390 OUTDOOR LIFE IN ENGLAND 



lies before us. It is, however, time to unload and 

 adjourn for luncheon, little less welcome to our- 

 selves than to the beaters, who have had some 

 rough and tough work, and need rest and refresh- 

 ment before encountering that which yet awaits 

 them. 



In the valley the mist lies cold and chill ; the 

 trees have long since paid their last tribute to 

 the autumn gales, and strew the ground in dis- 

 coloured heaps, or swirl slowly round and round 

 in the backwaters of the river-pools. Everything 

 appears damp, dejected, and to have resigned 

 itself to the grasp of approaching Winter. Mud 

 and slush reign supreme in the lanes, and wage 

 war. against all who brave them on foot. The 

 stile-path through the meadows below the church 

 is under water, and the stepping-stones across the 

 brook are no longer visible. Up on the downs, 

 which in the heat and glare of the summer sun 

 looked so brown and parched, the grass is fresh 

 and green, and the firm clean turf bids welcome 

 to all comers. 



I love the downs at all seasons, but never so 

 well as when the autumn skies are blue and the 

 air clear, crisp, and invigorating. Life up there 

 seems life at its best. One feels free and superior 

 to the lower world, with its petty vanities and 

 vexations. All below seems close, stuffy, and 

 narrow-minded. 



Barren and lifeless as the downlands appear in 



