For Wretham Heath is one of the seven heaths in the neighbourhood, and in the only district of England, where the ring-plovers visit inland. They come here in spring, and are doubtless in sympathy with the place. In common with them, the black-headed gull loves the heath, and students of natural history tell us its sands, plants, beetles, and butterflies—and, in fact, the whole of its flora and fauna—are those of the coast. Away beyond that lonely junction is Ringmere, the identical “Hringmar” of the Heimskringla-saga, where the Battle of Ringmere, the last of those many bloodthirsty fights between Saxon and Dane, was fought, in 1010. Ringmere is a singular, nay mystic, pool, sometimes measuring seven acres, at others reduced to a puddle, and again in full flood and stocked with fish. It is now again absolutely dry. Other curious meres of this immediate district, with similarly strange vicissitudes, are those of Langmere, Fowlmere, and the “Devil’s Punchbowl,” a smaller but deeper lake, whose white evening coronal of mist the fearful folklore of the rural folk has styled the “Devil’s Nightcap.” There were yet others before Wretham West Mere, and Great Mere were drained, in 1851 and 1856. The Padder’s, or Peddar’s Way, here plunges through a long avenue of pines, on its way to Watton. It is a solitary, and at times even an eerie place, for great livid fungi grow in its shade and curious tall toadstool things, shaped like half-furled Japanese umbrellas, dot the grass; while fairy rings are there for the beguilement of mortal man rash enough to stand within any one of their magic circles what time the clock strikes the hour of midnight. Then—well, then I don’t know what might happen, and really am not courageous enough to make the essay. Whether the little folk merely fool you with fairy gold that, when the illusory moonshine kingdom of Queen Mab is replaced by matter-of-fact sunshine, turns to the sere and sorry leaves of autumn past; whether they addle your brains, or give you a tricksy wisdom that is not of this world, I do not know; but if the fairy rings were only potent enough to recall the past, bid yesterday return, make unsaid the lamentable word, undo the irrevocable deed—why then, who would not brave the mystic hour, and chance what might hap? Ah! then, what a place of resort this would be, and what crowds of clients the fairies would have! But if all these things were possible, they would still be beyond our reach, for I am quite sure the company-promoters would get an option on the fairies and float them as a company, under the style of “Oblivion, Ltd.” Puck would, of course, join the board after allotment. No one under the financial status of a multi-millionaire would be able to purchase the fairy boons vended under these auspices, for such people have much they would only too dearly like revoked, and would outbid all others. [Illustration: THE “SCUTES,” PEDDAR’S WAY.] XXXIX