the chalk above, and when it filled, drop by
drop, ran over, for I found the sides of the urn
bright and moist."

"I will never believe that a pot was found
full of water, after it had been buried four feet
in the chalk so many years. Never, never!"
said the landlord, with that sort of capricious
incredulity, which I have often found in men of
his class, who would believe anything in the
spiritual world—ghosts, fairies, and cunning
men and women—but stand aghast at any
natural event, a little beyond the range of their
daily experience.

"Twelve hundred years!" said the schoolmaster,
"and found this day full of water as
bright and pure as when first poured into it!
Wonderful, indeed!"

"Ay, wonderful indeed," said the landlord,
"if you are able to believe it. If it had been
keeping ale now—but there, master, we've had
enough about your churchyard. I could tell a
tale now out of our churchyard."

"Yes, yes," said the blacksmith; "let our
friend Pegden tell it; he likes it, and don't let
any one spoil it."

"Which is what you always want to do,"
said the landlord. "But as my honourable
customer on the right," looking at me, "has
had his say, I'll have mine.

"Well, it was just before church time; the
sexton had been digging a grave; and had nearly
finished it, when the bell went for church, and
the parson and the parishioners, some ten or
twelve maybe, for it was a cold winterish afternoon
in March, came into the churchyard, altogether
like, and so the sexton puts by his spade, and
pick, hides them up as well as he can under the
mould, because of those varmint boys, and gets
out of his grave to go to church. By-and-by,
come three or four of these young vagabonds,
not to go to church, not they, but to play
leapfrog over the tombstones, and other
devilry. Well, and so these young rapscallions
what did they do but jump into the grave.
'Oho!' says one, 'here's a pretty go! old Simon
has left his pick and spade. Let's have a dig.'
Asking your pardon, sir, them boys was as fond
as you are of a dig at a grave, and, says they,
'we may find something.' Well, and so they dug
and they dug, and as ill-luck would have it,
close to the head of another grave—not but what
there is plenty of room in our churchyard—and
so they dug out a skull. Well, they took the
skull up with a wild shout, set it down on the
turf beside the grave, and began talking to it.
'Now, what have you to say for yourself, old
grim jaws?' says one. 'Where's the old furry
cap you used to wear?' says another, 'for it's
old Jeff,' says he, 'he always wore a furry cap,
and had two teeth broke out in front, just like
this old fellow.' 'Not a bit of it,' says another,
'it's not Jeff, it's the old pedlar chap that was
silly, like, and used to stand on his head, agin
the church wall, when any one offered him a half-
penny. Ay, ay, it's old Bony himself. I wonder
if he can dance now, and stir his stumps as
he used to do!'

"No sooner said than done; the skull heard
them wicked young radicals, and it turned
over! Yes, bless you, sir! Of its own accord!
Without being touched, and against the wind,
sir, it turned over and over on the grass, and
not downhill neither, but slowly, I heard them
say, very slowly at first, sometimes stopping a
bit, as if to wait for breath, but still over and
over and on and on, straight towards the
church. Them wicked young radicals scrambled
out of the grave, and well they might. One
went off clean 'haired' or 'dazed,' screeching
and holloaing, towards the village. The others,
after standing dumb-foundered like, as if they
could not believe their eyes, cut off in different
directions. On went the skull, till it came
right agin the church where the poor old pedlar
used to stand, and there it stood on its head,
just as the old pedlar used to do."

"That's according to what you've been
told," said the blacksmith, sententiously. "But
look 'ee here, master; I know the end o' that
story. I was coming late to church. My poor
old woman had just had one of her fits again,
so I had had to go to the doctor; and when I
found her comfortable, I hurried off to church,
just in time, I thought, for the sermon. Our
parson spins a good yarn that way; any time you
look in, he's safe not to have done. Well, sir, I
saw these boys a running off as the skull made
its last turn or two, until it ran up to the wall."

"Stuff!" said the landlord. "Nobody
believes you were within a mile of seeing it."

"Indeed, sir, I was almost as much frightened
as the boys; but I plucked up a good
heart, went straight up to the skull, and was
about to lay hold of it, when, from the lower
part—by the throat, I think—out jumped the
finest mole I ever see in this country."

The landlord kicked the little table aside on
which stood his empty tumbler; the clock struck
eleven; the landlady, like a figure on the top of
a Dutch timepiece, suddenly popped into sight,
and carried off her spouse; the guests
disappeared; and I was soon coiled up asleep, in the
nest of the Three Squirrels.

THE NEW SERIAL TALE, HESTER'S HISTORY,
commenced in the present number, will be continued
from week to week until completed in the present
volume.

FAREWELL SERIES OF READINGS.
BY
MR. CHARLES DICKENS.
MESSRS. CHAPPELL AND CO. have the honour
to announce that MR. DICKENS'S FINAL SERIES
OF READINGS, comprehending some of the chief
towns in England, Ireland, and Scotland, will
commence at ST. JAMES'S HALL, LONDON, on Tuesday,
October 6.
All communications to be addressed to MESSRS.
CHAPPELL AND CO., 50, New Bond-street, London, W.