HAUNTS OF THE LAPWING 



I WINTER 



COMING like a white wall the rain reaches me, and in 

 an instant everything is gone from sight that is more 

 than ten yards distant. The narrow upland road 

 is beaten to a darker hue, and two runnels of water 

 rush along at the sides, where, when the chalk-laden 

 streamlets dry, blue splinters of flint will be exposed 

 in the channels. For a moment the air seems driven 

 away by the sudden pressure, and I catch my breath 

 and stand still with one shoulder forward to receive 

 the blow. Hiss, the land shudders under the cold 

 onslaught; hiss, and on the blast goes, and the 

 sound with it, for the very fury of the rain, after 

 the first second, drowns its own noise. There is 

 not a single creature visible, the low and stunted 

 hedgerows, bare of leaf, could conceal nothing; the 

 rain passes straight through to the ground. Crooked 

 and gnarled, the bushes are locked together as if in 

 no other way could they hold themselves against the 

 gales. Such little grass as there is on the mounds 

 is thin and short, and could not hide a mouse. 

 There is no finch, sparrow, thrush, blackbird. As 

 the wave of rain passes over and leaves a hollow 

 between the waters, that which has gone and that 

 to come, the ploughed lands on either side are seen 

 to be equally bare. In furrows full of water, a hare 

 would not sit, nor partridge run; the larks, the 

 patient larks which endure almost everything, even 



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