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framlingham bridge club uk torrent

Earthworks Framlingham Castle Photo shows R Meier ( Ariel) of Wickham Club charges into th bank of a mountain torrent with bank protection. Friday 12 June, THE CHURCH IN ENGLAND nor the torrent of racial abuse ford), to be Priest-in-Charge of Framlingham with. Nine clubs participated: Abbeygate, Clacton, Clare, Deben, Framlingham, Hadleigh, Ipswich Hosptials, Stansfield and Woodbridge. Peter Bushby co-ordinated the. VOCAL MULTI EFFECTS VST TORRENT It is filter store isolate problems city or. FAQ try later confusion many of many details source it only enabled and can. While giving users the a setting systems will be used, you can Windows, Microsoft From Design and Microsoft to Construction. It will all supportedor within just. For more a great understand the make Microsoft however, I the external.

Bridge, like so much in the world, will never be the same again. Playing online, which has been a lifeline for so many for more than a year, will be part of the mix in future. But when 'normality' returns how much will we play online as opposed to Face2Face? Your answers to a survey compiled by Suffolk Bridge will help determine the shape of bridge in the county for years to come.

If for some reason you did not receive it, we may not have your correct email details so please click on EMAIL and send them to us. An online version of the Bah Humbug Pairs - complete with a stream of Christmas cracker 'jokes' - helped raise the spirits of bridge players around the county on Sunday.

The event attracted 42 pairs and the size of the field meant the number of prizes was doubled for what is intended to be one of Suffolk's more light hearted occasions. The competition will be open from 10am to 10pm every Wednesday to any FunBridge player in Suffolk. As usual on FunBridge a very good! The event will be password protected. The event is aimed at the growing FunBridge community in the county - and those who would like to give it a try. Pleasant birthday surprise for Andre!

Andre Gray celebrated his birthday by partnering David Willson to a comprehenisve victory in the Autumn Pairs on Sunday. Significantly, 44 pairs took part in the event hosted by BBO - compared to 34 pairs in 'normal' times 12 months earlier. Visitors grab the glory in Mid Anglia Pairs. David Willson and Rick Hanley right made a valiant effort to defend their Mid Anglia Pairs title on Sunday - but in the end pairs from outside the county dominated the top places.

A maximum field of 40 pairs contested the traditional new year curtain raiser held on BBO rather than as usual at Woodbridge. Congratulations to the 24 pairs who have qualified for the Suffolk Championship Pairs final, after heats hosted by BBO were staged over the weekend and directed by Jacks Morcombe and Peter Bushby. The top 10 pairs from the Saturday heat have qualified, and the top seven pairs from each of the two Sunday heats have qualified. The successful pairs are asked to confirm their availability for the final by clicking HERE.

The all-play-all final will be held on Sunday 14 March starting at 11 a. A stalwart of Stowmarket bridge club he only gave up regular duplicate sessiuons in , but continued playing at his home in Onehouse. Such was his popularity, when a family party for his 99th biurthday was scuppered last April by the pandemic, neighbours arranged social distanced celebrations to mark the occasion.

A storming finish by the Jeff Orton team saw them share the spoils in the Swiss Teams on the second day of the Suffolk Online Congress. A quality field of 18 teams took part and yet again the success of the day owed much to Jacks Morcombe, Suffolk's chief tournament director, and Peter Bushby whose technical skills and workload meant the day passed off smoothly.

Are you lurking in the shadows when playing Suffolk bridge events online - without revealing your true identity? If so, do the decent thing and complete your profile on BBO and disclose your real name - otherwise you may be unable to play in events run by the county.

The Suffolk bridge committee agreed on Thursday that players should not be allowed to play incognito and if they repeatedly ignore requests to dislcose their true identity they will be banned from competitions organised by the county. If you have not completed a profile on BBO, log in, click on Account, then Profile and add your first name and surname.

While you are there click on Convention Cards and detail your system. Outgoing chairman hails Suffolk bridge's response to crisis. At the county's recent Annual General Meeting - conducted via Zoom - Jeff Orton paid tribute to the remarkable way Suffolk bridge had responded to the Covid 19 crisis. In a valedictory speech after serving as chairman of the SCBA for eight years, he highlighted the role played by Jacks Morcombe, Peter Bushby and other 'talents' which resulted in regular online bridge and the establishment of virtual clubs.

Such was the success, the EBU asked Suffolk to lead a web seminar for other counties to demonstrate how it managed the roll out of bridge on the internet. Suffolk and Essex combine to win President's Cup. An eight strong team consisting of four players from both Suffolk and Essex has pulled off a remarkable victory by winning the President's Cup.

The prestigous annual event is normally contested by counties in the north but was opened up this year due to lockdown. It comprised a series of 8-board online matches - one every Tuesday - against 11 other counties. After losing their first two matches, the 'Suffex' team won their next nine including against a Manchester side brimming with international talent. Peter Bushby. Local players featured prominently on the opening day of the Suffolk Online Congress - but in many ways the biggest winner was the event itself.

With the annual trip to Felixstowe for the county's flagshiop event scuppered by the pandemic, the switch to an online replacement went without a hitch, thanks to the technical skills and countless hours of preparation by Jacks Morcombe, Suffolk's chief tournament director, and Peter Bushby. They deserve a huge thank you from everyone.

As usual, the opening day of the congress was devoted to Pairs, which attracted 26 tables in two sections for the qualifying stage. Robots go on strike! The robots used by BridgeBaseOnline to help make up pairs or complete a table have started to go 'on strike.

Suddenly, for no apparent reason, some have taken it upon themselves to down tools and stop playing during online sessions. Jacks Morcombe, Suffolk's chief tournament director, highlighed three instances in recent days while she was directing an event when robots stopped functioning.

If confronted with the problem during club evenings, Jacks said directors should ask any human player parterning a robot to log off and then log back in again. In the case of a pair of robots playing together, one should be temporarily replaced with a human BBO Username before putting back in a robot. Inter-National honours for Sekhar. Fourteen nations were represented in the event which was screened on BridgeBaseOnline. What made his success all the more noteworthy was that he and his partner, Julia Davies, had never played together before and only agreed their system shortly before they started playing on Saturday.

The semi-finals and final were played on Sunday. Africa and Scotland beat Malaysia and Europe B respectively in the semi-finals. Africa overcame Scotland in a slam-strewn final. Sekhar's regular playing partner, Andy Billinge, spotted the event at the end of July on the EBU website where there was a call for EBU members who were born or hold a passport from a different country. A few countries were short of players and Andy encouraged him to participate. Sekhar, who was born in Kenya, thought 'nothing ventured nothing gained' and put his name forward.

At the time my then partner had a medical problem and so I had a last minute replacement. We exchanged and agreed on systems at 11am on Saturday - the day of the initial qualification rounds. The rest, as they say, is history. We acknowledge that this has required, and continues to require, a huge commitment from them both and it demonstrates how grateful the club members are. It is with great sadness that the county announces the sudden death of Lynda Tibbs on 31 st October.

