Most observers have remarked the odd way, garrulous, and sometimes unconsciously humorous, in which senile persons prattle their incongruous and sporadic recollections. But--"How pregnant sometimes his replies are!" Another resident of Devizes, with whom I conversed, likewise remembered the poet, and spoke of him with affectionate respect. "My sister, when she was a child," he said, "was often at Moore's house, and he was fond of her. Yes, his name is widely remembered and honoured here. But I think that many of the people hereabout, the farmers, admired him chiefly because they thought that he wrote Moore's Almanac. They used to say to him: 'Mister Moore, please tell us what the weather's going to be.'" From Devizes to the village of Bromham, a distance of about four miles, the walk is delightful. Much of the path is between green hedges and is embowered by elms. The exit from the town is by Northgate and along the Chippenham road--which, like all the roads in this neighbourhood, is smooth, hard, and white. A little way out of Devizes, going northwest, this road makes a deep cut in the chalk-stone and so winds downhill into the level plain. At intervals you come upon sweetly pretty specimens of the English thatch-roof cottage. Hay-fields, pastures, and market-gardens extend on every hand. Eastward, far off, are visible the hills of Westbury, upon which, here and there, the copses are lovely, and upon one of which, cut in the turf, is the figure of a colossal white horse, said to have been put there by the Saxons, to commemorate a victory by King Alfred.[12] Soon the road winds over a hill and you pass through the little red village of Rowde, with its gray church tower. The walk may be shortened by a cut across the fields, and this indeed is found the prettiest part of the journey,--for now the path lies through gardens, and through the centre or along the margin of the wheat, which waves in the strong wind and sparkles in the bright sunshine and is everywhere tenderly touched with the scarlet of the poppy and with hues of other wild-flowers, making you think of Shakespeare's "Crowned with rank fumiter and furrow weeds, With hemlock, harlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers, Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow In our sustaining corn."