I cannot leave Corfe without saying a few words in praise of the Greyhound Inn. Here the beams of the roof are black oak and squared enormously, like the timbers of a mighty ship, and some of the odd, low doorways remind one of the hatchways in a vessel. Visitors have so often knocked their heads against the low doors that it has been necessary to paint in large letters above several of them, "MIND YOUR HEAD." In the little smoke-room at the back one might fancy himself on board a ship in strange seas--especially does one experience this sensation in the evening before the candles are carried in. If it is wintertime the impression is more intense--the wind howls and worries at the window and the sky is swept clean in one broad, even stretch; then one may call for a pint of Romsey ale, fill the pipe and enjoy the lonely kingdom of the man at the helm of a great vessel. When morning comes this same little room is bright and cheerful. The window looks out on a narrow courtyard paved with mighty stones, and Corfe Castle, which thrusts itself into every view of the town, fills the background. In the winter the rustics sit about the board in this room, but they do not come there in summer, being shy of visitors. The labourers seldom wear the smocks, made of Russian duck, which their fore-elders were so inclined to favour. These smocks were much more stout than people would imagine, and the texture was so closely woven and waterproof that no rain could run through it. * * * * *