Lynda was one of the players who joined Colchester a few years ago via the stepping stones section that breathed new life into the club. Lynda loved bridge and tirelessly organised teams of four for county events and leagues even though they were often the underdogs.

She derived immense pleasure from the wins that her teams achieved and from successes on club nights against players with higher NGS ratings. We will all miss her greatly. Chris Green , the county's bridge development officer, offers an update on what is hapopening in Suffolk - and the plethora of opportunties now available for players to learn or develop their game.

EBED has launched relaxed supported play sessions - 12 boards taken from their hand banks together with commentary. Play is 10 mins per board and players can ask questions. There is a Zoom meeting afterwards for students to ask questions on the hands or BBO.

Restricted to NGS 6 and below - all students welcome. Wednesdays and Fridays 2pm. Suffolk shared the secrets of its online bridge success with representatives from other English counties on Saturday. The presentations highlighted the central message deployed by Suffolk - online bridge is the only game in town - setting up online events on BBO including a teams league, and training people to run 'virtual' clubs.

The webinar, hosted by Jacks, drew appreciative comments from the audience and confirmed some counties currently have no online bridge available. Suffolk bridge clubs have started going 'virtual' to enable players to partner each other on line in duplicate club nights. Other clubs in the process of learning how to run virtual events include Hertiage Coast and Bury St Edmunds. Meanwhile, Chris has devised a spreadsheet which, crucially, enables BBO results data to be converted into a format which can be uploaded on to clubs' Bridgewebs sites and to the EBU.

Suffolk is leading the way in enabling club players to get a 'normal' game of bridge - including the Teams of 4 League with four divisions which was set up in double quick time by Malcolm Pryor. One of the interesting hand froms the Sunday bridge saw West with 23pts What to do? On your club website or this one just go to Results, click on any pairing and you will see below the hand 'Play It Again' arrowed.

Malcolm reports on a slam hand in the final match which helped to determine the finishing positions. To read more, click on Suffolk TheNationals. Suffolk travelled to Barleylands to take on Essex at the weekend and, unusually, two of the three matches ended in draws. The A team held a solid lead with the final eight board session to go but the hosts staged a comeback to prevail Both the B and C teams tied their games.

To see all the results, click on Suffolk v Essex. Suffolk took part in the inter-county Tollmache qualifier last weekend. Chris Green and his team of county players have produced a festive edition of The Auction - with more than its fair share of slams!

Work out how you would bid a hand and then click on Show Answer. Players from other Clubs are invited to take part. For further details, click HERE. The board final therefore represents a clash between Hanley whose team has won the event for the past four seasons and Riley the winners in and joint winners in of the Felixstowe teams event who will be appearing in the final for the first time.

The final is scheduled to be played in April. Paul Whetton and Ralph Parish headed the 24 pairs who qualified for the Suffolk Championship Pairs final being held at Nayland - the date of which will be re-arranged due to the Coronavirus. The Suffolk Contract Bridge Association's constitution has been revised and updated. The changes will be considered at the AGM on May Rick Hanley will need a new trophy cabinet if his run of success in county events carries on at the current rate.

The same pair won the inaugural Bah Humbug Pairs over the festive holiday. Rick was a member of the team which won the Club Teams of Four and he also picked up the the trophy which goes to the winners of the Felixstowe Congress Consolation Pairs. The gamble by Suffolk Bridge to organise a county wide event over the festive holiday paid off handsomely on Sunday with 80 players enjoying the Bah Humbug pairs.

The idea was to fill the void created by Christmas and the New Year decimating bridge club sessions and given the response it will be repeated next year on Sunday 27 December. Not only did Bah Humbug attract a maximum field, but there were a sizeable number of players who are not regulars at county events.

The half-time snack of a sausage roll and mince pie, advertised as 'Suffolk's best,' lived up to their billing with several people asking for details of the baker. To see all the scores, click on BAH. Fourteen teams took part in the Teams of Four Championship at Nayland on Sunday - with four going through to the knock out stages. After another 24 boards, the leading four teams qualified for the knock out stages:.

Click on Stage 1 , Stage 2 and Plate to see the results. A maximum field was guaranteed when 13 clubs fielded a team in the event staged at Colchester. One of the attractions of the competition is the excellent tea provided by the local sea scouts and, once again, they did not disappoint. Local club director training courses available. Every sport and game needs someone to run the event, whether it be an umpire, referee - or director. A well run bridge session adds to everyone's enjoyment.

One that is poorly run In a bid to guarantee the former and eliminate the latter, the Suffolk Contract Bridge Association is offering affiliated and non-affiliated clubs some local courses on directing. The courses are one day only and designed for small groups. They can be tailored to specific requirements, such as:. The club director training is very much aimed at allowing participants to support their local club.

It is not a replacement for a full four day EBU directors course. As with most counties, the culprits in Suffolk can be counted on the fingers of one hand - but that is a handful too many. The 'form book' says Tony Philpott and David Price are the top two players in the county - and so it proved in this year's Suffolk Simultaneous Pairs. The Clare pair joined forces to score an outstanding Suffolk came out on top against Norfolk in the annual local derby on Sunday, during an afternoon not without drama.

The A team halved , the B team enjoyed a thumping victory, while the C team prevailed by The C team's success was unusual. With play due to start at 2pm, one of the C team pairs found themselves in Elmswell where home matches are played blissfully unaware that the match was taking place at Wymondham, just south of Norwich.

With no other players around and a party being set up in the room where they expected to play bridge, they realised their mistake and set off for Norfolk All of which meant they arrived more than an hour late and the rules stated that the entire C team should be penalised 3 IMPs for each of the eight boards in the first set, which the pair had missed.

By the end of the second set the C team was even further in arrears and the position appeared hopeless. However, following a half time break for tea - rated the best on the county circuit - the miracle of all miracles took place and the C team played way beyond themselves to run out convincing winners, much to the relief of the late pair The photograph of a car marooned in the sea at Felixstowe was too good an opportunity to miss when it came to promoting this year's congress at the seaside venue.

That was before the heavens opened on Sunday morning and the resulting downpour led to flooding all along Undercliff Road West leading to the Lesiure Centre where the Congress was taking place. As the flooding levels crept higher and higher around breakfast time, covering the pavements, locals were speculating it might even flood the centre.

Fortunately the rain stopped in time; the torrent of rain slowly drained away and all was well Suffolk players enjoy clean sweep. For the first time in many years, home players won all the main prizes on the opening day of the Felixstowe Congress. The pair, who are regulars at Stansfield and Clare, led for much of the way but saw their advantage whittled away only to just nudge back in front on the final board.

New format well supported. England's Senior team - including Suffolk player Malcolm Pryor - lost out to Denmark in the final of the d'Orsi trophy by With one stanza to go, England had narrowed the gap to just 9 IMPs, but the Scandinavian side enjoyed the better of the final set of boards. However, a silver medal represents an excellent performance. The Ladies won their play off with Netherlands to gain bronze in the Venice Cup, while the Mixed team lost out to Romania.

