102 THE SOUTH COUNTRY 



sides of the Downs are invaded by long stream-like gorse- 

 sided coombes, of which the narrow floor is palest green 

 grass. The highest points command much of earth, all 

 of heaven. They are treeless, but occasionally the turf 

 is over-arched by the hoops of a brier thicket, the new 

 foliage pierced by upright dead grey grass. They are the 

 haunt of the swift, the home of wheatear and lark and 

 of whatsoever in the mind survives or is born in this pure 

 kingdom of grass and sky. Ahead, they dip to a river and 

 rise again, their sweep notched by a white road. 



At the inland end of this river valley is an antique 

 red-tiled large village or small town, a perfect group of 

 human dwellings, as inevitable as the Downs, dominated 

 by a mound and on it a windmill in ruin; mothered by a 

 church at the river's edge. Under the sign of " Ye Olde 



" is a room newly wainscoted in shining matchboard. 



Its altar — its little red sideboard — is symmetrically decor- 

 ated by tiers and rows of lemonade, cherry cider and 

 ginger ale bottles, many-coloured, and in the midst of 

 these two syphons of soda-water. The doorways and 

 windows are draped in white muslin, the hearth filled by 

 a crinkled blue paper fan; the mantelpiece supports a 

 dozen small vases. The oilcloth is new and odorous 

 and bright. There are pink geraniums in salmon-coloured 

 bowls on the table; a canary in a suspended cage; and on 

 the walls a picture of a girl teasing a dog with a toy 

 mouse. 



At the cross-roads is a group of old slated white farm 

 buildings and a tiled farmhouse of brick and flint; and 

 above, at the top of a slope of down, is a grey spire and 

 two orange roofs of cottages amidst a round cluster of 

 trees; the sheep graze and their bells tittle-tattle. The 



