When first it was suggested to the writer that he should undertake this task, there was only one detail of the necessary equipment which he could feel to be his own--a childhood’s interest in the subject, never forgotten. There was the recollection of a chapter in an old lesson-book, much pored over, with its two or three simple woodcuts showing the skin-clad “ancient Briton” hollowing out his log canoe, or shooting at the deer in the forest. There was the memory of a reputed “British village,” with its pits and mounds, situated on a distant hill in the neighbourhood of his old home, often talked about, but too remote to be visited. There were recollections of a village philosopher, an amateur bird-stuffer and collector of fossils and antiquities, who carried in his purse and would show a treasure beyond gold, a barbed flint arrow-head. One he was who did not resent the companionship of an inquisitive little boy, but took him fishing and taught him something of the old country lore. The road into fairyland lay open before that boy in his childhood. With home-made bow and arrows he stalked the deer on the open hill-side, or, armed with the deadly besom-stake for spear, tracked the wild boar to his lair among the whins. A running stream bounding the distant fields was for him a river to be forded with caution; the woodland pool was a forest lake, deep and mysterious; the grove of oaks on the hill-side was a woodland, and the more distant woods a forest vast and impenetrable. And the skin-clad hunters of the bygone time peopled those hills and woods. The rabbits became red-deer, the hovering kestrel a flapping eagle, a chance fox galloping over the hill a ravening wolf, and the shy badger (only that one could never get more than the hearsay of him) a fierce old wild-boar. Then there were huts to be built, fires kindled, and weapons fashioned, marksmanship to be practised, hunting expeditions to be carried out, and ruthless warfare waged with unfriendly tribes. Thus when the writer began the welcome task of setting down something about the life of a time so remote that only the indestructible fragments of its framework are now to be recovered, he had for his guidance these memories of childish games and wonderings; games that were never played out, and wonderings that have never been satisfied. And it was his hope that others, whether or not situated as fortunately as he once was, might perhaps catch a hint of the joy of playing the old games and following the old ways of life out-of-doors, as our forefathers followed them in the days before history. We have not all forgotten them yet.