by
Arthur Quiller-Couch
UR journey opens in Northamptonshire, and in that season when the year grows ancient,“Not yet on summer’s death, nor on the birthOf trembling winter.”In the stubble the crack! crack! of a stray gun speaks, now and again, of partridge-time. Over the pastures, undulating with ridge and furrow, where the black oxen feed, patches of gloom and gleam are..