ONE MORNING A FEW MONTHS AGO A foreigner under the influence of
an aeroplane descended somewhat hurriedly in a broad and--as he
ascertained--a soft meadow in Nethershire; and while he was picking
up his matches preparatory to lighting his cigarette--he has always a
cigarette in his waistcoat pocket, for a man with a Kodak may be lurking
behind the nearest tree--an agricultural labourer on his way to his work
looked over the hedge at him. The foreign person noticed him, and after
trying him in vain with German, French, and Hungarian, fell back upon
English, and in the few words of that language which he knew, inquired
the name of the place. “Why, Bleybar Lane, to be sure,” replied the man,
perceiving the trend of the question with the quick intelligence of the
agricultural labourer; and when the stranger shook his head and lapsed
into Russian, begging him to be more precise (for the aviator had not
altogether recovered from the daze of his sudden arrival), the man
repeated the words in a louder tone, “Bleybar Lane--everybody knows
Bleybar Lane; and that's Thurswell that you can't see, beyond the
windmill,” and then walked on. Happily our parson, who had watched the
descent of the stranger and was hastening to try if he could be of any
help to him, came up at that moment and explained that he was in
England, where English was, up to that time at least, spoken in
preference to German or, indeed, any other language, and that breakfast
would be ready at the Rectory in an hour.