In April he shows his bill, In May he sings o' night and day, In June he'll change his tune, By July prepare to fly, By August away he must. If he stay till September, 'Tis as much as the oldest man Can ever remember. If he stayed till September, he might possibly see a sight which no mere human eye ever beheld: he might observe a practice to which old Sussex folk know the Evil One to be addicted. For on Old Michaelmas Day, October 10th, the Devil goes round the country, and--dirty devil--spits on the blackberries. Should any persons eat one on October 11th, they, or some one of their kin, will surely die or fall into great trouble before the close of the year. Sussex has neither the imaginative Celtic race of Cornwall nor that county's fantastic scenery to inspire legends; but is it at all wonderful that old beliefs die hard in a county so inaccessible as this has hitherto been? We have read travellers' tales of woful happenings on the road; hear now Defoe, who is writing in the year 1724, of another proof of heavy going on the highways: "I saw," says he, "an ancient lady, and a lady of very good quality, I assure you, drawn to church in her coach by six oxen; nor was it done in frolic or humour, but from sheer necessity, the way being so stiff and deep that no horses could go in it." All which says much for the piety of this ancient lady. Only a few years later, in 1729, died Dame Judith, widow of Sir Henry Hatsell, who in her will, dated January 10th, 1728, directed that her body should be buried at Preston, should she happen to die at such a time of year when the roads were passable; otherwise, at any place her executors might think suitable. It so happened that she died in the month of June, so compliance with her wishes was possible. XXXI And now to trace the Hickstead and Bolney route from Hand Cross, that parting of the ways overlooking the most rural parts of Sussex. Hand Cross, it has already been said, is in the parish of Slaugham, which lies deep down in a very sequestered wood, where the head-springs issuing from the hillsides are never dry and the air is always heavy with moisture. "Slougham-cum-Crolé" is the title of the place in ancient records, "Crolé" being Crawley. It was from its ancient bogs and morasses that it obtained its name, pronounced by the natives "Slaffam," and it was certainly due to them that the magnificent manor-house--almost a palace--of the Coverts, the old lords of the manor--was deserted and began to fall to pieces so soon as built. [Illustration: THE RUINS OF SLAUGHAM PLACE.]