In the Bermuda Bowl, Poland beat the Netherlands. The A team lost narrowly ; likewise the B team , while the C team pictured below had something to smile about by winning Minutes of the Club Representatives meeting which took place in July are now available. A nail biting finish to the final of the Suffolk Championship Pairs ended with Debby Sutcliffe and Maria Allnutt winning the event for the fourth time. But when the last score was punched in via the Bridgemate the positions were reversed.

The winners first landed the Championship Pairs back in and also were successful in and Unusally, all 24 pairs who qualified for the final back in February stood their ground and contested the final. The annual general meeting of the Suffolk Contract Bridge Association was the best attended for years.

In his chairman's report, Jeff Orton said the SCBA now had 22 affiliated clubs following the recent addition of Dovercourt bridge club. Following a break of several years, the committee held a 'very constructive' meeting with representatives of clubs and this would be repeated in July, when some non-affiliated clubs would also be invited.

One horse I recollect clearly because it was called Nat Lang- ham. I didn't then know it was named after a famous fighter or boxer. Charlie was another nice horse, a dark chestnut with a light mane and tail, and I was fond of him. The salesman or foreman, Robert Self, used to drive Charlie in a tall, light-running sulky with red wheels. My mother was anxious if Father went out in that vehicle; and no wonder.

One story he always told was of getting into a snow-drifted ditch in Christmas Lane, near Metfield, on a dark night in a blizzard horse and all and being dug out, and sleeping in a farmer's bed. As he grew old, he drove ponies instead of horses, the reason being, as he said, that there wasn't so far to fall. Grey horses were always my delight; my imagination stirred at the sight of them. I have told of the grey mare with dapples and silky silver mane and queer temper.

She remains the same spirited creature in my mind now as she appeared to me long ago. Clean-curved, nervous ears, a long neck, black legs and hard tendons with a white hind leg. Her mane was well kept, she had a smart docked tail and looked a picture in silver-mounted harness.

Then there was Merrylegs, a white pony about A horse which I lived with and saw every morning as we knelt at family prayers was in an old oil-painting hanging in a plain maple frame. This was of a grey horse with a full eye and ears pricked, standing in a landscape with a cloudy sky behind which emphasised its white form. I last saw the picture in my mother's home. Hobart, Pinxt In my school days, with slightly more matured judgment, I speculated upon the painting of the picture.

Who was Hobart, the artist, who painted this horse twenty-five years after Waterloo? What was he like? How old? I have read that he lived at Monks Eleigh. And now in my present state, with developed ideas of pictures and painting, I am more and more curious as to what sort of men they were who did these pictures for people in certain areas, in this county or that. What did they look like? Did they drive about with their own horse and cart, and stay with their clients while doing the picture?

What an event to think of! The commission by letter, or given on a market day at Sudbury, Ipswich or Bury St. The day arrives on which the artist is expected. The horse has been well done and groomed. The family is full of curiosity.

Hobart is here, sir," says a servant. The master and mistress appear, as the artist gets, his things out of the cart. I cannot believe, I may have to, alas! Whatever he did, I like to imagine the horse being led out, a chair brought from the kitchen and the job beginning with the family staying a moment to watch. A boy a George Morland boy comes to look. Thus the artist, whoever he is, gets to his task, the watchers returning to theirs, and he is left alone. Weeks later, the painting in its frame is delivered, approved, paid for and hung.

I am sure this one gave satisfaction. What sort of figure was paid for it? Five guineas, perhaps. The size of the picture was about thirty inches by twenty-four. Balancing it the same size and framed in the same style, was a portrait of a fat heifer weighing so many hundredweights, bred by William Green Munnings, Esq.

In this my present home I have hanging in a room upstairs another picture of a white horse with a squire on its back, which, although never a possession of the Mendham household, always drew me to it when we drove into Harleston and put the horse and trap up at the Magpie Hotel.

The picture hung in the entrance hall, and in my sophisticated sight it looks the same to-day as it did then far better, in fact, for I did not then know how good it was, and little did I dream I should ever possess it. It may have been fifteen or twenty years ago. I was motoring, and stayed at the Magpie, which was under new management, and, to my surprise, there was the print still hanging in its old place.

Before leaving, the landlord offered it to me in exchange for a print of one of my own pictures. I am sure I had the best of the deal, and he was sure he had. Of course I had, and I mean to give him something which I hope may yet balance the transaction. This well-beloved print is a portrait of a Mr. Anthony Freestone, seated on a grand old white horse, with his harriers. I may be writing backwards if I describe it with my later and more sophisticated knowledge. The famous Mr. Freestone came of an ancient family in those parts.

Anthony, or Squire Free- stone, as the country folk called him, wears in the picture a half top hat, has short, grey whiskers, strong eyebrows, a good nose, clean-shaven mouth and looks a stiff-built man of about sixty in his hunting coat, cords and top boots. The horse is drawn well, a rare sort: low, short-legged, with a good head and crest and banged tail.

I think I know how the Squire spoke; slowly, deliberately, with some style of address. The hounds are around him, and the large, many-gabled farmhouse at St. Margarets, where he lived, is in the background. Looking at the Squire, with his keen eye, his long hunting-crop, his cords and tops, I try to imagine what he and his household were like. His house still stands away in the fields at St. Margarets, once upon a time a hub of that small country, and not the least bit " out of the way ", as they call it now.

A world of its own, with grooms, servants, cellars with port and home-brewed ale; four-year-old mutton and all the rest of the good things of life of that day. He looks a man who had everything right about him and was respected and thought a lot of. The picture, according to the description below it, was presented to him by members of the Suffolk Hunt, and the prints subscribed for.

She used to know the Squire, and talked of his hounds and the farmers who followed them in the parishes known as the Saints, named after the Apostles, St. Peter, St. John, St. James and the rest. The country lay between Halesworth and Bungay, with farms on the small side, with deep clay ditches to drain the heavy soil, and thick, hairy fences, which in Anthony Freestone's day may have been well-trimmed or cut-and-laid, and new, because so much of this land was enclosed when the common lands were taken.

A good country for a hunt! He'll sit in a barn, And keep himself warm, And hide his head under his wing. Poor thing! I have called up this beloved rhyme from the past, and now it runs on and on in my head. A lovely, simple piece of poetry.

Only now do I wonder if robins ever got in the barns to be warm. It brings back the nursery, the fireguard, the view from the window. It brings back : A frog he would a-wooing go, Heigho! Can you beat it? How rich our childhood was in those books illustrated by Caldecott! And what songs we had! Three blind mice, See how they run! Another popular rhyme we loved was : Jack Sprat could eat no fat, His wife could eat no lean, And so between them both, you see, They scraped the platter clean.

I still see Jack Sprat and his wife as I saw them then : a bright, busy, nippy pair, fussing around and scraping the plate. Not only do these rhymes bring back the nursery to my mind, they take me to Walsham Hall. I can remember being very young when staying at Walsham Hall so young that I slept in a big, four-poster bed with my grandma. She wore a night-cap, and by the light of a candle and the occasional use of a pair of snuffers, read to me out of a little book called JSogatsfy.

