
rank, unfortunately, amongst the indispensable necessaries of
housekeeping. To your thoroughbred Londoner, who, whilst grumbling
over his own breakfast, is apt to fancy that thick cream, and fresh
butter, and new-laid eggs, grow, so to say, in the country--form an
actual part of its natural produce--it may be some comfort to learn,
that in this great grazing district, however the calves and the
farmers may be the better for cows, nobody else is; that farmers'
wives have ceased to keep poultry; and that we unlucky villagers sit
down often to our first meal in a state of destitution, which may
well make him content with his thin milk and his Cambridge butter,
when compared to our imputed pastoralities.

Hannah's Alderney restored us to one rural privilege. Never was so
cleanly a little milkmaid. She changed away some of the cottage
finery, which, in his prosperous days, poor Jack had pleased himself
with bringing home, the china tea-service, the gilded mugs, and the
painted waiters, for the useful utensils of the dairy, and speedily
established a regular and gainful trade in milk, eggs, butter,
honey, and poultry--for poultry they had always kept.

Her domestic management prospered equally. Her father, who retained
the perfect use of his hands, began a manufacture of mats and
baskets, which he constructed with great nicety and adroitness; the
eldest boy, a sharp and clever lad, cut for him his rushes and
osiers; erected, under his sister's direction, a shed for the cow,
and enlarged and cultivated the garden (always with the good leave
of her kind patron the lord of the manor) until it became so ample,
that the produce not only kept the pig, and half kept the family,
but afforded another branch of merchandise to the indefatigable
directress of the establishment. For the younger boy, less quick
and active, Hannah contrived to obtain an admission to the
charity-school, where he made great progress--retaining him at home,
however, in the hay-making and leasing season, or whenever his
services could be made available, to the great annoyance of the
schoolmaster, whose favourite he is, and who piques himself so much
on George's scholarship (your heavy sluggish boy at country work
often turns out quick at his book), that it is the general opinion
that this much-vaunted pupil will, in process of time, be promoted
to the post of assistant, and may, possibly, in course of years,
rise to the dignity of a parish pedagogue in his own person; so that
his sister, although still making him useful at odd times, now
considers George as pretty well off her hands, whilst his elder
brother, Tom, could take an under-gardener's place directly, if he
were not too important at home to be spared even for a day.

In short, during the five years that she has ruled at the Shaw
cottage, the world has gone well with Hannah Bint. Her cow, her
calves, her pigs, her bees, her poultry, have each, in their several
ways, thriven and prospered. She has even brought Watch to like
butter-milk, as well as strong beer, and has nearly persuaded her
father (to whose wants and wishes she is most anxiously attentive)
to accept of milk as a substitute for gin. Not but Hannah hath had
her enemies as well as her betters. Why should she not? The old
woman at the lodge, who always piqued herself on being spiteful, and
crying down new ways, foretold from the first she would come to no
good, and could not forgive her for falsifying her prediction; and
Betty Barnes, the slatternly widow of a tippling farmer, who rented
a field, and set up a cow herself, and was universally discarded for
insufferable dirt, said all that the wit of an envious woman could
devise against Hannah and her Alderney; nay, even Ned Miles, the
keeper, her next neighbour, who had whilom held entire sway over the
Shaw common, as well as its coppices, grumbled as much as so
good-natured and genial a person could grumble, when he found a
little girl sharing his dominion, a cow grazing beside his pony, and
vulgar cocks and hens hovering around the buck-wheat destined to
feed his noble pheasants. Nobody that had been accustomed to see
that paragon of keepers, so tall and manly, and pleasant looking,
with his merry eye, and his knowing smile, striding gaily along, in
his green coat, and his gold-laced hat, with Neptune, his noble
Newfoundland dog (a retriever is the sporting word), and his
beautiful spaniel Flirt at his heels, could conceive how askew he
looked, when he first found Hannah and Watch holding equal reign
over his old territory, the Shaw common.

Yes! Hannah hath had her enemies; but they are passing away. The
old woman at the lodge is dead, poor creature; and Betty Barnes,
having herself taken to tippling, has lost the few friends she once
possessed, and looks, luckless wretch, as if she would soon die
too!--and the keeper?--why, he is not dead, or like to die; but the
change that has taken place there is the most astonishing of all--
except, perhaps, the change in Hannah herself.

