through the gate with her big basket of early peas, and I felt that disappointed kind of feeling which overtakes one when one has seen an interesting or lovely face in the streets which one is never likely to see again; and I was silent a little.  At last I said: “What I mean is, that I haven’t seen any poor people about—not one.”

He knit his brows, looked puzzled, and said: “No, naturally; if anybody is poorly, he is likely to be within doors, or at best crawling about the garden: but I don’t know of any one sick at present.  Why should you expect to see poorly people on the road?”

“No, no,” I said; “I don’t mean sick people.  I mean poor people, you know; rough people.”

“No,” said he, smiling merrily, “I really do not know.  The fact is, you must come along quick to my great-grandfather, who will understand you better than I do.  Come on, Greylocks!”  Therewith he shook the reins, and we jogged along merrily eastward.

CHAPTER V: CHILDREN ON THE ROAD

Past the Broadway there were fewer houses on either side.  We presently crossed a pretty little brook that ran across a piece of land dotted over with trees, and awhile after came to another market and town-hall, as we should call it.  Although there was nothing familiar to me in its surroundings, I knew pretty well where we were, and was not surprised when my guide said briefly, “Kensington Market.”

Just after this we came into a short street of houses: or rather, one long house on either side of the way, built of timber and plaster, and with a pretty arcade over the footway before it.

Quoth Dick: “This is Kensington proper.  People are apt to gather here rather thick, for they like the romance of the wood; and naturalists haunt it, too; for it is a wild spot even here, what there is of it; for it does not go far to the south: it goes from here northward and west right over Paddington and a little way down Notting Hill: thence it runs north-east to Primrose Hill, and so on; rather a narrow strip of it gets through Kingsland to Stoke-Newington and Clapton, where it spreads out along the heights above the Lea marshes; on the other side of which, as you know, is Epping Forest holding out a hand to it.  This part we are just coming to is called Kensington Gardens; though why ‘gardens’ I don’t know.”

I rather longed to say, “Well, I know”; but there were so many things about me which I did not know, in spite of his assumptions, that I thought it better to hold my tongue.

The road plunged at once into a beautiful wood spreading out on either side, but obviously much further on the north side, where even the oaks and sweet chestnuts were of a good growth; while the quicker-growing trees (amongst which I thought the planes and sycamores too numerous) were very big and fine-grown.

It was exceedingly pleasant in the dappled shadow, for the day was growing as hot as need be, and the coolness and shade soothed my excited mind into a condition of dreamy pleasure, so that I felt as if I should like to go on for ever through that balmy freshness.  My companion seemed to share in my feelings, and let the horse go slower and slower as he sat inhaling the green forest scents, chief amongst which was the smell of the trodden bracken near the wayside.

Romantic as this Kensington wood was, however, it was not lonely.  We came on many groups both coming and going, or wandering in the edges of the wood.  Amongst these were many children from six or eight years old up to sixteen or seventeen.  They seemed to me to be especially fine specimens of their race, and enjoying themselves to the utmost; some of them were hanging about little tents pitched on the greensward, and by some of these fires were burning, with pots hanging over them gipsy fashion.  Dick explained to me that there were scattered houses in the forest, and indeed we caught a glimpse of one or two.  He said they were mostly quite small, such as used to be called cottages when there were slaves in the land, but they were pleasant enough and fitting for the wood.

“They must be pretty well stocked with children,” said I, pointing to the many youngsters about the way.

“O,” said he, “these children do not all come from the near houses, the woodland houses, but from the country-side generally.  They often make up parties, and come to play in the woods for weeks together in summer-time, living in tents, as you see.  We rather encourage them to it; they learn to do things for themselves, and get to notice the wild creatures; and, you see, the less they stew inside houses the better for them.  Indeed, I must tell you that many grown people will go to live in the forests through the summer; though they for the most part go to the bigger ones, like Windsor, or the Forest of Dean, or the northern wastes.  Apart from the other pleasures of it, it gives them a little rough work, which I am sorry to say is getting somewhat scarce for these last fifty years.”

He broke off, and then said, “I tell you all this, because I see that if I talk I must be answering questions, which you are thinking, even if you are not speaking them out; but my kinsman will tell you more about it.”

I saw that I was likely to get out of my depth again, and so merely for the sake of tiding over an awkwardness and to say something, I said—

“Well, the youngsters here will be all the fresher for school when the summer gets over and they have to go back again.”

“School?” he said; “yes, what do you mean by that word?  I don’t see how it can have anything to do with children.  We talk, indeed, of a school of herring, and a school of painting, and in the former sense we might talk of a school of children—but otherwise,” said he, laughing, “I must own myself beaten.”

Hang it! thought I, I can’t open my mouth without digging up some new complexity.  I wouldn’t try to set my friend right in his etymology; and I thought I had best say nothing about the boy-farms which I had been used to call schools, as I saw pretty clearly that they had disappeared; so I said after a little fumbling, “I was using the word in the sense of a system of education.”

“Education?” said he, meditatively, “I know enough Latin to know that the word must come from educere, to lead out; and I have heard it used; but I have never met anybody who could give me a clear explanation of what it means.”

You may imagine how my new friends fell in my esteem when I heard this frank avowal; and I said, rather contemptuously, “Well, education means a system of teaching young people.”

“Why not old people also?” said he with a twinkle in his eye.  “But,” he went on, “I can assure you our children learn, whether they go through a ‘system of teaching’ or not.  Why, you will not find one of these children about here, boy or girl, who cannot swim; and every one of them has been used to tumbling about the little forest ponies—there’s one of them now!  They all of them know how to cook; the bigger lads can mow; many can thatch and do odd jobs at carpentering; or they know how to keep shop.  I can tell you they know plenty of things.”

“Yes, but their mental education, the teaching of their minds,” said I, kindly translating my phrase.

“Guest,” said he, “perhaps you have not learned to do these things I have been speaking about; and if that’s the case, don’t you run away with the idea that it doesn’t take some skill to do them, and doesn’t give plenty of work for one’s mind: you would change your opinion if you saw a Dorsetshire lad thatching, for instance.  But, however, I understand you to be speaking of book-learning; and as to that, it is a simple affair.  Most children, seeing books lying about, manage to read by the time they are four years old; though I am told it has not always been so.  As to writing, we do not encourage them to scrawl too early (though scrawl a