THROUGH FIRS AND HEATHER. 299 



look behind us in the direction whence we came. 

 Low sand-banks are on either side of us, honey- 

 combed with rabbit-holes, those of the pinmire 

 "warmints" of this hungry land. About a mile 

 through these low banks brings us to the firs and 

 heather, and we are quite off the roads. Ragged, 

 stunted firs, that look as if they had had much to 

 contend with before they could grow at all, their 

 stems covered with long grey moss, weird trees torn 

 and ragged, reach mile after mile over hills and 

 hollows, far away into the purple distance. A stiff 

 breeze is blowing, carrying great mountains of silvery 

 clouds, through the deep blue sky. There is a tone 

 of sky-colouring which is seen at this time only, the 

 early spring. But there is only a gentle drowsy 

 hum here, for these stunted firs have no long arms 

 to wave and mourn as the wind rushes through their 

 needles. They are, as a rule, flat-topped, bristly 

 trees, regular hedgehog firs. The heather is low, 

 brown, and stunted, growing in solitary tufts and 

 patches. Small dwarf birches show on any knob of 

 sandy soil that may be about the size of a small 

 table, with just enough twigs in each to make a 

 garden broom of. 



