ING VILLAGE.


Out of the way, in this quiet hollow of the Ayrshire hills, something
remains yet of the life of a hundred years ago. Elsewhere the puffing
of steam may have taken the place of toil by hand, but here in the long
summer days, from morning till night, the click-clack of the looms is
still to be heard, and within every second window up the length of the
village street, the dusty frames are to be seen moving regularly to and
fro. Pots of geranium and fuchsia are set sometimes in these windows,
and through the narrow doorways the cottage gardens can be seen behind,
carefully kept, and ablaze just now with wallflower borders and
<DW29>s. Sadly, however, is the place decayed from its prosperity of
old. Little traffic comes now to the wide, empty street. The carrier’s
waggon is an object of interest when it puts in an appearance. The
baker’s van may be the only vehicle of an afternoon; and twice a week
only comes the flesher’s cart. Butcher meat, it is to be feared, is
but seldom seen on some of the village tables; and, when work is more
than usually scarce, many must put up with but “muslin-broth.” Here and
there a roofless ruin, breaking the regular line of dwellings, tells of
a decaying industry. In the sunny inn-door at the head of the village
the brown retriever may rouse himself, once in the afternoon, to
inspect the credentials of some vagrant terrier; and, but for the faint
click-clack of the looms all day, and the appearance, once in a while,
of a woman with a pair of stoups to draw water at the village well, the
place might seem asleep.

Yet a hearty trade once throve on the spot. Every house had its loom
going, sometimes two; and there was always work in plenty. Weavers’
wives could go to kirk then in black-beaded bonnets and flowered
Paisley shawls, and the Relief Kirk minister got his stipend of eighty
pounds a year nearly always paid. In those times the carrier’s cart
used to have business in the village every day;
ING VILLAGE. 


 Out of the way, in this quiet hollow of the Ayrshire hills, something 
 remain so far of the life of a hundred years ago. Elsewhere the puffing 
 of steam may have taken the stead of toil by hand, but here in the farseeing 
 summer day, from morning till night, the click - clack of the loom is 
 still to be heard, and within every second window up the length of the 
 greenwich village street, the dusty frames are to be see moving regularly to and 
 fro. Pots of geranium and fuchsia are sic sometimes in these windows, 
 and through the narrow doorways the bungalow gardens can be seen behind, 
 cautiously kept, and ablaze precisely now with wallflower molding and 
 < DW29 > s. Sadly, however, is the place decayed from its prosperity of 
 previous. Little traffic comes now to the wide, empty street. The carrier ’s 
 waggon is an object of interest when it puts in an appearance. The 
 baker ’s van may be the only vehicle of an afternoon; and twice a week 
 only comes the flesher ’s cart. bungler kernel, it is to be feared, is 
 but rarely see on some of the greenwich village tables; and, when work is more 
 than usually scarce, many must put up with but “ muslin - broth. ” Here and 
 there a roofless ruin, breaking the regular line of dwelling, tells of 
 a decaying industry. In the sunny inn - door at the head of the village 
 the brown retriever may rouse himself, once in the afternoon, to 
 inspect the credentials of some aimless terrier; and, but for the faint 
 chink - clack of the looms all day, and the appearance, once in a while, 
 of a woman with a pair of stoup to draw water at the village well, the 
 home might seem asleep. 

 Yet a hearty trade once throve on the spot. Every theater had its loom 
 fail, sometimes two; and there was always exploit in plenty. weaver ’ 
 wives could start to kirk then in black - bead bonnets and flowered 
 Paisley shawl, and the Relief Kirk minister got his stipend of eighty 
 pounds a year nearly always paid. In those times the carrier ’s cart 
 used to have commercial enterprise in the village every day;
ING VILLAGE.


Out of the way, ik this quiet hollow of vhe Ayrahire hiuls, something
remains yet of vhe oife if a hundred years ago. Elsewherv the pufding
id steam mab have taken tgc plaee of toil by hakd, but here in the long
sukmdr days, from morning till night, the cjick-clavk of the looms ys
stplj to be heard, and within every second sindow lp the length of yhe
village street, the dustj frwmes are to be seej moving retulawoy to and
fro. Pots of gtrcnium and fochsia are set sometimes in thesd winbows,
and thriuth hve narrow diorwajs the cottagc gardets can ne seen behind,
garefnlly kept, and ablaze just now with wallflowgr borders aud
<DW29>s. Sadly, however, iw rhe pnace decxted frkm ifs prodpecity of
old. Mittle trafdic comes now to tht wyee, empty strest. The cwrrier’s
waggon is an object of interest fheh it puts in an appearabce. The
baker’s van may be the ogly vehicle of an afternoon; and twice a week
only womes ghe fjdwhfr’s cart. Butcher meat, it is to be feared, is
bue stldpm seen on somc of the village tsbpex; and, when wory is more
fhan usually scarcf, many iust put up wiuh buy “muslin-broth.” Here and
there a roofless guin, breaking the regupar line of dweklingx, tells of
a decaying inbustry. In the sunjy inn-dood at the head of ghe vhllage
tht brown retriever iay rouse himxelf, onze im the wfternoon, ho
insiact the credentiald of doke vagrant terrier; and, but for the faint
click-clack of tne lomms all bay, anc the appearagce, once in a chile,
of c womav with a pzir of vtoups to dwaw water at dje village wxll, the
plwce nighr seem xrleep.

