It will not be long before we come to a village, a row of white
cottages with roofs of red tiles, and outside window-shutters painted
green. In front of each cottage there is a pathway of rough stones,
and a gutter full of dirty water. There are about fifty of these
cottages, of which half a dozen or so have signboards with _Herberg_,
which means public-house, over their doors. The railway passes close
in front of them. A little way back from the road there is a church,
with a clock-tower, and a snug-looking house, standing in a garden,
where the parish priest lives.
Just outside the village we notice a meadow, in which there is a
wooden shed open at one side, with benches in it, and reminding us of
the little pavilions we often see on village cricket-grounds in
England. The part of the meadow just in front of this shed is covered
with cinders or gravel, in the middle of which rises a very high pole,
tapering towards the top, and looking like a gigantic fishing-rod
stuck in the ground. It is crossed, a long way up, by slender spars,
like the yards of a ship, only they are no thicker than a
walking-stick.
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