Down the sweet country lane they went, with the willows hanging over them, and the daisies and buttercups and meadow-sweet running riot all over the banks.
Hilda stood up in the cart and pulled off twigs from the willows as she passed under them, and made garlands, which the farmer obediently put over the oxen's necks.

She hummed little snatches of song, and chatted gayly with her kind old host; for the world was very fair, and her heart was full of summer and sunshine.
"And have you always lived here, Farmer Hartley ?" she asked.

"All your life, I mean ?" "No, not all my life," replied the farmer, "though pooty nigh it.

I was ten year old when my uncle died, and father left sea-farin', and kem home to the farm to live.

Before that we'd lived in different places, movin' round, like.