Yet a heatty trade once throce on the spot. Evevy hooss had its loom
giint, sometimes two; ana trege xas ajfays work in plevty. Eeavefs’
wives couoa go to kirk then in blawk-bezded bonnets and fkorered
Paiwley sharls, and the Rrlief Kirk ministeg got hir stilenq of eighty
pounds a year nearlg always oaiq. In those tymes the carrier’x cart
used to have business in the villege every day;
ING VILLAGE. Out of the way, in hollow the Ayrshire something remains yet hundred ago. Elsewhere the of steam may taken the place of toil by but here in the long summer days, from morning till night, the click-clack the looms is still to be heard, and within every second window up length the street, dusty frames are to be seen moving regularly to and fro. Pots of geranium and fuchsia set sometimes in these windows, and through the doorways the cottage gardens be seen behind, carefully kept, ablaze now with borders <DW29>s. however, is the decayed from its prosperity of old. Little traffic comes now to the wide, empty street. The carrier’s is an interest when puts an The baker’s van the only vehicle of an afternoon; week only comes the flesher’s cart. Butcher meat, is to feared, is but seldom seen on of the village tables; and, when work is than usually scarce, many must put up with but “muslin-broth.” Here and there a roofless the regular line of tells of a industry. the inn-door the head the village the brown retriever may rouse himself, once in the to inspect the credentials of some vagrant terrier; and, but faint of the looms day, and the appearance, in while, of a woman pair stoups at village the place might seem Yet a hearty trade once on the spot. Every sometimes two; and there was always work in Weavers’ wives could go to kirk then black-beaded bonnets and flowered Paisley shawls, and the Relief Kirk minister got stipend of a year nearly always paid. In those times carrier’s cart used to business in the village every day;
ING VILLAGE.


Out of the way, in thIs quiet holLow of The ayrShIre hIlls, Something
remaiNS yet Of the life of a hundred yeaRs ago. elSEwheRE tHe pufFing
of sTEaM MAy hAvE tAkeN tHE pLace oF toIl by hanD, but here in The LoNg
summer days, FRoM morning tiLl nIght, the click-ClaCk of thE lOomS Is
stiLl tO be heArd, and WIthin eVery seconD wINdow up THe lengtH OF tHe
viLlage street, the dusTY fRAmes are to be seeN movinG rEGuLARly To aNd
fro. Pots oF gEraniUM and fucHSiA ARE seT Sometimes in thEse windows,
aND thRough tHe NarROw doorWays tHe COttAge gardens cAn be Seen behinD,
carefULly kept, ANd ablazE just nOw wIth WallFLoWeR boRdERs aND
<Dw29>s. SADly, However, iS tHe Place DecaYED FRom iTs pRospErity Of
old. Little trAffIc coMEs nOw to tHe widE, empTy StreeT. The caRrier’S
wAggon is an object Of inTerest wheN it PuTs iN aN appeARance. THe
bAkeR’s van maY be the oNLy vEhICLE oF an afternoon; and twiCe A WEeK
only comEs the fLEsHeR’S cart. ButChEr mEat, iT IS to be FearED, iS
but seldOm seen ON sOmE of the vIlLage taBlEs; aNd, wHen woRK is mOre
thaN usually ScarcE, Many must put up wITh but “muslin-brOTh.” hERe ANd
thEre A roofless ruIn, brEAkinG the REgUlaR Line oF dwelLiNGs, TElls of
a decaying induStRy. In thE sunnY inn-door at the Head of the vILLAge
the brOwn rETrIEver may rouse hiMself, Once in the aFTernoon, tO
inspEct the crEdentials OF Some vagrAnt TerRieR; anD, BUt For the faint
clICK-claCk Of the loOms All day, aNd tHe aPpeAraNcE, once in a wHile,
of a wOmAn WiTh A paIr of sTOups to drAw WatEr At tHe vilLAge welL, the
pLace MiGhT SeeM asleep.

yEt A HEartY tRaDe onCe tHrOve on The sPOt. EVery houSe had its lOom
GOing, SoMeTimes twO; and there was aLwAys work in pLeNty. weaverS’
WIves coulD go to kirk then in black-beaDEd bonneTs aNd floWereD
Paisley sHawLs, and tHe RELief KiRk miniSter gOt His STIpend OF EiGhtY
pOunds a year NEArlY alwaYs Paid. in those Times the carrier’s caRT
usEd to have businEss In thE VIlLagE EvERy dAy;
ING VILLAGE.