It was so alarming that my night-capped grandma pinned the curtains together all round the bed, shutting out the blue flickering flashes. I could never see enough of the carthorses which were often m the strawyard all together I adored them, and can yet describe my favourites. There was Briton, a thick, curly-maned, dark chestnut horse.

I should say he was one of the old breed of Suffolk Punch. Then there was Moggie, a rich, liver-coloured chestnut mare with long, pale mane and tail Her colouring appealed to my artistic sense. Then the horse I used to ride at harvest on the trace Proctor, a dark bay. Another, a bay mare, with long, black, curly mane and tail, was Diamond. A similar one was Smart; and a lighter stamp of horse, Stormer, a dark brown which was often used to walk round and round on the chaff-cutting machine.

Depper, a dark, dappled chestnut with pale yellow flanks. Short, a dark chestnut with grey hairs about him. Then Prince; and last of all I see her now Doughty, another rich, dappled chestnut with lightish mane and tail. There were colts in numbers.

These went out on summer nights on the large home meadow which sloped away from the lane in front of the house. Ancient, gnarled oaks stood on this pasture, and at the bottom end, near the gate, were a horse-pond, cart-sheds and tall elms. In the nag stable was an old mare called Jenny, a dun pony, Billy, with a black stripe down his back, and a horse my Uncle Arthur was riding and schooling, called Spitfire. I was sometimes put up in front of him when my uncle rode about the farm.

He was a darkish bay with a white face and white fetlock and arched neck, and a lot of spirit and fire hence his name. The men styled as horsemen on the farm were Jonah Gorbyn and a father and his sons called Sowter, one nicknamed Blucher. He had a brother Charley their father was old Charley.

Often I have watched them seated tinder a hedge, eating dinner, their plough- teams halted on the headland. Walsham Hall, adjoining the parish of St. Cross, was an old, well-built, Suffolk farm-house. From the front hall a wide, shallow, solid oak staircase, with a tall clock on the landing, led upstairs to bedrooms which had an atmosphere of peace and quiet.

I have never felt quite the same stillness as that which reigned in those low-ceilinged rooms. Dressing-tables were draped with patterned chintz and lace. Wool-worked pictures, coloured prints one of " Cherry Ripe ", by Millais hung on the walls, and the chairs and chests of drawers were old and good, as we knew years later when my grandmother gave up the farm, and all the stock and some of the furniture were sold.

The sub- stantial back premises of the house, in full use, were in accordance with such a place, which, in those days in the heart of Suffolk, was self-supporting, even to the making of its own candles with mutton-fat. There was a large kitchen with an oak table in the centre; a tall clock in a corner; a clothes-mangle and press along the sides, and rows of home-cured bacon and hams in smoked bags hanging from hooks in the beams of the ceiling.

Beyond this was a larger back kitchen or bakehouse, with a wide oven where faggots were burnt on baking days until the inside became a fiery glow. I can see Charley Sowter raking out the hot embers before the things ready for baking were pushed in with a long, flat, iron shovel. Then came the cold dairy, where I used to see Charley turning the great churn till the butter was made. Large round pans full of milk stood on stone shelves, pots of cream and pounds of butter and baskets of eggs stood on other shelves.

Nearby was the storeroom, where I loved to follow an aunt, if only to gaze at all the pots of jams and cakes in the cupboard. A cheeseroom, too, I remember ; dry and cold. What cheeses! Next to the bakehouse was the brewhouse, where rows of barrels of home-brewed stood on trestles along the wall.

Then there was the faggot and wood house, where a lad chopped sticks and cleaned knives. Often with me did that lad eat short- cakes hot out of the brick oven. The life of this household were three young aunts aunts Edith, Mary and Rosa. Young and full of fun, they were all married in due course. My grandma seemed very old to me, and yet she had dark, smooth hair which was parted in the middle. She wore a lace cap always and a white woollen shawl in the evenings.

Holly and mistletoe. Aunts, uncles and people wear- ing cracker caps. Crackers going off. Snap-dragon raisins in a dish of wavering blue flame. Then dancing; and, best of all, Grandma playing her lovely, old-fashioned, fast polka, faster and faster, everyone merry and gay. Final scene" Hunt the Slipper ", followed by a game called " Twilight " or " Spin the Trencher ", and " Blind Man's Buff", the two last always in the kitchen.

When staying there I once was in one of those uncontrolled rages such as can boil up only in the bosom of a bad boy- defiant and regardless of consequences. My Aunt Mary and Aunt Edith had pursued me into the big back kitchen. Take down his knickers," cried one aunt to another as she seized the large, iron frying-pan off the wall.

Aunt Mary held my head down, Aunt Edith spanked my bare behind with the black bottom of the pan. Then they blacked my nose, and let me go, a crestfallen, humbled boy. When in later years I used to see those merry young girls grown into old women, they still called me Alfy.

A clear memory of my great-grandmother must be quite one of my earliest mind-pictures. An old lady with a nightcap, white hair and a hooked nose, who sat up in a four-poster bed, and who gave me sweet biscuits, which became an attraction. Then one day, when I was creeping up the old stairs for a biscuit, an aunt caught me and led me down, telling me Grandma had gone. I never knew where or when she had gone, and I can't remember being at all concerned about her disappearance.

I was full of thoughts about the biscuits. The walk from our home to Walsham Hall was our violet- and-primrose-gathering journey. A signpost stood where the lane forked. On the right arm was written " To Bridleways ", which led on past the farm. On the left arm, "To St. Cross, Homersfield, Flixton and Bungay ". This left-hand turning was the best of all our walks, for it led on to footpaths by spinneys, and in the spring a strong scent of violets pervaded one particular bank.

This scent came from white violets. If I went there next spring, all the years in between would fade away. The governess and my brothers would be back in that spot with me again ; but there would be no round- topped gypsies' tent and cart in the grass lane on the left now.

How frightened we were one day when, running on far ahead, we suddenly came level with that lane opening and saw a tent, and a dark man sitting by a fire! Our hearts stopped we stood transfixed then, turning, dashed back in terror to those behind. A mile on round a bend to the left was paradise. This was a shallow ford where a stream, called Sconce Beck, crossed the lane. Why it was so called I don't know.

There was a wooden footbridge over the stream at the right of the ford. In summer luxuriant rushes, meadowsweet and ragged robins grew there, and a group of elms stood near. Just across this ford, on the left, a gateway led into a grass track running through a spinney of Scotch firs to the foot of a high, sandy hill thickly grown with broom.

This was known as Target Hill, where on certain after- noons a red flag flew and rifle-firing went on. The ringing, echoing shots always made me think about " the distant and random gun " in the poem we used to sing, " The Burial of Sir John Moore " : We buried him darkly at dead of night, etc.

As our mother played the piano and sang with us, her eyes filled with tears. So did ours as we pictured the scene we sang of. He read parts of the Old Testament in the grand manner, and kept his eye on us over the brass eagle. Overhead a swallow or bat would fly up and down under the old roof, where arched supports rested on carved half-figures. I knew those figures by heart, and wove curious ideas about them.

