The weather was so
beautiful it seemed better to spend the time sitting or
basking in the warmth and brightness or strolling about.
At all events, it was a perfect day at Hurstbourne Tarrant,
though not everywhere, for on that third of November the
greatest portion of Southern England was drowned in a cold
dense white fog. In London it was dark, I heard. Early in
the morning I listened to a cirl-bunting singing merrily from
a bush close to the George and Dragon Inn. This charming bird
is quite common in the neighbourhood, although, as elsewhere
in England, the natives know it not by its book name, nor by
any other, and do not distinguish it from its less engaging
cousin, the yellowhammer.
After breakfast I strolled about the common and in Doles Wood,
on the down above the village, listening to the birds, and on
my way back encountered a tramp whose singular appearance
produced a deep impression on my mind. We have heard of a
work by some modest pressman entitled "Monarchs I have met",
and I sometimes think that one equally interesting might be
written on "Tramps I have met". As I have neither time nor
stomach for the task, I will make a present of the title to
any one of my fellow-travellers, curious in tramps, who cares
to use it. This makes two good titles I have given away in
this chapter with a borrowed one.
But if it had been possible for me to write such a book, a
prominent place would be given in it to the one tramp I have
met who could be accurately described as gorgeous.
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