Few damsels of twelve years old, generally a very pretty age, were
less pretty than Hannah Bint. Short and stunted in her figure, thin
in face, sharp in feature, with a muddled complexion, wild sunburnt
hair, and eyes whose very brightness had in them something
startling, over-informed, super-subtle, too clever for her age,--at
twelve years old she had quite the air of a little old fairy. Now,
at seventeen, matters are mended. Her complexion has cleared; her
countenance has developed itself; her figure has shot up into height
and lightness, and a sort of rustic grace; her bright, acute eye is
softened and sweetened by the womanly wish to please; her hair is
trimmed, and curled and brushed, with exquisite neatness; and her
whole dress arranged with that nice attention to the becoming, the
suitable both in form and texture, which would be called the highest
degree of coquetry, if it did not deserve the better name of
propriety. Never was such a transmogrification beheld. The lass is
really pretty, and Ned Miles has discovered that she is so. There
he stands, the rogue, close at her side (for he hath joined her
whilst we have been telling her little story, and the milking is
over!)--there he stands--holding her milk-pail in one hand, and
stroking Watch with the other; whilst she is returning the
compliment by patting Neptune's magnificent head. There they stand,
as much like lovers as may be; he smiling, and she blushing--he
never looking so handsome nor she so pretty in all their lives.
There they stand, in blessed forgetfulness of all except each other;
as happy a couple as ever trod the earth. There they stand, and one
would not disturb them for all the milk and butter in Christendom.
I should not wonder if they were fixing the wedding day.

THE MOLE-CATCHER 

There are no more delightful or unfailing associations than those afforded by the various operations of the husbandman, and the changes on the fair face of nature. We all know that busy troops of reapers come with the yellow corn; whilst the yellow leaf brings a no less busy train of ploughmen and seedsmen preparing the ground for fresh harvests; that woodbines and wild roses, flaunting in the blossomy hedgerows, give token of the gay bands of haymakers which enliven the meadows; and that the primroses, which begin to unfold their pale stars by the side of the green lanes, bear marks of the slow and weary female processions, the gangs of tired yet talkative bean-setters, who defile twice a day through the intricate mazes of our cross-country roads. These are general associations, as well known and as universally recognised as the union of mincepies and Christmas. I have one, more private and peculiar, one, perhaps, the more strongly impressed on my mind, because the impression may be almost confined to myself. The full flush of violets which, about the middle of March, seldom fails to perfume the whole earth, always brings to my recollection one solitary and silent coadjutor of the husbandman's labours, as unlike a violet as possible - Isaac Bint, the mole-catcher. 

I used to meet him every spring, when we lived at our old house, whose park-like paddock, with its finely-clumped oaks and elms, and its richly-timbered hedgerows, edging into wild, rude, and solemn fir-plantations, dark, and rough, and hoary, formed for so many years my constant and favourite walk. Here, especially under the great horse-chestnut, and where the bank rose high and naked above the lane, crowned only with a tuft of golden broom; here the sweetest and prettiest of wild flowers, whose very name hath a charm, grew like a carpet under one's feet, enamelling the young green grass with their white and purple blossoms, and loading the air with their delicious fragrance; here I used to come almost every morning, during the violet-tide; and here almost every morning I was sure to meet Isaac Bint. 

I think that he fixed himself the more firmly in my memory by his singular discrepancy with the beauty and cheerfulness of the scenery and the season. Isaac is a tall, lean, gloomy personage with whom the clock of life seems to stand still. He has looked sixty-five for these last twenty years, although his dark hair and beard, and firm manly stride, almost contradict the evidence of his sunken cheeks and deeply-lined forehead. The stride is awful: he hath the stalk of a ghost. His whole air and demeanour savour of one that comes from under ground. His appearance is " of the earth, earthy." His clothes, hands, and face are of the colour of the mould in which he delves. The little round traps which hang behind him over one shoulder, as well as the strings of dead moles which embellish the other, are incrusted with dirt like a tombstone; and the staff which he plunges into the little hillocks, by which he traces the course of his small quarry, returns a hollow sound, as if tapping on the lid ofa coffin. Images of the church-yard come, one does not know how, with his presence. Indeed he does officiate as assistant to the sexton in his capacity of grave-digger, chosen, as it should seem, from a natural fitness; a fine sense of congruity in good Joseph Reed, the functionary in question, who felt, without knowing why, that, of all men in the parish, Isaac Bint was best fitted to that solemn office. 

