“Augh! bless’ee, Sir, a man medn’t brew and sell his own beer now; and oftentimes he can’t get nothin’ fit to drink at thaay little beer-houses as is licensed, nor at some o’ the public-houses too for that matter. But ’twur not only for that as the times wur better then, you see, Sir----” “But about the sports, William?” “Ees Sir, I wur gandering sure enough,” said the old man; “well now, there wur Varmer Mifflin’s mare run for and won a new cart saddle and thill-tugs--the mare’s name wur _Duke_. As many as a dozen or moor horses run, and they started from Idle’s Bush, which wur a vine owld tharnin’-tree in thay days--a very nice bush. They started from Idle’s Bush, as I tell ’ee, Sir, and raced up to the Rudge-waay; and Varmer Mifflin’s mare had it all one way, and beat all the t’other on ’um holler. The pastime then wur a good ’un--a wunderful sight o’ volk of all sorts, rich and poor. John Morse of Uffington, a queerish sort of a man, grinned agin another chap droo’ hos collars, but John got beaat--a fine bit of spwoort to be shure, Sir, and made the folks laaf. Another geaam wur to bowl a cheese down the Mainger, and the first as could catch ’un had ’un. The cheese was a tough ’un and held together.” “Nonsense, William, that’s impossible,” broke in the Parson. “Augh Sir, but a did though, I assure ’ee,” persisted William Ayres, “but thaay as tasted ’un said a warn’t very capital arter all.” “I daresay,” said the Parson, “for he couldn’t have been made of any thing less tough than ash pole.” “Hah, hah, hah,” chuckled the old man, and went on.