XIV A RABBIT AUCTION 399 corn remained uncut three rabbits made a simultaneous dash for freedom, and then even the man who was driving the reaper leapt from his seat and joined in the chase. By the time the reaping of the corn was completed half a dozen brace of rabbits were lying on a bank in a corner of the field. Later in the day they were sold "by auction," a cheery old rustic who had, as his mates remarked, "plenty to say for hisself," acting as salesman. Taking up a rabbit by the ears, and holding it towards his companions, who were seated on the bank, he held forth something in this style: "Now then, you chaps, how much for thissun? Billy Hanslip ha' dinged one o' its eyes in, but it's better now an' if a stowt had got it. Billy allus had a way o' overdoin' things; thas how he come to luse his fingers in th' chaff-cutter; worn't it, Billy? Twopence-threepence for thissun. Thas a tidy bit cheaper'n snarin' em an' gitten fined ten bob for trapesin in sarch o'conies, ain't it, Tom? You oughter know. You can shew thissun to th' policeman an' laugh at 'im, knowin' its honest come by. Fowerpence, Jim, goin' at fowerpence; it's yars, bor. Now for this here owd buck. He'd make a fine meal for yar baker's dozen, Tom, bor, and yow could ax me to dinner a Sunday. He's near as big as a hare, an' arter yar missis ha' had a hand at 'un yow ont know th' differs. He's a beauty, he is; an' his lugs ain't far off being as long as yars wor when yow heered th' keeper tell his wife he wor a-goin to Beccles market. Hull us yar frail crome here, Billy; I want suffin to knock 'em down with; rabbits git tew tender for th' money if you knock em' down on a gatepost. Come now, Reub; yow hain't spent all th' change outer that shillun what th' maaster give yow for th' string o' fish what yar boy Ben browt from Yarmouth. They ony had threepence on it at the 'Horse-Shoes,' 'cause you towd 'em as how none but yarself wor dry. No, thank ye, not jist now; but I'll see ye at th' 'Horse-Shoes' to-night. Here's that little 'un what Futs fell on agin th' plantin fence, and what shruck like a pywipe 400 A RABBIT AUCTION CHAP. (peewit) when he killed 'un. Futs ha' flattened 'un out summut, but there's some meat in it yet. Tain't so bad as th' one what Steve Runnacles dragged th' roll over in th' Home Field. Steve said as how ter didn't matter, an' ud ony make it more tenderer. He allers had half a tile off, had Steve; but he could bid a sight smarter'n some o' yow chaps, even sich on yer as make extry shulluns outer boys' fish. Fare to me some on yer must ha' gone off yer feed, or else yer afraid yow ont git much largesse ter year. My arms are beginnin' ter ache good tidily, a-howdin' up rabbits what nobody ont buy. There tree left now. Billy, bor; yow'd better lave 'em at th' shop as yow go tru th' village; maybe Withers can make suffin on 'em, an' we can square up to-morrow. Tell you what, you chaps, sellin' rabbits is a sight drier work an' troshin, though them mayn't believe it what sit nigh th' bottle. Hand un here, Tom, bor, afore there's more wind and wet in it." And that is how the rabbits were disposed of. This strange sale, however, took place in north-east Suffolk, and here I am on the verge of Constable's Country. The district through which I approach it is pleasant enough, but in XIV CONSTABLE'S COUNTRY 401 no way remarkable for its scenery: it is just what you may find bordering a hundred highways and byways in East Anglia. But a little way beyond Bentley White Horse, a quaint old inn which looks as if it intended to get customers by spreading itself half way across the high road, there is a by-road on the left which soon brings me into the midst of one of the most charming villages and delightful districts in England. East Bergholt, like Walberswick, is an artists' village; but unlike Walberswick it has produced a great artist. It seems to have been built to be painted; otherwise its rustic architects would never have designed such picturesque cottages and incomparably delightful creeper-clad houses. For the East Bergholt cottages are unlike most of the Suffolk cottages; they are either roofed with the small red tiles of the eighteenth century, and are overgrown with moss until they are as rich in hue as ancient tree-trunks; or they are overlaid with thatch which nearly reaches the ground, and which curves projectingly over the small-paned