His remarkable gift of silence adds much to the impression produced by his remarkable figure. I don't think that I ever heard him speak three words in my life. An approach of that bony hand to that earthy leather cap was the greatest effort of courtesy that my daily salutations could extort from him. For this silence, Isaac has reasons good. He hath a reputation to support. His words are too precious to be wasted. Our molecatcher, ragged as he looks, is the wise man of the village, the oracle of the village inn, foresees the weather, charms away agues, tells fortunes by the stars, and writes notes upon the almanack-turning and twisting about the predictions after a fashion so ingenious, that it is a moot point which is oftenest wrong-Isaac Bint or Francis Moore. In one eminent instance, our friend was, however, eminently right. He had the good luck to prophesy, before sundry witnesses-some of them sober -in the tap-room of the Bell-he then sitting, pipe in mouth, on the settle at the right-hand side of the fire, whilst Jacob Frost occupied the left- he had the good fortune to foretell, on New Year's Day I80I, the downfall of Napoleon Buonaparte - a piece of soothsayers hip which has established his reputation, and dumbfounded all doubters and cavillers, ever since; but which would certainly have been more striking if he had not annually uttered the same prediction, from the same place, from the time that the aforesaid Napoleon became first consul. But this small circumstance is entirely overlooked by Isaac and his admirers, and they believe in him, and he believes in the stars, more firmly than ever. 

Our mole-catcher is, as might be conjectured, an avid bachelor. 

Your married man hath more of this world about him-is less, so to say, planet-struck. A thorough old bachelor is Isaac, a contemner and maligner of the sex, a complete and decided woman-hater. Female frailty is the only subject on which he hath ever been known to dilate; he will not even charm away their agues, or tell their fortunes, and, indeed, holds them to be unworthy the notice of the stars. 

No woman contaminates his household. He lives on the edge of a pretty bit of woodland scenery called the Penge, in a snug cottage of two rooms, of his own building, surrounded by a garden cribbed from the waste, well fenced with quickset, and well stocked with fruit-trees, herbs, and flowers. One large apple-tree extends over the roof-a pretty bit of colour when in blossom, contrasted with the thatch of the little dwelling, and relieved by the dark wood behind. Although the owner be solitary, his demesne is sufficiently populous. A long row of beehives extends along the warmest side of the garden:-for Isaac's honey is celebrated far and near; a pig occupies a commodious stye at one corner; and large flocks of ducks and geese (for which the Penge, whose glades are intersected by water, is famous) are generally waiting round a back gate leading to a spacious shed, far larger than Isaac's own cottage, which serves for their feeding and roosting-place. The great tameness of all these creatures-for the ducks and geese flutter round him the moment he approaches, and the very pig follows him like a dog -gives no· equivocal testimony of the kindness of our molecatcher's nature. A circumstance of recent occurrence puts his humanity beyond a doubt. 

Amongst the probable causes of Isaac's dislike to women may be reckoned the fact of his living in a female neighbourhood (for the Penge is almost peopled with duck-rearers and goosecrammers of the duck and goose gender), and being himself exceedingly unpopular amongst the fair poultry-feeders of that watery vicinity. He beat them at their own weapons; produced at Midsummer geese fit for Michaelmas; and raised ducks so precocious that the gardeners complained of them as forerunning their vegetable accompaniments; and" panting peas toiled after them in vain." In short, the Naiads of the Penge "had the mortification to find themselves driven out of B-- market by an interloper, and that interloper a man who had no manner of right to possess any skill in an accomplishment so exclusively feminine as duck-rearing; and being no ways inferior in another female accomplishment, called scolding, to their sister-nymphs of Billingsgate, they set up a clamour and a cackle which might rival the din of their own gooseries at feeding-time, and would inevitably have frightened from the field any competitor less impenetrable than our hero. But Isaac is not a man to shrink from so small an evil as female objurgation. He stalked through it all in mute disdain-looking now at his mole-traps, and now at the stars-pretending not to hear, and very probably not hearing. At first this scorn, more provoking than any retort, only excited his enemies to fresh attacks; but one cannot be always answering another person's silence. The flame which had blazed so fiercely at last burnt itself out, and peace reigned once more in the green alleys of Penge-wood. 

