mon amongst the rural poor. For the old house is full of sweet memories, and if you destroy it, you destroy the only joy left in life for the old—to dwell in the thought of the past. Moreover, it sometimes happens that a new house is no real advantage to the labourer, as Mr Barnes has said—
"A new house! yes indeed! a small
Straight upstart thing, that, after all,
Do teäke in only half the groun'
The wold woone did avore 'twer down;
Wi' little windows straïght an' flat,
Not big enough to zun a cat,
An' dealen door a-meäde so thin,
A puff o' wind would blow en in.
No, no; I would'en gie thee thanks
Vor fine white walls and vloors o' planks.
Nor doors a-painted up so fine,
If I'd a wold grey house o' mine."
In these old houses were chimneys indeed; chimney corners in which the whole family could nestle.
"An' when I zot among 'em, I
Could zee all up ageän the sky,
Drough chimney, where our vo'k did hitch
The zalt-box an' the beäcon vlitch."
Mr Barnes, with a laudable desire to maintain the ideal of "home" in Dorset cottages, has shown how, notwithstanding all their miseries, a labouring man's cottage may still remain for him the most joyful spot on earth.
"My children an' my vier-place,
Where Molly wi' her cheerful feäce.
When I'd a-trod my wat'ry road
Vrom night-bedarken'd vields abrode,
Wi' nimble hands, at evènen, blest
Wi' vire and wood my hard-won rest';
The while the little woones did clim',
So sleek-skinned up from lim' to lim',
Till strugglèn hard an' clingen tight,
They reach'd at last my feäcè's height,
All tryèn which could soonest hold
My mind wi' little teäles they twold."
