Old W. met me on the road. He was carrying
a bundle of hazel rods that, from their length, I knew must have come from the heart of a particular copse. He stopped and mentioned that he had been planning to get sticks for various jobs in the garden for a long time. He was not so young as he used to be and it was uncanny how heavy the load became after a mile or so. He moved his bundle, bowing under it like the man in the moon, and went on down the road only to stop again when he came upon someone else he knew. Getting sticks is something of an adventure for the old man. This year, going back to places he had visited regularly since boyhood, he had made a false step or two, for I noticed while he was talking to me that his trouser leg was coated in black mud. No doubt when he reached home he would hear about his carelessness.
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