April Glories 



couple more are going eastward, other four 

 are going north and west, your solitary road lies 

 in a southerly direction. All round you are 

 swelling hills, one rising above the other, and 

 the brown heather covering all. Really there 

 is not a landmark, and though you know fairly 

 well where you are and that you are several 

 miles from the road, you have not the faintest 

 idea how to get there. Going with the hounds 

 or your friends means a ride of many miles 

 round, and that is out of the question on a tired 

 horse. So, trusting in your bump of locality, 

 your horse's sagacity, and the chapter of acci- 

 dents, you ask the way of a native — there is 

 sure to be a native to the fore at the end of a 

 moorland run, riding a rough pony that to look 

 at does not seem worth more than a ten pound 

 note — and set off on your journey. 



You are to keep the road you are on for 

 about a mile — the road, bien entendu, being a 

 scarcely perceptible track — then you are to 

 make for a stunted Scottish fir where you get 

 on to an old causeway ; so old that only a stone 

 here and there is to be seen, the rest being 



161 l 



