Fox's Earth to Mountain Tarn 



and there the turf was lifted, and the farm carts 

 bore away the sand, leaving deep or shallow pits. 

 Of such was " Corbie's hole." 



The lark sprang from the turf to carol over 

 the heads of the nut-gatherers, the linnet sang 

 the song of the whins. Far between were the 

 nests, where was space for all. The wandering 

 feet disturbed the sitters. A scream at the rising 

 of the mallard softened into murmurs of delight, 

 as was laid bare a clutch, full as that of the 

 sitting hen at home. Girl hands brushed down 

 the panicles of grass, lest the boys should take 

 the dusky eggs of the moss-cheeper. 



Through the years I hear the plaintive pipe of 

 the golden plover, the wail of the lapwing, the 

 querulous scream of the summer tern ; just as 

 I see the glow of whins, the sheen of the blue 

 seaside butterflies, and the bent girl forms. Ah ! 

 those forms. How charming human nature looks 

 through the haze of distance, how the beauty of 

 it appears. 



The village stood on the north-west corner ; 

 a simple community then, with many unspoiled 

 characters. When trade was slack of an after- 

 noon, the shopkeeper would take down his some- 

 what primitive clubs, to knock the balls about 

 over the untamed course. Golf was an escape 

 from the narrowing influence of barter, an outlet 

 for the sporting instincts cribbed behind the 

 counter, a breezy and healthful element in village 



141 



