These ringing noises, which so little accord with the sweet-scented hay and green hedgerows, are caused by the careless handling of milk tins dragged hither and thither by the men who are getting the afternoon milk ready for transit to the railway station miles away.

Each tin bears a brazen badge engraved with the name of the milkman who will retail its contents in distant London.

It may be delivered to the countess in Belgravia, and reach her dainty lip in the morning chocolate, or it may be eagerly swallowed up by the half-starved children of some back court in the purlieus of the Seven Dials.
Sturdy milkmaids may still be seen in London, sweeping the crowded pavement clear before them as they walk with swinging tread, a yoke on their shoulders, from door to door.

Some remnant of the traditional dairy thus survives in the stony streets that are separated so widely from the country.

But here, beside the hay, the hedgerows, the bees, the flowers that precede the blackberries--here in the heart of the meadows the romance has departed.