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.