170 
LITTLE JAKE 
ON a glorious afternoon in September I stood on the 
old Roman camp-ground, looking on a scene not to 
be surpassed in England. With the exception of 
the crests of two near hills which break the line of 
sight, the view is almost uninterrupted, and extends 
over the weald of Surrey; Sussex, with parts of 
Kent and Hampshire, are in the distance, lost in a 
blue haze. 
Hills and valleys, woods and waters, cornfields 
and farm-houses, with slender church spires here and 
there pointing heavenward, satisfy the eye. In the 
foreground the purple heather in full bloom is mingled 
with the golden flowers of the furze. The whortle- 
berry bushes are getting orange and crimson tints 
mixed with their myrtle-green leaves ; the dewberry 
and blackberry sprays are gorgeous in colouring of 
gold, crimson, pale grey green and warm olive ; and 
the whole is framed in a setting of dark encircling 
firs. A few strips of land quite near are bare ; 