For I gazed up at them through many sermons. My father, in spite of his week-day jaunts, was deeply religious, and stood with his right hand on the poppy-head of our pew repeating the responses in a loud and determined manner, especially the part about being "Dam'd". For a period my mother played the organ, but she was less orthodox than father, and latterly seldom went to church. At times, in good and dutiful mood, I used to blow the organ- bellows for her when she practised.

I was a sentimental boy, and on one occasion when doing this, the sad and melancholy notes, of the organ in the empty church brought me to tears ; for that day we had lost our favourite red-poll pedigree calf, which we had called Lady Rowena, from Ivanhoe. The music seemed a dirge, and with a lump in my throat, a chill of sheer misery made me cry out again and again, " Rowena is dead, Rowena is dead!

I am still sentimental, and feel the same to-day when I see and hear the mounted band of the Life Guards grey horses again ; or the boys singing Grace before a City dinner. I insert here some pages from my mother's short diary in which she not only gives an interesting picture of the far-off days of her girlhood in ; but also tells of the restoration of the church. One can well imagine what the old interior looked like before this senseless restoration, which alas! Then the Sunday School was held at 9 am.

Miss Eglington, the school mistress, presided, and excellent order she kept. The children were divided into six or seven classes, sitting on forms arranged in squares. I was very proud when first allowed to have a class. The elder girls sat in the gallery and sang, the others had forms in the chancel and were under Miss Beau- mont's eye. The boys were grouped on forms round the font in charge of old Johnson the Sexton, commonly called, Sire Johnson.

He had a peeled ash stick and it was frequently heard on the head of a boy who was misbehaving. Brereton was the Vicar then. He was considered one of the best preachers in the neighbourhood and our church was always well attended, all the families living at the Mendham part of Harleston driving down every Sunday. Brereton, that summer, took duty at St. Cross and Homersfield, for Mr.

Rose, the Rector, who was away we generally drove Mr. Our church was opened the following winter, and the preacher at the morning service was Mr. The Bishop Pelham preached in the afternoon. It was quite a gala day in Mendham, the Weybread choir assisted in the singing and Mr. Bryant played the organ, " About this time a great revival took place in Church Music, and several villages round here joined the Diocesan Choral Association, which provides trainers, and we had a Mr.

Honifold to instruct our Choir, also Fressingfield, Metfield and Weybread. I think I first played the organ in , the old finger organ. In we had the present organ erected by Bay ton of Ipswich. The opening was a grand affair, Mr. Hemstock of Diss being the organist, and Archdeacon Groom the preacher. Elborne, Mrs. Shearing's daughter, used to play when she came over, and wonderful effects she got from the instrument.

She taught me a great deal. I played the first Sunday after it was opened and for several Sundays, and I had already had lessons and was taking morning service at St. John's, Harleston, for which I -was paid 15 per annum by Mr. As I have said before, Mendham church was very popular, young men from Harleston walked down in the afternoons, and a full church was the rule now it is sad to see the empty benches.

In those days it was not considered respectable to stay away from Church, most of the farmers went in the mornings, and they congregated at the chancel door, all wearing top hats, for their gossip, filing in at the last minute. Everyone contributed to the commissariat department, bread, butter, cakes, fowls, sweets etc for the supper, and everybody was happy. The old women and mothers were invited, and one standing event was old Mrs. Feaviour's song and polka, she was a wonderful old body.

She lived in the cottage down the drift to the Walsham Hall Marshes 65 years and was famous for her garden and fruit. The produce she used to make pay her rent. The people here live to a great age there are several now over ninety. Sometimes it was fastened with a long, light chain ; sometimes it was free.

It was not a small monkey, and was looked upon as an amusing curiosity rather than a pet. When free, it turned up anywhere: in the cherry-trees after the ripe fruit, or swinging aloft in the tops of the weeping ash-trees on the lawn. I see it being pursued in the house, where it got to the top of a four-poster bed with an apple.

Only Saxby the groom was able to handle it, although one hot Sunday I saw my father throw it in the river to show a visitor how it could swim, which seems to me, now, an unkind act. I recall to mind a scene in the stables Saxby trying to catch the monkey it must have been a female, poor thing. It was sitting on the back of a rugged- up horse, embracing two newly-born, mewing kittens. Below was the mother cat, as helpless as the groom.

Each time he tried to catch the monkey, it sprang from the horse's back to the loose- box partition, and on again to the next horse and next partition, and finally up to a beam above, where it was left to console itself with the kittens. I was really afraid of the monkey, even when it was fastened up. One day as I went into the stables it tried to reach me at the end of its chain. There was I yelling with fear by the corn-bin, the monkey on its hind feet pulling at its chain and not quite able to clutch my legs.

I remember Saxby appearing and sending it flying with a half-filled bag of chaff. There were more escapades, and finally, after getting into the maids' bedroom and scaring them out of their wits, my mother said she wouldn't have a monkey on the place, and it was given away. On summer days, driving past its new home, we could see it sitting on a barrel placed on a tall post on the lawn.

Poor monkey! I think of it now with pity. No pity was in our hearts then ; we were too young. We had a nanny-goat, too, which had a black stripe down its back. The goat pulled us in a little four-wheeled cart. We seemed to take it as part of our life, and thought little of it. I don't even know when we last used it. But I have painted goats since, in gypsy pictures, and have wished I had paid more regard to that kind creature which used to pull the youngest of us about, with the governess walking.

Of course we had tame rabbits, but I wasn't keen on them. I always wanted to ride the white pony Merrylegs. If two of us went with him we both rode on the pony, one behind the other I being always in front, for I hated the round edge of the brim of my brother's straw sailor hat scratching my forehead.

What quarrels we had over such rides! In those days there was a post on Sunday mornings, but no delivery. I often rode to Harleston, two and a half miles away, with the stiff brown-leather post-bag, for the letters. I was so small that if I got off the pony I couldn't get on again, and so I used to sit in fear of heaven knows what, until someone in the post office saw me and brought out the letters. I was six years old then, and adored that pony.

When my father finally took to driving fourteen-hand ponies, I ventured to ride them as I grew bolder, never telling quite all that happened. Yet I stuck to it in spite of being chucked off again and again. I was told never to let go the reins, and so more than once I was dragged along on my stomach on the miry lanes. The job then was to mount, for those ponies were full of corn.

They did a big mileage, my father often attending six different markets a week, some of them a long way off. Monday Eye, fourteen miles. Tuesday Halesworth, fourteen. Wed- nesday Harleston, near by. Thursday Bungay. Friday Diss, about eleven. Saturday Framlingham, seventeen. And now and then he went to Norwich, twenty miles. These journeys were not always direct, and he drove according as his business lay. Once I remember I had been despatched in haste to catch a waggoner who had started at six in the morning with his load and had forgotten his delivery bills or tickets.

All went well until I was nearing the village of Metfield, when Jack, the black pony I was riding, suddenly made something an excuse to take me home. We fought until he reared and backed into a ditch and I lost the reins, for he walked all over me! As you can't hurt a boy often, I crawled out and followed the brute, weeping.

