The dealer in his trap—­his name painted in white letters on the shaft—­pulls up his quick pony, and sits askew on his seat to read.  He has probably seen it before in the bar of the wayside inn, roughly hung on a nail, and swaying to and fro with the draught along the passage.  He may have seen it, too, on the handing-post at the lonely cross-roads, stuck on in such a manner that, in order to peruse it, it is necessary to walk round the post.  The same formal announcement appears also in the local weekly papers—­there are at least two now in the smallest place—­and he has read it there.  Yet he pauses to glance at it again, for the country mind requires reiteration before it can thoroughly grasp and realise the simplest fact.  The poster must be read and re-read, and the printer’s name observed and commented on, or, if handled, the thickness of the paper felt between thumb and finger.  After a month or two of this process people at last begin to accept it as a reality, like cattle or trees—­something substantial, and not mere words.

The carter, with his waggon, if he be an elderly man, cries ‘Whoa!’ and, standing close to the wall, points to each letter with the top of his whip—­where it bends—­and so spells out ‘Sale by Auction.’  If he be a young man he looks up at it as the heavy waggon rumbles by, turns his back, and goes on with utter indifference.

The old men, working so many years on a single farm, and whose minds were formed in days when a change of tenancy happened once in half a century, have so identified themselves with the order of things in the parish that it seems to personally affect them when a farmer leaves his place.  But young Hodge cares nothing about his master, or his fellow’s master.  Whether they go or stay, prosperous or decaying, it matters nothing to him.  He takes good wages, and can jingle some small silver in his pocket when he comes to the tavern a mile or so ahead; so ‘gee-up’ and let us get there as rapidly as possible.

An hour later a farmer passes on horseback; his horse all too broad for his short legs that stick out at the side and show some inches of stocking between the bottom of his trousers and his boots.  A sturdy, thick-set man, with a wide face, brickdust colour, fringed with close-cut red whiskers, and a chest so broad he seems compelled to wear his coat unbuttoned.  He pulls off his hat and wipes his partly bald head with a coloured handkerchief, stares at the poster a few minutes, and walks his horse away, evidently in deep thought.  Two boys—­cottagers’ children—­come home from school; they look round to see that no one observes, and then throw flints at the paper till the sound of footsteps alarms them.