II 



WHERE we live, high on the southern moorlands of Surrey, 

 the desolation of winter never seems to reach us / unless, 

 indeed, upon certain days of streaming rains, or weeping 

 mists that rush rapid and ghost-like up the valley, and 

 blot out the world from view. But those days would 

 be dreary anywhere and in any season. 

 Our funny little house, more like an Italian " Villino," per- 

 haps, than anything English, stands high, midway between 

 the rolling shoulders of moor and the green-wooded dip 

 of the valley. And the moor has always colour in it. 

 There are some sunset days when it seems not so much to 

 reflect as to give out rose and purple and carmine. And 

 now in January it is a wonderful copper-brown, with the 

 tawny of dying Bracken and the yellow of young Gorse. 

 And opposite to us a belt of birchwood is purple against 

 solemn green of pine. And the purple and solemn green 

 run right down together to the bright verdure of fields and 

 dells / then up again to moorland, where the fir trees march 

 up once more against the sky. 



There are Larches in these woods, and Oaks, so that the 

 spring tints are almost as wonderful as the autumn. When 

 the Furze and Broom are all guinea-gold on the moor, the 



b 17 