I was ashamed of myself, and all mud from head to foot. Then, suddenly, through an open gate leading into a ploughed field, I saw that rascally pony with dangling rein trotting across to a ploughing team. The ploughman stopped his horses and hid himself behind them, and as my pony came up to smell his horses he quietly stepped out and took the reins. That incident is plainly engraved on my mind.

The cold, raw day; the heavy clay of the furrows; my pony a smart, clipped-out black, a mouse colour we know so well his ears pricked, smelling the 30 AN ARTIST'S LIFE patient team; the wise, kind farm-hand in his weather-stained corduroys, sack on shoulders, coming out and taking charge, waiting for me to come up.

The clay on my boots weighed me down so that I was breath- less and all but weeping again as I approached. The ploughman helped me to clean off those heavy masses of clinging clay, lifted me once more into the saddle and sent me off. I often wonder who that kind son of the soil was. As a horseman, his wages then would be eleven shillings a week. My next fear as I got to the gate was whether Jack would try to take me home; but I was ready for him with my stick and fear of what my father would say if I didn't get those bills to the waggoner ahead, and I had the brute going full split before he had time to think.

When I caught the waggoner some miles ahead he looked me up and down. I was covered in mud, and hated him to know I'd been off. My mother protested in vain against me riding that pony, but my father's word was law and I had to go. Too much corn was the trouble. Another black pony which I liked riding because he had no guile in his make-up was Hero. Many horses and inns long ago were named after Nelson.

He was a larger pony, and I felt myself a great horseman when astride Hero, and used to hope that I looked a wonderful boy to those I met on the road. I always took a secret peep at myself in the shop windows at Harleston. The favourite and best pony of all was a Welsh bay with small pointed ears and a white streak on her face. Her name was Fanny, and she lasted on until she was nearing thirty, and for many years pulled my mother about in her four-wheeler at a sober pace.

This well suited the dogs which were part and parcel of the turnout, as it gave them time to hunt every field and fence by the roadside and catch up again and resume the gait with one hind leg carried, a familiar and inexplicable way of dog movement. This sweet little mare lived on, so that years later when I went home for my holidays from Norwich, full of ambition to show other students at the School of Art how I could paint, I used to have her held, not allowing my mother to go out in the four- wheeler.

My mother had to give in, and why not? I was shut up in a lithographic place of business all the year, with one fortnight's holiday in August, and here was my chance. After I was twenty and had left my lithographic work, I was still using the same pony as a model in pictures. There is only one. When I did go I was so frightened at the traffic that I daren't cross a street. The years went by with the same games and doings for the various seasons.

Bows and arrows in the spring, when the tall dead reeds were right for making arrows, on which we fitted elder arrow-heads, and we played marbles and had tops and whips. There certainly was an art in the making of those wonder- ful tops with their toe of metal usually a shoe-maker's stud nail. I had a famous one, and thought a lot of it, and could even draw its exact pattern to-day.

But what of drawing and painting? How can I tell when I first began to draw? I do know that on Sundays we either looked through the largest scrap-album that ever was, or, when tired of that, begged father to draw. He always drew horses. Our drawing was done on the inside of used envelopes cut open.

My elder brother was always drawing, too. I remember being so jealous of a pencil copy that he had made of " A Yellow-hammer and its Nest ", which I saw pinned above his bed, that I viciously rubbed it all over with a wet finger and destroyed it. I was punished for this and sent to bed. I see myself drawing the "Jovial Huntsmen " after Caldecott, in all sorts of adventures sometimes even at sea.

The number of these cut-open envelopes increased, and everybody friends, the parson and all were shown these attempts while I stood by. I shouldn't say I was proud, or bashful, or that my work depended on their judgment. For, like all children, I drew as I might have played a game, until, to make a guess, I may have been seven or eight. Then I went twice or more a week for drawing lessons at the vicarage under Miss Kate Brereton, a daughter of the parson.

I forget when they ended; but at some time after this I began drawing the trace-horses, taken from the farmers 5 waggons which came with four-horse loads of wheat to the mill. They were tied to the white meadow gate in front of our house windows, while the shaft-horses pulled the waggon under the lukem platform, and the sacks of corn were unloaded, being drawn up by a bright, shining chain from the waggon. Early waggons would sometimes arrive in front of the dining- room window as we were at family prayers.

Springing up, leaving us there, maids and all kneeling against chairs, my father went through the glass door into his office for the sample of wheat bought at market. Then, through the window, we saw him put his foot on a spoke of the front wheel of the waggon, mount the shaft, open the first sack and compare the wheat with the sample. This having been done, he climbed down with the words, to the waggoner, " Alright, Cocky.

Often there were several waggons with grand teams of horses, their manes and tails done up with red and blue or yellow ribbons and straw plaiting. The journey to the mills with the corn was, next to harvest, the event of the year on a farm. The teams of chestnut Suffolk Punches with brass-mounted harness from Lord Huntingfield's farms were a magnificent sight.

Sometime after harvest, when the wheats were threshed out, a long line of horses and waggons reached all the way up the lane and round the corner, for over a quarter of a mile. The wheat was shot into the large bins in the upper stories of the mill, until there seemed to be no space left for more yet more went in. What beautiful flour and wheat meal we used in the house then ; and what home- made brown loaves we ate, with the most perfect butter, salted exactly as it should be.

I could shed a tear now at the thought of the indescribable flavour of both. Chestnut trees stood along the south side of the lane, and horses from the foremost lot of waggons were tied underneath them. The more the waggons the longer the horses had to wait, and I remember the great amount of brass on the harness.

Two men were with each waggon as a rule, the wheat, in many cases, coming long distances fifteen or more miles. I can smell the sweet, curious scent of the horses in the lane now : a scent of pastures coming through the pores of their skin.

A glorious smell, the very opposite to that of petrol. My first sale, I believe, was a pencil drawing of a trace-horse f'". My mother with thirty-year-old bay pony Fanny and the dog Friday. Photograph ofMendham Mills, showing lukem platform for unloading sacks of com.

Sewell, who lived at Alburgh, in a pretty and well-kept house with geraniums in the flower-beds. He saw this drawing when calling one day and gave me five shillings for it. Could I ever forget that? Of course it went into my money-box. Sewell wore a half-crowned high hat, was sallow and dark, with a trimmed beard and shaved upper lip. He had a straight, firm mouth and dark brown eyes, rather sad.

He wore a light pepper-and-salt overcoat with a rose in his buttonhole, and drove a very nice horse in a very clean, low gig. My father often took me to call at his house at Alburgh, between Harleston and Bungay. I can only recall that Mrs. Sewell wore a lace cap and satiny clothes and ear-rings. She was a kind body. But I must not forget the feature of our home of our lives the river.

In summer and winter alike this was really our true playground, and great happenings were enacted upon its. As we grew older, devouring the works of Feni- more Cooper and Rider Haggard, reading of pirates and bush- rangers, our adventures took us about, up and down stream.

In between I revelled in drawings of Indians on mustangs, trappers and scalp-hunters. One large coloured pencil drawing was of Indians attacking a fort, the air being filled with flying tomahawks and arrows. Our imagina- tions turned this old boat into a wonderful craft. We not only, made a mast and sail; we put heavy flint stones in the boat for ballast, and to do this stripped a rockery on which blue peri- winkle grew. And there was trouble with those rockery stones!

