Just below this still fashionable hotel is the "Three Mariners" with its "four-centred Tudor arch over the entrance". The original inn has vanished, but the present one occupies its site. On the opposite side of the way stands the "Phoenix", but risen again from her ashes since it was the scene of Jenny's last dance in one of the _Wessex Poems_:-- "'Twas Christmas and the Phoenix Inn Was lit by tapers tall, For thirty of the trooper men Had vowed to give a ball, As "Theirs" had done (fame handed down) When lying in the self-same town, Ere Buonaparte's fall". [Illustration: PUDDLETOWN] At the end of the street, and standing a little way back from the roadway, is the White Hart, once a famous coaching inn, and one which, although somewhat modernized, still carries its emblem, a large white hart, above the main entrance. To this hostelry came Sergeant Troy after appearing at Greenhill Fair as the Great Cosmopolitan Equestrian who played the part of "Dick Turpin" at the circus; and here, too, the carrier Burthen conveyed the story-tellers, the "Crusted Characters". This inn is also mentioned in connection with Gertrude Lodge of _The Withered Arm_. Although the glories of its coaching days are but memories of the past, and notwithstanding that the motorists pass so unpretentious a building for the more attractive-looking King's Arms, the despised of the modern traveller has retained a portion of its old-time custom and prosperity, by reason of its being the inn at which the carriers' carts deposit their morning and take up their evening passengers. The loading of a "tranter's" cart with men, women, and children, not to mention the immense packages of millinery, garden produce, and poultry, is a fine art that could have been evolved only by centuries of experience. To watch one of these caravans from the heart of Dorset disgorge its contents reminds one of nothing so much as the conjuror's hat at our first "grown-up" Christmas party. How so many human beings can be squeezed into the few cubic feet left over from the merchandise is a mystery, the knowledge of which would make the fortune of an enterprising omnibus company. When meeting one of these Noah's Arks in the country one would think at first sight that it contained men only, although the incessant chattering that proceeds from the cavernous depths of the vehicle has a distinctly feminine note. The reason for this is that the "gaffers" occupy the front seats, where they smoke, make sarcastic and distinctly personal remarks to their stay-at-home neighbours, who gaze with envious eyes from their doorsteps, and keep a keen eye on the various crops that grow along the sides of the route. No matter what the weather, and whatever the season of the year, the men sit over the horse's tail, the gloomy interior of the vehicle, being allotted to the women and children, garden produce, and occasional live stock. The return journey affords the travellers no