THE CHANGE : A Fantasy of Whitejoot 

 Lane. 



(To J. R.) 



HE was standing at the edge of the strip of 

 wood, quite still, and looking towards the 

 east as though at something far away. 

 No wind was blowing. 



As I approached he did not move, 

 although my feet made a sighing in the 

 long grass. Abruptly he turned. 



" When I was last here, the field swept 

 away, open and free, for many miles. In 

 summer, the wheat grew yellow in the 

 sunshine. Now the houses are nearly to 

 the wood, and the little piece of land left 

 is turned into allotments. But even those 

 are deserted, for they are going to build 

 shortly." 



Dreary patches of decaying cabbages, 

 their leaves sodden and drab, were between 



