THE END OF WINTER 37 



bright and cold, and the sky blue again with white and 

 lofty clouds; many thrushes are singing; the broad vale 

 is all one blue moorland that has buried its houses, and 

 the Downs at the far side are close at hand. Towards 

 evening the wind falls, and it is a glimpse of another 

 world that is given as the sun is warm for a moment on 

 a low curving slope of wet grass, with tall rookery 

 beeches glowing on one hand and on the other bulging 

 white clouds just emerging from behind the green edge 

 into the blue, while very far away the Downs, both grass 

 and wood, are deep blue under a broad pane of yellowish 

 light. 



The north wind makes walking weather, and the earth 

 is stretched out below us and before us to be conquered. 

 Just a little, perhaps, of the warrior's joy at seeing an 

 enemy's fair land from the hill-top is mingled with the 

 joy in the unfolding landscape. The ploughlands brighten 

 over twenty miles of country, pale and dry, among dark 

 woods and wooded hills; for the wind has crumbled the 

 soil almost white, so that a sudden local sunlight will make 

 one field seem actually of snow. The old road follow- 

 ing a terrace of the hillside curves under yews away from 

 the flinty arable and the grey, dry desolation round about 

 the poultry-farmer's iron house, to the side of a rich valley 

 of oak and ash and deepening pastures traversed by water 

 in a glitter. The green fire of the larch woods is yellow at 

 the crest. There and in oak and ash the missel thrush is 

 an embodiment of the north wind, summing it up in 

 the boldness of his form and singing, as a coat of arms 

 sums up a history. Mounted on the plume of the top 

 of the tall fir, and waving with it, he sings of adventure, 



