NO MAN'S LAND. 187 



This wild, stone-littered and bramble-covered district 

 in many parts suits the latter bird to perfection. 

 Pheasants also roam far out, so that a good hawk 

 would truss her quarry before cover could be reached. 

 One thing is certain, these stretches of land have for- 

 merly been hawked over, and they may be again. 



It is past three o'clock, and we have still miles to 

 walk before we can find refreshment and rest, which 

 we feel we shall need long before we are likely 

 to get it. I had begun to fear we were missing 

 our way, but familiar landmarks show themselves, 

 which, considering it is twenty years since I last 

 struck on this track, is reassuring. Turning by a 

 thicket a great stretch of level ground is in front of 

 us, and there, a little to the left, is a once famous 

 old race-course. The track is plainly visible, the 

 whole of it, although it has not been used since 

 the old lord's time. There, too, are the remains of 

 ancient posts and rails, shattered into flinders and 

 tatters, which are now only held together by the 

 fungi and lichens that have lived and rooted in the 

 very fibres of the once stout oak timbers. The 

 sun is getting rather low, and all is becoming illu- 

 mined with a weird light, so that the place looks and 



