A Traveller in Time Read Online Free PDF

the doorways which led to the stone passages, or the mice racing up and down the wooden panels.
    Above the fire on the broad, whitewashed chimney-piece hung a couple of shining guns, and Ian sat watching them, his fingers itching to hold one of them, to shoot in the fields and woods. In the chimney-corner, on the left of the fireplace, was a circular cupboard, let into the thickness of the wall. Its door was of iron, blackleaded and bright, and upon its surface was a polished brass plate and brass hinges. On the right was a narrow window which looked over the churchyard. At night a curtain was drawn over it, but in the dusk we could see the church and the stackyard, with four great haystacks and the church tower, all huddled together, as if they were talking in the dim light of the stars.
    â€œWho lived here once on a time?” I asked Aunt Tissie, when there was a chance to speak. “Tell me more about the Babington family.” But again, before my aunt could reply, Ian interrupted.
    â€œCan I go shooting, Uncle Barnabas?” he asked. I sighed. I knew he was going to ask that question, from the way he watched the guns, and I couldn’t bear rabbits to be killed.
    â€œYes, my lad. There’s plenty of rats hereabouts. You can get them but you must take care and not shoot your sisters. I’ll give you a lesson, and you can buy your own cartridges from me, to teach you to be careful. Jess shall take you out shooting with him one day. Rabbits want keeping down, but you mustn’t shoot the pheasants. That’s not allowed. Leastways, don’t do it for any one to see, but if you can get one for Sunday’s dinner I shall not say nay.”
    He gave a broad wink, and Aunt Tissie shook her head at him.
    â€œNow, Brother Barnabas!” she cried.
    Ian leapt with excitement, but Uncle Barnabas said: “Sit ye down, lad, and keep quiet. No need to hurry. Nobody touches my guns, nobody at all, neither your Aunt Cicely Anne, nor Jess, nor any one, without my consent and permission, and remember that!”
    Alison was looking at the books in the little hanging bookshelf. They were all old and fusty leather-bound books of sermons and poems, Paradise Lost and Thomson’s Seasons and Pilgrim’s Progress . But it was no use to try to read, the room was so full of exciting things. I could not keep my eyes from wandering round to the copper skimmers and wooden bowls and the rows of horse-brasses with their suns and moons, and the handsome grandfather clock with its brass face and eagle on the top and the lustre jugs and china horsemen. Then Jess, the servant, came in and sat behind us in a corner which was his own reserved seat, like a stall in a theatre, I thought, for he could watch all that went on from his high stool. He took out a knife and started whittling something, and Ian went over to him.
    â€œWhat are you doing, Jess?” he asked.
    â€œJust making a little nobby whistle, Master Ian,” said he, and very soon he had made a whistle out of an elder stick, and we were all asking him to make another.
    From the oven came the smell of hot roast potatoes, and Aunt Tissie opened the door and peeped inside and cracked their skins. She set the table, moving softly and quickly from cupboard to dairy, but everything was done so smoothly that before we knew, supper was ready. Then we sat round the white cloth in the lamplight and ate the big roast potatoes in the way Uncle Barny ate his. We broke them in two, sprinkled salt over them, put lumps of butter in them, and then poured cream into them, and ate them with a spoon. We even ate the crisp, brown skin. We had never tasted anything like this in London, we told Aunt Tissie, and she was pleased.
    â€œThey don’t have cream and butter in London like ours, I’m sure certain. That Jersey cow of ours, little Lusty, she gives rich milk, and I always keep hers for the house. Ours are all fine cows, and every one is a good milker, and I