"The ploughmen usually take special care with their work near public roads, so that the furrows end on to the base of the highway shall be mathematically straight. They often succeed so well that the furrows look as if traced with a ruler, and exhibit curious effects of vanishing perspective. Along the furrow, just as it is turned, there runs a shimmering light as the eye traces it up. The ploughshare, heavy and drawn with great force, smooths the earth as it cleaves it, giving it for a time a 'face,' as it were, the moisture on which reflects the light. If you watch the farmers driving to market, you will see that they glance up the furrows to note the workmanship and look for game; you may tell from a distance if they espy a hare, by the check of the rein and the extended hand pointing." Our destination is now Higham--"Higham by Rochester, Kent,"--Dickens's nearest village, in which, from his first coming to Gad's Hill, he took the deepest interest, and after a further long tramp of nearly four miles steadily maintained, we reach Lower Higham towards dusk; and in a lane we ask an old labourer (who looks as though he would be all the better for "Three Acres and a Cow") if we are on the right road to Higham Station. Curtly but civilly the man answers, "Keep straight on," when an incident occurs which brightens up matters considerably. The questioner says to the labourer, "Do you remember the late Charles Dickens?" (We always spoke, when in the district, of "the _late_ Charles Dickens," to distinguish him from his eldest son, who lived at Gad's Hill for some years after his father's death. Frequently the great novelist was spoken of by residents as "old Mr. Dickens!") "Do I remember Muster Dickens?" responds the venerable rustic, and his eyes sparkle, and his face beams with such animation that he becomes a different being. "Of course I do; he used to have games--running, jumping, and such-like--for us working people, and I've often won a prize. He used to come among us and give us refreshments, and make himself very pleasant." "How long have you lived in this parish?" says the questioner. "Sixty-seven year," is the answer. Time prevents further inquiries, so we bid our friend "good-evening."