One, however, of his adversaries-his nearest neighbour still remained unsilenced. 

Margery Grover was a very old and poor woman, whom age and disease had bent almost to the earth; shaken by palsy, pinched by penury, and soured by misfortune -a moving bundle of misery and rags. Two centuries ago she would have been burnt for a witch; now she starved and grumbled on the parish allowance; trying to eke out a scanty subsistence by the dubious profits gained from the produce of two geese and a lame gander, once the unmolested tenants of a greenish pool, situate right between her dwelling and Isaac's, but whose watery dominion had been invaded by his flourishing colony. 

This was the cause of feud; and although Isaac would willingly, from a mingled sense of justice and of pity, have yielded the point to the poor old creature, especially as ponds are there almost as plentiful as blackberries, yet it was not so easy to control the habits and inclinations of their feathered subjects, who all perversely fancied that particular pool; and various accidents and skirmishes occurred, in which the ill-fed and weak birds of Margery had generally the worst of the fray. One of her early goslings was drowned-an accident which may happen even to water-fowl; and her lame gander, a sort of pet with the poor old woman, injured in his well leg; and Margery vented curses as bitter as those of Sycorax; and Isaac, certainly the most superstitious personage in the parish-the most thorough believer in his own gifts and prediction-was fain to nail a horse-shoe on his door for the defence of his property, and to wear one of his own ague charms about his neck for his personal protection. 

Poor old Margery! A hard winter came; and the feeble, tottering creature shook in the frosty air like an aspen-leaf; and the hovel in which she dwelt-for nothing could prevail on her to try the shelter of the workhouse-shook like herself at every blast. She was not quite alone either in the world or in her poor hut: husband, children, and grandchildren had passed away; but one young and innocent being, a great-grandson, the last of her descendants, remained, a helpless dependent on one almost as helpless as himself. 

Little Harry Grover was a shrunken, stunted boy of five years old; tattered and squalid, like his grandame, and, at first sight, presented almost as miserable a specimen of childhood as Margery herself did of age. There was even a likeness between them; although the fierce blue eye of Margery had, in the boy, a mild appealing look, which entirely changed the whole expression of the countenance. A gentle and a peaceful boy was Harry, and, above all, a useful. It was wonderful how many ears of corn in the autumn, and sticks in the winter, his little hands could pick up! how well he could make a fire, and boil the kettle, and sweep the hearth, and cram the goslings! Never was a handier boy or a trustier; and when the united effects of cold, and age, and rheumatism confined poor Margery to her poor bed, the child continued to perform his accustomed offices; fetching the money from the vestry, buying the loaf at the baker's, keeping house, and nursing the sick woman, with a kindness and thoughtfulness which none but those who know the careful ways to which necessity trains cottage children would deem credible; and Margery, a woman of strong passions, strong prejudices, and strong affections, who had lived in and for the desolate boy, felt the approach of death imbittered by the certainty that the workhouse, always the scene of her dread and loathing, would be the only refuge for the poor orphan. 

Death, however, came on visibly and rapidly; and she sent for the overseer to beseech him to put Harry to board in some decent cottage; she could not die in peace until he had promised; the fear of the innocent child's being contaminated by wicked boys and godless women preyed upon her soul; she implored, she conjured. The overseer, a kind but timid man, hesitated, and was beginning a puzzled speech about the bench and the vestry, when another voice was heard from the door of the cottage. 

" Margery," said our friend Isaac, " will you trust Harry to me? I am a poor man, to be sure; but, between earning and saving, there'll be enough for me and little Harry. 'Tis as good a boy as ever lived, and I'll try to keep him so. Trust him to me, and I'll be a father to him. I can't say more." 

" God bless thee, Isaac Bint! God bless thee! " was all poor Margery could reply. 

They were the last words she ever spoke. And little Harry is living with our good mole-catcher, and is growing plump and rosy; and Margery's other pet, the lame gander, lives and thrives with them too.