104 THE LIFE OF THE FIELDS. 



bud is sleeping and waiting for the spring. A haze 

 lies about the Downs and softens their smooth outline 

 as in summer, if you can but face the bleak wind 

 which never rests up there. The outline starts on the 

 left hand fairly distinguished against the sky. As it 

 sweeps round, it sinks, and is lost in the bluish haze ; 

 gradually it rises again, and is visible on the right, 

 where the woods stand leafless on the ridge. Or the 

 vapour settles down thicker, and the vast expanse 

 becomes gloomy in broad day. The formless hills loom 

 round about, the roads and marks of civilization seem 

 blotted out, it may be some absolute desert for aught 

 that appears. An immense hollow filled with mist lies 

 underneath. Presently the wind drifts the earth-cloud 

 along, and there by a dark copse are three or four 

 horsemen eagerly seeking a way through the planta- 

 tion. They are two miles distant, but as plainly visible 

 as if you could touch them. By-and-by one finds a 

 path, and in single file the troop rides into the wood. 

 On the other side there is a long stretch of open 

 ploughed field, and about the middle of it little white 

 dots close together, sweeping along as if the wind 

 drove them. Horsemen are galloping on the turf at 

 the edge of the arable, which is doubtless heavy going. 

 The troop that has worked through the wood labours 

 hard to overtake ; the vapour follows again, and horse- 

 men and hounds are lost in the abyss. 



On a ridge closer at hand, and above the mist, stand 

 two conical wheat ricks sharply defined — all that a 

 draughtsman could seize on. Still, even in winter there 

 is about the hills the charm of outline, and the un- 

 certain haze produces some of the effects of summer, but 

 it is impossible to stay and admire, the penetrating wind 



