I withhold
specific geographical information in order that you may not miss that
Columbus thrill, which comes too seldom in a world of railroads.
The Green is in the very centre of Barbury village, and all civic,
political, family, and social life converges there, just at the public
duck-pond--a wee, sleepy lake with a slope of grass-covered stones by
which the ducks descend for their swim.
The houses are set about the Green like those in a toy village. They are
of old brick, with crumpled, up-and-down roofs of deep-toned red, and
tufts of stonecrop growing from the eaves. Diamond-paned windows, half
open, admit the sweet summer air; and as for the gardens in front, it
would seem as if the inhabitants had nothing to do but work in them,
there is such a riotous profusion of colour and bloom. To add to the
effect, there are always pots of flowers hanging from the trees, blue
flax and yellow myrtle; and cages of Java sparrows and canaries singing
joyously, as well they may in such a paradise.
The shops are idyllic, too, as if Nature had seized even the man of trade
and made him subservient to her designs. The general draper's, where I
fitted myself out for a day or two quite easily, is set back in a tangle
of poppies and sweet peas, Madonna lilies and Canterbury bells. The shop
itself has a gay awning, and what do you think the draper has suspended
from it, just as a picturesque suggestion to the passer-by? Suggestion I
call it, because I should blush to use the word advertisement in
describing anything so dainty and decorative.
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