But still I do think that in soul She do hover about us To ho' for her motherless children, Her pride at Woak Hill. So lest she should tell me hereafter I stole off 'ithout her And left her uncalled at house-ridden To bide at Woak Hill, I call'd her so fondly, with lippens All soundless to others, And took her with air-reaching hand To my side at Woak Hill. On the road I did look round, a-talking To light at my shoulder, And then led her in at the doorway, Miles wide from Woak Hill. And that's why folk thought, for a season, My mind were a-wand'ring With sorrow, when I were so sorely A-tried at Woak Hill. But no; that my Mary mid never Behold herself slighted I wanted to think that I guided My guide from Woak Hill." Barnes saw the pathos in the joy of utter physical weariness of a labourer, and one of his finest poems depicts a cottage under a swaying poplar: "An' hands a-tired by day, were still, Wi' moonlight on the door." He always has that deep, quiet craving for the hearth, the fire, the protecting thatch of a cottage, which gives his work a pathetic touch. I think sometimes that Barnes must have been nearer to being cold, homeless and tired at times than is generally understood. CHAPTER VII BERE REGIS AND THE ANCIENT FAMILY OF TURBERVILLE We who have passed into the Upper Air Thence behold Earth, and know how she is fair. More than her sister Stars sweet Earth doth love us: She holds our hearts: the Stars are high above us. O Mother Earth! Stars are too far and rare! Bere Regis, that "blinking little place" with a history extending back to Saxon times (identified by Doctor Stukeley with the Roman Ibernium), is a typical little Dorset town about seven miles to the north-west of Wareham. It makes a capital walk or ride from Dorchester, and it was this way I travelled. I left Dorchester by High Street East, ascending Yellowham Hill, the "Yalbury Hill" of Troy's affecting meeting with Fanny Robin, leaving Troy Town to pass through Puddletown and Tolpuddle. Evening had fallen when I arrived at Bere Regis, and the rising wind and flying wrack of clouds above seemed to presage a wild night. I was just wondering whether, although it looked so threatening, I dared ride on to Wareham, when my eyes rested on the Royal Oak Inn, with its Elizabethan barns, mossed and mouldering red tiles and axe-hewn timbers. "It is at such houses," I thought, "that men may stretch out weary legs and taste home-cured bacon (I heard the squeak of a pig in the outhouse), and such places are the homes of adventure. I will go in and call for ale and a bed."