“Whoi doan’t her be satisfied wi’ the ways of other folk? Whoi can’t her be in her bed at night time, sem as other folk, ’sted o’ flitting about a’ gathering of them nesty pisonous stuffs? d’ be only when the moon’s full, that she d’ stir. Noa, noa, say I, let folk keep to folk’s ways, and then there won’t be nothen’ said about un. If a body come to get the name of Mother Midnight, it’s not for nothen’, of that you may be sure; I don’t hold wi’ such ways.” This was what was felt generally among the village folk, and, if you come to think of it, it is not only among the uneducated that such feeling prevails. How seldom people are allowed in this life to take their own way unmolested. Even children playing together interfere, and scold, and bicker about trifles, and family life among grown-up people may be devastated by the same pest. Let us early write on the tablets of our heart: “Let others lead their own life, in their own way.” Then shall our ways be ways of pleasantness, and all our paths be peace. One day a little boy and girl were playing in the woodlands, which you see painted in that picture before you now. They were friends, not brother and sister, and their names were Martin and Faith. They were wood-cutter’s children, and often they played together, for their homes stood near each other in the wood. There was no authorised village school. You must remember I am telling you of English village life, some three hundred years ago. Children of humble parents were brought up to learn to plough, and reap, and carpenter; they hardly ever were taught to read, or write. Such as could do so in those days were called “clerkes,” and some day, you will read a ballad that tells how Clark Saunders loved May Margaret, and you will find it one of the most sorrowful stories, ever written down. So it came about that these children spent hours in the woodlands with the flowers, and animals, and insects for companions. And their books were the clouds and streams. It was in the month of October when the acorns lie freshly fallen. There is something arresting about an acorn; the form is beautiful, the texture glossy, there is perfection in the cup, and completeness in the whole. Who could pass under an oak tree in autumn without picking up a fallen acorn, and turning it in the hand? Faith was threading these, and Martin wandered into the wood. He was away a long time, and Faith was telling herself stories, as she loved doing when she was alone.