"To be sure--extinguished. Maybe you've heard the story about the Devon gal who went to London as a maid and when she told the mistress she had 'douted' the kitchen fire she was told to say 'extinguished' in future, and not use such ill-sounding words. 'Ess, mum,' she said, 'and shall I _sting-guish_ the old cat before I go to bed?'" The thatcher laughed in his deep chest. "But thatch suits us Devon folk middlin' well," he continued. "It's warm in winter and cool in summer, and will stand more buffeting by the wind and rain than all your cheap tiles and slates." "And thatch is cheap too, perhaps?" I ventured. "On the contrary," he answered. "Lukee, those nitches of reed cost four shillings each, and you want three hundred bundles for a good-sized roof. Then there is the best tar twine (which comes from Ireland), the spars and the labour to be counted in. It takes three weeks on the average house, but if the thatch is well laid it will last for thirty years, and if I set my heart on a job and finish it off with a layer of heath atop, well, then, it will last for ever. Ess, fay!" "And what is the way you proceed to thatch a roof?" I asked. [Illustration: HURDLE-MAKING AT BERE REGIS] "Well," he answered, "it's not easy to explain. 'Lanes' of reed--wheat straw, you would say--are first tied on the eave beams and gable beams; these are called eave locks and gable locks. A 'lane of reed' is about as long as a walking-stick and a bit thicker than a man's wrist, and a thatched roof is composed of these 'lanes' tied on the roof beams, in ridge fashion. Then when the reeds are all tied on, overlapping each other, they are trimmed with a 'paring hook.' The reed has to be wet when put up; that is why thatchers wear leather knee-knaps. The best thatching reed comes from clay soil out Exeter and Crediton way." "And where do you think," I asked, "can be seen the most perfect examples of thatching in England?" "I lay you won't see any better than the cottages around Lyme Regis and Axminster. But soon Merry England will be done with thatch, for the boys of the village are too proud to learn how to cut a spar or use a thatcher's hook. Bless my soul! They all want to be clerks or school teachers." My friend the thatcher had a profound contempt for "school larning" and he waxed triumphantly eloquent when he touched upon Council School teachers. "What poor, mimpsy-pimsy craychers they be, them teachers," he remarked. "Fancy them trying to larn others, and ha'n't got the brains to larn themselves!" * * * * *