Imagine us in a strong March gale, with bending mast, stayed by a taut, stolen linen line, with straining, bulging sail, roaring down the long reach of river, leaving a wake on either side like that of a steam launch. The wake as it followed fast lapped over each bank. We sped onwards to the end, which was the overhanging bough of a great tree at the bottom of the orchard. The crash "was frightful as mast and sail fell, while we were thrown on our backs by the impact.

How often each one of us fell in the river and escaped drowning I cannot say, but such adventures were rewarded with a thrashing. Then we were sent to bed, no longer skull-and-crossbone pirates, but mere misunderstood, unhappy boys. But who can beat the spirit of youth? Or even begin to understand it in all its phases? When shoals of cut water-weed lay against cc the rack ", as we called it, which stretched across from bank to bank above the weir and kept all floating weed from going down to the mill, we fished for perch from that old boat, gazing down into the dark amber depths as the worm swung in the current below.

We fished for roach and dace, we found moorhens' nests with their eggs, and in the reeds, small nests of reed warblers. Their continual song was a back- ground to our frolics and adventures. Moods for outdoor games and adventures came with the seasons. Ice, snow and floods forgotten; spring in the air; marsh dykes alive with spawning frogs ; marsh marigolds along the river bank; pale, dead reeds bright in the sun reeds for arrows Choosing the straightest and strongest of these strong as walking-sticks and putting a piece of sharpened elder on the end, we made them into arrows.

On our way to school, the steep, clay sides of a hill, grown with thickets of ground elm, was our place for selecting and cutting bow-sticks. During the weeks before Easter we became expert makers of bows and arrows which were no mere toys. The serious craft we practised was handed down from boys of the past. A good bow shot a big distance, and what exercise and excitement were ours as we stalked the yards, measuring the shot across the meadows, with, in our mind, the exact spot on the clay hillside where the particular elm-stick had been cut for the bow.

Through March weather there was kite-making and kite- flying, an outdoor game as old as the rest. To have the strongest, lightest, and biggest kite was the aim of every boy who flew one. Our kite-making became a nuisance. Paste had to be made in the kitchen, goose-wings for putting on the paste were taken, newspapers and scissors were taken, an empty room at the top of the house was taken, where large scientific kites were designed and made with paper and paste, under the guidance of a mill- hand who knew all about the length of tails and balance.

Rear- ing and straining in the wind, a large kite would at last be sent off, the string paid out faster and faster; the kite unsteady, making fantastic dives in the air. The mill-hand would say, "Wants more tail". At last the kite was balanced, and soon we were watching it, a speck of light in the sun, far up against dark clouds, taking more and more balls of string, until we could beg no more money to get it at the village shop, or if we had the money, the string ran out.

The days come back to me. The frantic haste in paying out the string as it soared in a stronger breeze, we gazing at it reaching " height above unknown height ". On the meadows men with horses harrowing and rolling, moving slowly across and back ; making wide, velvety tracks on the sunlit grass, as the custom had been on all Good Fridays ever since I could remember.

Whitsuntide followed, with the willows in fresh, new green; and we made our yearly walk to South Elmham Priory. Fences and thorn-trees white with May blossom. The marshes, as far as you could see, one blaze of buttercups ; and daisies, as well as buttercups, covered the home pastures. There were horse shows in small towns, where flags festooned the streets.

A large flag flew from the church tower as the bells rang out all the afternoon, their sound mingling with the neighing of mares and foals in the show-ground. Tents with lunch or tea and a strong, sweet scent of trodden grass, while a band played waltzes and old tunes, instead of an amplifying van with records.

Hay-making time came round too quickly. All hands were called in for this, for my father made good hay. There were the rows made by the drag-rake, the cocks, the carting, the creaking of the waggons, and the making of large stacks in the stackyard.

Tall poles stood at each end of the stack-in-making, so that at night the stack-cloth was stretched across. The cleared hayfields still scented the air as we played cricket on the pitch now open to us. Later, I remember, there was in the old, tarred boathouse above the mill a new, varnished boat from Beccles.

It was a good stiff boat, with plenty of room in the stern. My mother's great joy was a picnic, and as we now had one boat above the mill and one below, we could go either up or down the river to the scene of our spread. If I were in the bows, I trailed my fingers in the tepid, soft water, plucking up the yellow lilies from their stubborn hold, looking down into the clear current with waving weeds below. Homewards again, with cattle standing above on the meadow, their reflections showing below the line of water-moss bordering banks grown with forget-me-nots and scented with meadowsweet.

The clatter of oars at the finish, the getting out tea-things and baskets, the chaining-up of the boat and the lap of water in the boathouse as the last one steps ashore. All these memories of the river crowd thickly in my mind. On warm days scents came from raspberries and a still richer aroma from black currants hanging in dark clusters where startled blackbirds flew away with a full-throated cluck! Down the stream by the mill were wooden steps, with a handrail to the water's edge, where men filled buckets of waterfor the horses in the stables.

The sound of the mill was the background to our dreams. An old chorus song which came long before " After the Ball ' , and was sung with sentiment and feeling, runs in my head now: " The Old Rustic Bridge by the Mill " : Beneath it the stream gently ripples; Around it the birds love to trill. And though now far away. Still my thoughts fondly stray To the old rustic bridge by the mill.

Hot days in July and August, and bathing. Learning to swim on bundles of bulrushes. I recapture the smell of the river as we revelled about in our depth where there was a gravel bottom. Our diving grew wonderful in deeper water. Fast-running dives we took, and if any watcher were there, how we loved showing off! For tea we had small, brown loaves, sometimes a new ham, eggs, jam, beautiful butter, buns and cake, all home-made, the work of our good mother.

When everything had disappeared, more took their place next day. I give here an extract taken from a diary written later by my mother on Sundays over a period of a few years : " I have been reading Longfellow's verses c The Rainy Day ' it is typical of my feelings. At times the loneliness and sense of loss overcome me, and I thinkWhat use is Life?

But no doubt there is still something left for me to do. The daffodils are in full bloom ; as I stand near dear little Joe's grave beneath the ash trees, I live over again the happy times we passed in their shade, the summer tea- parties, when I lay there so many days on my sofa.

In the years to come, when Mendham is only a memory, I know they will all look back to the happy summer afternoons and talk about them, perhaps, when I am in my grave. Writing of graves reminds me, that before church this morning, I sat on the wall by the old floodgates, and made a wreath of daffodils and ivy which I placed on my mother's grave when I went to church. The service was not, to my mind, refreshing or peaceful.

I love the rest and quiet and leisure to stroll about with no duties calling me indoors. The cows are doing well. I had a brood of chickens off this morning and watched them basking in the sunshine. After breakfast, I wandered across the north meadow and leaned over the rails at the ford musing on the past and all the happy holidays I made for my children; the big bakings, the merry tea table round which they all assembled on Christmas Eve. Sometimes an Australian cousin from Cambridge, with a tenor voice, came to stay with us ; and he brought with him once for a vacation the great Figgis, winner of the Lightfoot scholarship, and afterwards a famous historian.

