22 A FIGHT WITH THE WIND 
opinion of the wind, ninety-nine will reply at once: 
" I hate it! " The ludicrous spectacle of a woman 
in a high wind struggling with her skirts, her hat 
and her hair, endeavouring to keep her furbelows 
from flying away, and not to lose her sunshade and 
bag or reticule at the same time, is common enough. 
Ludicrous, I have called it, but it is also repulsive 
and painful, since it forces on us the painful fact of 
women's idiocy; we laugh or smile and are sad. 
Once only in my lifetime have I seen such a thing 
and admired the Spectacle of a woman's contest with 
her old hated enemy, the wind. It was on a brilliant 
spring morning, and I had just left St. Ives behind 
me to walk to Zennor on the Cornish coast. The 
blue sea on my left hand sparkled with whitest foam, 
whilst clouds were flying across the intensely blue sky, 
and the strong wind, which with the sunshine made 
the day so glorious, blew the fresh, sharp, salt smell 
of the sea, mingled with the spicy odours of the 
blossoming gorse, to my nostrils. I came to a point 
where the road is cut across at right angles by a 
narrow stony footpath running from a small farm- 
house on my right, towards the sea, to another farm- 
house on the inland side; and just when I arrived at 
this point I caught sight of a young lady coming from 
the first little house to the second; and as it was a 
strange figure in that rude incult wilderness of rock 
and furze, I stood still at the cross-roads and waited 
for her to come by, so as to get a full and satisfying 
look at her. 
She was of medium height, but looked tall on 