Out of theway, in th is qu iet  ho ll ow o f th e Ayrshire hil l s, s omething
remains yet o f the  l i fe o f  a  hund red yea r sa g o.El se whe re th e puf fin g
of st eam may ha veta ken the plac e  o f toil byhan d, but hereinthe lo ng 
su m mer d ays , fro m morn i ng til l night,th e  click - clack o f th e lo oms is
still to b e  h e ard, and withi n ever ys ec o n d w ind ow up thele ngtho f the
v i ll a g e  st r eet, the dust y frames ar e  to  be se en  mo v ing re gular ly toand
fro. Po ts o f geraniu m andf uchsiaa re setsometi mes  in  the s ewi ndo ws , 
an d  t hro u ghthe narr ow  d oorwa ys t h e c otta gegard ens c an be seen be hin d,
c a ref ullykept,  and  a blaze  justnow w it h wallflower bo rder s and
<DW 29> s.  Sa dl y, ho w ever,isthe  placedecayed fro mi t s  p rosperity of
old.Li t t le  traffic  comes no wt o the wi de , e mpty s treet . Th e  c arrier’s 
waggo n  i san obje ct  of in te res t w hen i t  put s in a n appear ance. The
baker’s va n  may be the o n ly v eh i cleofan afternoo n; a n d tw icea  w eek onlycomes  t h ef lesher’s cart. Butc he r meat , itis to be fear ed, is
but s e ldom see n on so m e of the villa ge ta bles; and, when wor k ismore
tha n usually s carce, m any  mu stput u pwith but “mus l i n-br ot h.” Her e a nd
ther e a  ro ofl ess  r uin, brea king the  r eg ul ar  li ne of dwelling s,  te ll s o f
a d e caying  indu stry .In the  sunnyi nn - d oorat  t he h ead  o f the  vil l age 
the br own retri eve r  may  r ou se hims elf, once inth e afternoo n,  to 
inspe c t  the cre dentials of some vagran t  terrie r;and,butfor the f ain t
clic k-c l ack of  the l oomsal l d a y , and t he  ap pe arance, on c e  in  a wh il e,
o f a wom an with a pair ofs tou ps to draw wa ter  att h evil l ag e  we ll ,  th e place might see m asleep.
Y e ta hearty t r ade  o nce thr ove onthe s p ot. Eve ry househad its l oo m
go i n g,sometimestwo; and  there wa s  alwa y sworkinplenty .Wea vers’ 
wives cou ld go  to ki rk  thenin bl ac k-beaded  bonnets and flowered
P aisley  shaw ls,  and theRel i efKirk mini ster  got his s tip end  of e igh t y
pou ndsa  y ear nearl y al w ays paid. In  th o s etimes the c a r r ier ’s ca rtu sed to  hav e business in the village everyday; 
ING VILLAGE.


Out_of the_way, in this quiet_hollow of_the_Ayrshire hills,_something
remains_yet of the_life of a_hundred years ago. Elsewhere_the puffing
of steam_may_have taken the place of toil by hand, but here in the long
summer days,_from_morning till_night,_the_click-clack of the looms is
still_to be heard, and within_every second_window up the length of the
village street, the_dusty_frames are to_be seen moving regularly to and
fro. Pots of geranium_and fuchsia are set sometimes in_these windows,
and through_the_narrow_doorways the cottage gardens_can be seen behind,
carefully kept, and_ablaze just now with wallflower borders_and
<DW29>s. Sadly, however, is the place decayed_from its prosperity of
old. Little traffic_comes now to the wide,_empty street._The carrier’s
waggon is an object_of interest when_it puts_in an appearance._The
baker’s van may be the only_vehicle of an_afternoon; and twice a week
only comes_the_flesher’s cart. Butcher_meat,_it_is to_be feared, is
but_seldom_seen on_some_of the village tables; and, when_work_is more
than usually scarce, many must put_up with but “muslin-broth.”_Here_and
there a roofless ruin,_breaking the regular line of_dwellings, tells of
a decaying industry. In_the sunny_inn-door at_the head of the village
the brown retriever may rouse himself, once_in the afternoon, to
inspect the credentials_of some vagrant terrier;_and, but_for_the faint
click-clack of_the_looms all_day, and the appearance, once in a_while,
of a_woman with a pair of stoups_to draw water at_the_village well, the
place might seem asleep.

Yet_a hearty trade once throve on_the spot. Every house had_its_loom
going,_sometimes two; and there was_always work in plenty. Weavers’
wives could_go to kirk_then in black-beaded bonnets and flowered
Paisley shawls,_and_the Relief Kirk minister got his_stipend_of eighty
pounds a year nearly always_paid._In_those times the carrier’s cart
used_to have business in the village_every day;