CHAPTER VIII 



A COTTESWOLD SUMMER BREEZE 



\ yl 7" HEN the summer wind blows softly over 

 * * the western hills, it seems to gather to 

 itself, like the hungry bees, the sweetness of every 

 flower, and to absorb the moist breath of every 

 wood, so that it is permeated with all the odours 

 of this garden of hills. The frequent westerly 

 breeze has already been satiated with the aroma 

 of the sea, having sported on the blue desert for 

 long thousands of miles, rolling the waves onward, 

 and sometimes tossing them aside as though in 

 eagerness to reach our shores and lose itself amid 

 the inland greenery. It has shaken the dew from 

 its misty garments to refresh the thirsty fields. 

 It has embraced the meadow elms stalwart 

 patriarchs on whom so many summers have 



