DRIVING 129 



and you watch on the lower stretch of down opposite 

 how the shepherd guides the sheep, down past the 

 chalk-pit cutting like a white wound in the hill, 

 through the junipers and straggling patches of gorse 

 to the great yew-tree overhanging the gateway, till the 

 flock pours like a stream of oil into the turnip field 

 where they are to feed. A feeling of contentment 

 spreads over you as you survey the great fence of 

 thorn in front of you, so big and thick that a dozen 

 or so of stunted oaks and hollies are almost lost in it, 

 while not a speck of sky shows through till ten feet 

 from the ground. A white butterfly, the last of the 

 year, conies dancing down the stubble, settles on the 

 fence, uneasily flickers over the top, and disappears. 

 Aimlessly you push the safety bolt of your gun up 

 and down as the barrels lie at ease in the palm of your 

 left hand, and lazily you wonder whether that bit of 

 bright red down the fence is an autumn leaf, or a bit of 

 cloth, or what ; and then whether the birds will come 

 to the right or left of the big holly, or over the tall 

 spray of briar which sticks up, still bearing one bright 

 golden leaf, just where the butterfly disappeared ! 



And the butterfly takes you back to the summer, 

 and you dream for a spell. Is it of the big trout you 

 lost in the Test, or is it of the night she looked so 

 heavenly as the diamonds flashed on her white skin 



K 



