"Go straight down the road facing you, and you'll come to a church. Close by it is a house; letter-box inserted in side of house; box painted red, you know." Of course I knew; set off with a light heart and handful of letters. A little way down high road, on right-hand side, lane suddenly opened and delved downwards, its sinuous course embowered in trees; where they failed, barricaded with hedges. High road seemed originally bent upon taking this direction; changed its mind; turned abruptly to left. Suppose a few traps driven down hill must occasionally have taken this dip; feeble attempt to avoid too frequent recurrence of accident made by setting posts on line of high road, and painting tops white. If, after this, anyone on pitch-dark night mistakes road, only themselves to blame. Other roads and lanes perplexingly branching out to right and left at short intervals; kept on steadily till church came in view; found the house; not difficult, as there was only one; also discovered letter-box painted red. Twenty minutes to five was hour for clearing box; barely that; posted letters. Turning away when observed remark on letter-box, "Next collection Monday." Pretty go, this; postman evidently been before his time; no sign of him on wide expanse. Looking round perceived Elderly Gentleman sitting in garden behind house; doubtless this was the householder; apparently had anticipated Sunday by putting on best clothes; black frock coat, getting brown about the seams; high collar, nearly covering black stock; black waistcoat, which seemed to belong to other suit than the coat; (was buttoned close up over stock, whilst coat, with generous lapels folded back, buttoned low down); brown trousers, a little short in leg; stout green umbrella under left arm. Elderly Gentleman was sitting on rustic bench, with cup of cider at hand, and expression of serene content on his wrinkled face. A quaintly-coloured cup, with two handles close together, presumably with view to taking a good pull at contents. "Bin my grandfather's," he said, looking at it with affection, and incidentally half emptying it. There was a motto roughly scrawled by the potter; Elderly Gentleman read it to me: Erth I am et es most trew, Disdain me not for so be yew. Thus it was spelled, but no one born out of Devon could convey the tremendous sound of the _u_ in the rhyming words. This peculiar to the soil; even barndoor fowls have it; notice that gamecock at The Cottage when it wakes me early in the morning, always shrilly pipes "cock-a-doodle-_dew_!" Asked Elderly Gentleman if he lived here? Born in the house, he said. Was he going for a walk? No, only sitting about. Then why the umbrella? Ah! he always took it out of drawer with his Sunday clothes, and put it under his arm, if he was only sitting in the garden. But that's another story, told me after we had caught the postman. * * * * * "THE ART OF 'SAVOY FARE.'"