“Is it a large farm?” I asked, seeking to beguile him with homely thoughts.

“Six ’undred yackers.  Oh yes, I’d plenty to do, and I could turn me hands to most things, though I do say it.  There weren’t a man in the parish as could beat I at mowing or putting a hackle on a rick, though I do say it.  And I could drive a straight furrow too.  Heavy work it were.  The soil be stiff clay, as ye knows, zur.  This Vlemish clay be very loike it.  Lord, what a mint o’ diggin’ we ’ave done in they trenches to be sure.  And bullets vlying like wopses zumtimes.”

“Are your parents alive?” I asked.

“No, zur, they be both gone to Kingdom come.  Poor old feyther,” he said after a pause.  “I mind ’un now in his white smock all plaited in vront and mother in her cotton bonnet—­you never zee ’em in Wiltshire now.  They brought us all up on nine shillin’ a week—­ten on us we was.”

“I suppose you sometimes wish you were back in Wiltshire now?” I said.

“Zumtimes, sir,” he said wistfully.  “It’ll be about over with lambing season, now,” he added reflectively.  “Many’s the tiddling lamb I’ve a-brought up wi’ my own hands.  Aye, and the may’ll soon be out in blossom.  And the childern makin’ daisy-chains.”

“Yes,” I said.  “And think of the woods—­the bluebells and anemones!  You remember Folly Wood?”

He smiled.  “Ah, that I do:  I mind digging out an old vixen up there, when ’er ’ad gone to earth, and the ’ounds with their tails up a-hollering like music.  The Badminton was out that day.  I were allus very fond o’ thuck wood.  My brother be squire’s keeper there.  Many a toime we childern went moochin’ in thuck wood—­nutting and bird-nesting.  Though I never did hold wi’ taking more’n one egg out of a nest, and I allus did wet my vinger avore I touched the moss on a wren’s nest.  They do say as the little bird ’ull never go back if ye doant.”

His mind went roaming among childhood’s memories and his eyes took on a dreaming look.

“Mother, she were a good woman—­no better woman in the parish, parson did say.  She taught us to say every night, ’Our Father, which art in heaven’—­I often used to think on it at night in the trenches.  Them nights—­they do make you think a lot.  It be mortal queer up there—­you veels as if you were on the edge of the world.  I used to look up at the sky and mind me o’ them words in the Bible, ’When I conzider the heavens, the work o’ Thy vingers and the stars which Thou hast made, what is man that Thou art mindful of him?’ One do feel oncommon small in them trenches at night.”

“I suppose you’ve had a hot time up there?”

“Ah that I have.  And I zeed some bad things.”

“Bad?”