the rush; and the deer took to his heels like
mad, as if he warn't, after all, thinking on't
like one of us, very wishful to see his
Majesty. It was wonderful grand. I hallooed
and shouted till I was as red in the face as
the king himsel', and my throat like to
burst! I shall never forget the royal hunt.

I was little more than a hobbledehoy in
them days; but a stout stirring chap, that
could take his own part and hold his own
anyways. I could plough, or wrastle, or thrash, or
—or, let me see, do anything in work or play
with any other lad of my age in the sheere;
and I—excuse me bragging—am bold to say
that I was not an ill-looking shaver besides.

And so it came to pass—where was I?
Oh, the royal hunt. I'm certified I cannot
tell whether they took the deer or not. I
think I heard say that they did; but at any
rate it was not long after, that, young as I
were, I fell into company with a nice sort o'
lass, my poor Marget, and I had a deer of
my own (as they joked) to chase (another
smile recalled from the abyss of last century),
and was as happy as a king! Master and
the parson both said we were not old enough
to have charge of a family, and advised us to
bide a while; but we were lithesome and
healthy, and thought we could manage well
enough, even if, by good luck or bad, we
might chance to have any childer. And so
we got married. I was over one-and-twenty,
and Marget was over nineteen. Bless ye, I
remember it as if it was yesterday now,
though it is a long time agone, sure-ly. Let
me see, it was the year seventeen hundred and
—something—ninety. Ninety! It could not
be ninety years since I was married to Marget?

Well, well, never mind, we had a parcel of
bairns, and the small-pox thinned off the
poor little things. They tell me there is no
small-pox now, but it was a sore destroyer
then; only measles and hooping-cough, which,
however, are bad enough, and should also be
got rid on. Of all ours, John, and Reuben,
and Cicely grew up. John, our first-born,
was the last left. Poor child, he was scarce
over sixty-two when he died; it is for him
I wear this black band on my hat. It
reminds me of him, though it was only the
other day that they buried him. He was
long sickly and unfit for work—old Daddy
John, as they used to call him, my sturdy boy!

So you see I am all alone now—all alone.
Reuben is dead, and Cicely is dead, and
Marget is dead long ago, and everybody is
dead but me. And it is God's mercy to spare
me; but I do not know that I am of any use
in the world, only a trouble. And the
rheumatize is so painful, and the cramps so bad,
that I get little rest o' nights. I am thankful
my appetite is very good. I seldom want;
for the folks about are very kind to me, and
I enjoy my bite of bread famously, and 'specially
when there is a cut of bacon or butchers'
meat with it. If so be there be a drop of
beer—that's really a treat (a chuckle).

Eh? did I tell you about the bells ringing,
cannons firing, and grand illuminations for
the Peace with Bonnyparty? I should
remember that, for it was the first time I see
Lunnun. It was a long journey, to be sure;
but master had bought a lot of wood at a
felling, nearly ten miles on the road; and as
we got leave, John Carter gave us a lift far
on to beyond Egham. We walked the rest.
There was me, and Job Aston, and Turley,
and Peter, I forget his name. He had been
there afore, and was our leader, like.

Well, we started at peep o'day. I got to
Lunnun before dark. And when night fell,
what a blaze, and noise, and confusion there
was, surely! We held firm together; but, in
spite of it, were all but crushed and torn to
pieces by the mob. We see the public offices
and Monsieur Otter's (that was the French
ambassador) illuminations, and was a'most
drowned by the awful thunderstorm that
brake out. We gave our money to Peter to
pay for us all as we goed on; but lo and
behold! it was most misfortunate; for just
as we stood gaping at Monsieur Otter's
transparents in some great square, the
Lunnun thieves picked Peter's pocket, and
did not leave us a groat to pay for lodgings
or to carry us home. So we had a weary
and a hungry trudge of it. Troth I cannot
forget the Peace of Amens!

Marget, I warrant ye, had a good laugh.
She was nursing Cissy then, I think, but am
not sure—it might be one of the others, that
died young. I'm told there has been more
fighting since, in spite of the Peace and the
'Luminations; and I do remember the
rejoicings for the Jubily; but that were not
for peace, but because the old king had
reigned for fifty years. There were grand
doings at Windsor, and an ox roasted whole
in Bachelor's Acre; but it was awful dirty
cooked, and I remember I could not eat
a bit on't; but took a rawish dollop home to
please my wife, who threw it to Towzer.
Eh! them be things to remember, yet it be a
long way to look; and, for years and years
after them, I forgot a'most everything but
little bits here and there, along the road like.
Lord! to think what noble creatures were
the king's children at the Jubily. There
were the gallant Prince o' Wales and the
Duke of York, and I cannot tell how many
other brothers and sisters, dukes and princes
and princesses, and they were so civil and
kindly spoken; and the Princess Elizabeth
and the Queen, and all the courtiers so
handsome and proud, with ribbons and stars,
and glittering gold-lace, and feathers, and . .
. . . . lack-a-day, they are all gone now,—all
gone; and me, a poor, useless old man, am
left—left alone—for all my children are gone,
too, though I cannot quite clearly say how
anad when,—before the royal family or after?
It does not matter so much, now. Only them
were our troubles and our sorrows, to Marget
and me, and sometimes we were badly off,