'Hops. New since your day,' said Puck. 'They're an herb of Mars, and their flowers dried flavour ale. We say-- 'Turkeys, Heresy, Hops, and Beer Came into England all in one year.' 'Heresy I know. I've seen Hops--God be praised for their beauty! What is your Turkis?' The children laughed. They knew the Lindens turkeys, and as soon as they reached Lindens orchard on the hill the full flock charged at them. Out came Hal's book at once. 'Hoity-toity!' he cried. 'Here's Pride in purple feathers! Here's wrathy contempt and the Pomps of the Flesh! How d'you call _them_?' 'Turkeys! Turkeys!' the children shouted, as the old gobbler raved and flamed against Hal's plum-coloured hose. ''Save Your Magnificence!' he said. 'I've drafted two good new things today.' And he doffed his cap to the bubbling bird. Then they walked through the grass to the knoll where Little Lindens stands. The old farmhouse, weather-tiled to the ground, took almost the colour of a blood-ruby in the afternoon light. The pigeons pecked at the mortar in the chimney-stacks; the bees that had lived under the tiles since it was built filled the hot August air with their booming; and the smell of the box-tree by the dairy-window mixed with the smell of earth after rain, bread after baking, and a tickle of wood-smoke. The farmer's wife came to the door, baby on arm, shaded her brows against the sun, stooped to pluck a sprig of rosemary, and turned down the orchard. The old spaniel in his barrel barked once or twice to show he was in charge of the empty house. Puck clicked back the garden-gate. 'D'you marvel that I love it?' said Hal, in a whisper. 'What can town folk know of the nature of housen--or land?' They perched themselves arow on the old hacked oak bench in Lindens garden, looking across the valley of the brook at the fern-covered dimples and hollows of the Forge behind Hobden's cottage. The old man was cutting a faggot in his garden by the hives. It was quite a second after his chopper fell that the chump of the blow reached their lazy ears. 'Eh--yeh!' said Hal. 'I mind when where that old gaffer stands was Nether Forge--Master John Collins's foundry. Many a night has his big trip-hammer shook me in my bed here. _Boom-bitty! Boom-bitty!_ If the wind was east, I could hear Master Tom Collins's forge at Stockens answering his brother, _Boom-oop! Boom-oop!_ and midway between, Sir John Pelham's sledge-hammers at Brightling would strike in like a pack o' scholars, and "_Hic-haec-hoc_" they'd say, "_Hic-haec-hoc_," till I fell asleep. Yes. The valley was as full o' forges and fineries as a May shaw o' cuckoos. All gone to grass now!' 'What did they make?' said Dan. 'Guns for the King's ships--and for others. Serpentines and cannon mostly. When the guns were cast, down would come the King's Officers, and take our plough-oxen to haul them to the coast. Look! Here's one of the first and finest craftsmen of the Sea!'