old common lands existed, and the names of the fields bear witness to the prevalence of this old field system. They tell us, too, of the way in which attempts were made to force the growth of particular crops, and in many parishes you will find a "flax piece," which reminds us of a foolish Act of Henry VIII. ordering the cultivation of that plant. Metals, too, which have long ago been worked out, and trades which no longer exist, have left their traces behind in the names of our lanes and fields. Also they speak of the early days when the wolf or the bear might be seen in our woods or fields, or of the beaver which loved the quietude of our streams, of the eagle which carried off the lambs undisturbed by sound of the keeper's gun. Sometimes he was disturbed in his thefts by the flight of a good strong English arrow, which came from a sturdy English bow drawn by a good strong English arm. The English archers were famous everywhere, and many a battle has been won by their valour and their skill. A law was passed in the reign of Edward IV. that every Englishman should have a bow of his own height, and that butts for the practice of archery should be set up in every village; and every man was obliged to shoot up and down on every feast-day, or be fined one halfpenny. Consequently, in some villages we find a field called "The Butts," where this old practice took place.[11] Many villages are associated with the lives of distinguished men--authors, soldiers, and statesmen. Perhaps your village may have bred other poets besides "the mute inglorious Milton" of Gray's _Elegy_. Not far from where I am writing was Pope's early home, the village of Binfield, which he calls-- "My paternal home, A little house, with trees arow, And, like its master, very low." On the other side lies the village of Three Mile Cross, where Miss Mitford lived and wrote "Our Village"; and Arborfield, called in her book Arborleigh, about which she tells some pleasant stories, is the adjoining parish. Sometimes, as I ride down a grassy lane, a favourite haunt of the distinguished authoress, I seem to see her seated on a fallen tree weaving her pretty romances, while her favourite dog, which she often describes, plays and barks around her. A few miles in another direction lies Eversley, the loved abode of Charles Kingsley, about whom many stories linger in the countryside. To visit the uncomfortable brick-paved study where he wrote, the garden where he used to pace and think out his great thoughts, is delightfully refreshing and invigorating to a jaded writer. [Illustration: OLD COTTAGES]