suggestive of merciless treachery; the bill-hook nose, large teeth, and bold eye of the other, suggesting arrogance to the point of ferocity, haunt the beholder afterwards in his dreams." Old records show that in ancient times a curious custom was observed on Annual Court Day at Wool. It was known as collecting smoke-pence. It appears that the head of every house was called upon to pay a penny for each of his chimneys as a token that the property belonged to the manor. The money was collected by the constable, who was obliged to bring twenty pence into court, or make up the money himself. The most characteristic and altogether unique feature of this nook of earth around Bere Regis is that superstition has not ceased to exist among the old people of the land. It is difficult to believe that there is a little district in England where superstition is still a part--a very obscure part, it is true--of the life of the people. But here I have noticed the shadow of witchcraft and magic thrown across the commonplace things of rustic life again and again while talking with old cronies over their beer, or along the winding hill roads. But it must be understood that the Dorset man does not talk to any chance wayfarer on such matters: the subject of the "Borderland" and "spiritual creatures" is strictly set apart for the log fire and chimney corner on winter evenings. It is when the wooden shutters are up to the windows, and the tranquillising clay pipes are sending up their incense to the oak cross-beams, that we may cautiously turn the conversation on to such matters. On one such occasion as I watched the keen, wrinkled faces, on which common sense, shrewdness and long experience had set their marks, I wondered if two local farmers had made such sinners of their memories as to credit their own fancy. But no, I would not believe they were in earnest. It was only their quaint humour asserting itself. They were surely "piling it on" in order to deceive me! However, that was not the solution, for when the time came, somewhere about midnight, for one of the farmers to return home he stolidly refused to face the dark trackway back to his farm, and preferred to spend the night in the arm-chair before the fire. But let one of the dwellers on Bere Heath tell of his own superstitions. Here is old Gover coming over the great Elizabethan bridge which spans the rushy River Frome at Wool. One glance at his cheerful, weather-beaten face will tell you better than a whole chapter of a book that he is no "lablolly" (fool), but a man of sound judgment, easy notions and general good character, like Hardy's Gabriel Oak. Leaning on the ancient stonework of the bridge, and smacking his vamplets (rough gaiters used by thatchers to defend the legs from wet) with a hazel stick, he stops to talk. A motor lorry filled with churns of milk passes on its way to drop its consignment at Wool railway siding.