It was dreadful to think that such devastating changes
had been made, but it had certainly existed as he saw it in
his mind, and he would inquire of some of the old men in the
place, who would perhaps be able to tell him where his home
had stood thirty years ago.
At once he set about interviewing all the old men he came upon
in his rounds, describing to them the farm tenanted by a man
named Dyson about forty years ago, and by and by he got hold
of one who knew. He listened for a few minutes to the
oft-repeated story, then exclaimed, "Why, sir, 'tis surely
Woodyates you be talking about!"
"That's the name! That's the name," he cried. "Woodyyates-
how did I ever forget it! You knew it then--where was it?"
"I'll just show you," said the old man, proud at having
guessed rightly, and turning started slowly hobbling along
till he got to the end of the lane.
There was an opening there and a view of the valley with
trees, blue in the distance, at the furthest visible point.
"Do you see them trees?" he said. "That's where Harping is;
'tis two miles or, perhaps, a little more from Thorpe.
There's a church tower among them trees, but you can't see it
because 'tis hid. You go by the road till you comes to the
church, then you go on by the water, maybe a quarter of a
mile, and you comes to Woodyates. You won't see no difference
in it; I've knowed it since I were a boy, but 'tis in Harping
parish, not in Thorpe.
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