Yonder are two tiny girls, also sitting on a doorstep—one about seven, the other little more than a baby. An inebriated man—can it be the father?—comes along the street and stops in front of them. He wants to get in.
“Git oot o’ t’way!” he shouts to the oldest.
His leg is half lifted as if to kick.
“And thou too,”—this to the baby.
One can easily imagine what sort of a home those poor children have. It cannot be a very happy one.
More pleasant to notice now a window brilliant with flowers, and a clean and tidy woman rubbing the panes.
On and on through beautiful scenery, with peeps at many a noble mansion in the distance. Only the landscape is disfigured by unsightly mine machinery, and the trees are all a-blur with the smoky haze that lies around them.
The country around the village of Birtley is also very pretty. A mile beyond from the hilltop the view is grand, and well worth all this tiring day’s drag to look upon.
Everywhere on the roadside are groups of miners out of work, lying on the grass asleep or talking.
The dust is trying to the nerves to-day; such a black dust it is, too.