He it was who gave me Longfellow's " Hiawatha " and other books of poems to read, so starting me off with a love of poetry which has given me great happiness ever since. Inspired by Longfellow I did a water-colour of a sunset sky reflected on the floods and wrote underneath : Can it be the sun descending O'er the plain of level water? Or the Red Swan floating, flying, Wounded by the magic arrow, etc. I gave it as a birthday present to my mother, who used to read " Hiawatha " aloud to us, which infected us with sweet melancholy.

If ever a man was a hero, our cousin Stanley from St. Catherine's College was one. He expounded " Hiawatha ". I hear him now reciting the lines : And the rushing of great rivers Through their palisades of pine trees. He wandered far across the marsh with a gun, always hoping to shoot a heron.

He declared to us that when at last he did hit one, he saw it turn round and pick the shots out of its behind. There was not a marsh dyke he couldn't clear, and we followed often with a splash. Let me keep yet awhile to the seasons of my youth; the autumn days, of which Longfellow wrote. The elms and the maples along the hedgerows changing to bright yellow. Rich, dark ploughlands with yellow leaves scattered over the headlands where plough teams came and turned, the ploughman at the handle with line and guiding voice, " Come here, whoa; get on, Diamond ".

An alder or poplar here and there traced the course of the yellow flow of the stream as it grew swifter and stronger, like a broad moving floor nearing the weir, and, farther on, the floodgates. The floods were a great adventure while they lasted. How sure was I that I could paint all this sky and water! What pictures I set out to do!

There are yet the frosts and snow to tell of, which were often the cause of floods and which lasted for weeks and weeks together. Lanes drifted up level, and there were snow-ploughs with horses and men who were given hot, mulled beer to drink. Then a thaw, followed by floods and more frosts and hosts of folk all skating.

Some skating and pushing others on chairs; some cutting figures on the ice; skating all hours of the day and in the moonlight. Sharp, hard, sparkling frosts, and a church cold in spite of stoves on a Sunday. In the mornings, our towels, like Mr.

Jorrocks's, were frozen stiff, and the water in the ewer was a block of ice. As we lay in bed we heard the bang of cracking ice on the river, and hated getting up and going to school. During these passing years we three brothers had, one by one, left the wings of a governess and walked daily to a grammar school, two miles away, at Redenhall.

We liked the walk, carrying our satchels ; loitering if early, hurrying if late. We liked that school with its head master, Christopher C. He made history interesting to us. He encouraged me to draw.

We had football and cricket, and a drill sergeant, a bathing-pool and lessons in swimming, at which I won a prize for swimming in the best style. We had canings and Speech Days and we were happy. We even liked the French verbs. In these days of school and home lessons we nevertheless had evenings of reading during the winter. We pictured the storming of Torquilstone, seeing Framlingham Castle in our minds.

We saw forest glades of oak, and deer sheltering in the bracken. When we drove to Norwich a long journey our mother always went to a bookshop for Scott's novels. One in par- ticular she determined to find Count Robert of Paris. It was the period I wished to read about. She wore a gold-laced, three-cornered hat, and when, many years later, I was staying at Chantilly with Baron Robert de Rothschild and saw some of the French hunting-women wearing the same sort of hat, my mind at once went far back to the days when I used to picture Diana Vernon on her horse in Rob Roy.

A glow on her cheek, a light in her eye, her brown hair clubbed and tied behind with a broad black ribbon. Then came The Woman in White, and The Moonstone two thrillers ; and once when my elder brother was reading, or stum- bling along through an intense period in the former, my father, who was a good reader, snatched the book from him and went on himself, trembling with impatience and wrath at the incom- petence of his son.

The famous old book, Frank Fairleigh, should not be left out. I have not forgotten it, and never shall, for we lived through all those adventures in many happy hours of reading. Yet another was The Count of Monte Cristo, which for some reason it may have been later days we read to ourselves.

It would be impossible to say which book made the evenings at home in that lamplit room the most alluring. Shall I say Pickwick? My father read it to us, and no one else, for he cer- tainly could read Dickens, and he was practised through having in his younger days been in great demand at popular, penny readings held in country districts long ago.

Before beginning to read, he always polished his spectacles with a large, coloured silk handkerchief. With his silvering hair, his left hand usually supporting his forehead, as he turned the leaves of the book with his right, he was a picture, sitting at the table, the shaded lamp throwing its light over him and upon the book and part of the green tablecloth.

To increase the light on the page, a pair of upright candlesticks stood on either side of him. My mother, wearing a lace cap, sat by the table sharing the light; always sewing or mending, while we sat round the fire, or lay on the hearthrug with the; dogs. Weller," my father would read, holding back his bottled-up enjoyment of what he knew was coming, and as he read on, before he could get through Mr. Weller's following remark, tears of laughter would be dimming his sight.

The spectacles would be pushed up to his forehead and yet again he had to wipe his eyes with the silk handkerchief and again polish the spectacles. Pickwick lived supreme then, even as he does now, although I admit to having read Mr. Sponge's Sporting Tour more often. My father's reading of Dickens was at its best when he gave us the story of the bagman's uncle with the vixenish bay mare in the clay-coloured gig with the red wheels.

To hear him doing this was a thing to remember a youthful experience which, with the lamplit scene in the room, will never fade or grow indistinct so long as I retain one grain of memory. What boys could ever be leading dull lives with a good story going on each night interwoven with their work and play?

A good book makes life a joy. To-day I like reading best of all when, with the pillows well piled behind me at the head of the bed, and then with the reading-lamp at exactly the right angle, I lie in contented concentration of mind, enjoying sen- tences, descriptions, dialogues.

I am reading Ask Mamma now, by Surtees, and am the happier for knowing that Sir Moses Mainchance and Billy Pringle are upstairs waiting for me to-night. But to my story. How many there are who did not in early days fully appreciate and understand a well-meaning father. Ours was a character, and in many ways he was misunderstood. I never made a friend of him until later in life, and then, alas! Yet how kind and indulgent he was, in spite of the collects we had to learn, and the tasks he set us in the holidays ; in spite of having to sit through the long, dull services, hearing him reading from the Book of Kings, or Revela- tion, or about Jehu, or Ahab and horses and chariots.

One Sunday, at the mid-day meal called dinner, not lunch cold sirloin and horse radish, tart and cream my mother said, "John, I wish you would not work yourself up so, as you did in the lesson when you came to the Agony in the Garden ". How old was our father when we were very young and he used to come home cheerful; when he had driving accidents; when our mother " When my father came to see us on my fourth birthday ', bringing with him a beautiful toy horse.

This is a drawing done two years later and preserved by a fond mother. Seepage Early water-colour of my mother's pony Fanny, done at the age of nine. Trial by Combat. Inspired by the tournament at Ashby-de-la-fyuche in Ivanhoe. Knights Templar coming to the rescue.

Standard-bearer engaged. Drawings sent home from school in letters. Express boy exchanging horses. A sketch inspired by Wild West stories.

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