windows so that they appear to be surmounted by prominent arching eyebrows. Indeed, half the cottages in the village are so strikingly picturesque that it is difficult to believe that to look so is not the sole object of their existence : nestling in fragrant flower gardens, and with woodbine-garlanded porches, they suggest those picture-book cottages so pleasant to imagine and hard to find. In many respects the place is unique, notably in its church which, charmingly embowered among beautiful trees, not only boasts of having lost its tower through the machinations of the evil one, but has its bells hung in a kind of wooden cage in the churchyard. I have not a chance of hearing the bells rung; but as I pass through the village the air is musical with the chiming of a sweet-toned peal from a convent overlooking the Dedham vale. "I associate my careless boyhood with all that lies on the banks of the Stour: those scenes made me a painter, and I am grateful." So wrote Constable, whose father's water-mill was turned by the waters of that peaceful stream. Presently I shall D D 402 EAST BERGHOLT CHAP. see the mill itself—I have heard that if it were not for an ugly modern chimney shaft it would be an even more charming subject for artists now than it was in Constable's time—but I defy any one, anxious as he may be to arrive at Flatford Mill, to get there quickly if he has never been in its neighbourhood before. First, East Bergholt village will make him forget for a while the chief purpose of his pilgrimage, and he will frequently pause to enjoy its Arcadian delights. Then, the fine old towerless church with its detached bells will detain him. Having Dedham Street. dragged himself away from the church, and entered a narrow by-road near it, he will perhaps imagine that nothing is now likely to hinder his progress towards the mill; but hardly will the thought have come to him than he will be compelled to halt again. For a little way along that shady by-road the loveliest landscape in East Anglia reveals itself. Until I had seen it I imagined there were scenes in Broadland and along the coast road to Wells which might rival each other in claiming that distinction; but having seen the Vale of Dedham I feel confident that their rivalry can only be for a second place in XIV THE VALE OF DEDHAM 403 scenic merit. cannot wonder that Constable spent days and weeks together on the upland heights overlooking this lovely vale. From his earliest days he was familiar with it, but never tired of seeing and painting it, and the more he did so the more beautiful it seemed to him. It has been said that his artistic range was limited, and that he was most successful in depicting the scenery of his native district. The man who could faithfully depict the beauties of the Vale of Dedham had little cause to regret that his range was limited or to long for a wider one. Words cannot convey the charm of this lovely vale. Its beauty is too subtle to be grasped in detail, too various to be described in general terms. Just now, as I lean against a field gate beside the Flatford road, it is full of lights and shades and overhung by slowly drifting clouds. Where the shadows lurk the outlines of the trees and homesteads are hardly definable; even the borders of the fields and pastures are scarcely perceptible; but where the sunlight falls every waterside willow and poplar, every cottage, hedgerow, and farmstead stands out clear and beautiful, each a picture in itself. Subject to the clouds' drift, the swathes of light and shade steal in quick succession through the vale, and presently the tall square tower of Dedham church-so conspicuous a feature of Constable's picture of the vale-reveals itself amid a grove of trees. Around the church lies the village which gives its name to the vale, and beyond it and the slow-flowing river are the Essex cornfields. Go into the National Gallery and look at Constable's "Cornfield" and you will see one of these Essex fields. In the foreground of the picture is a winding lane, beyond which the yellow corn is bathed in sunlight. Through an open gateway you see the corn-stalks bowing before the wind. Beyond the field is Dedham church, which the artist could seldom keep out of his pictures of his homeland. Beside the lane is a brook into which the brambles dip their bending briars, arching from banks where wave the white umbels of |