A SAND QUARRY IN WINTER. 33 



with the river winding through it, and closed in the 

 distance by the black, tree-topped Essex hills. 



As to the wind, it seems scarcely to have made up 

 its mind what to do, or by what name it was to be 

 called, whether Boreas, Septembrio, or Thracias. It is 

 only determined on two points the one that the north 

 should be the leading element, and the other that it 

 had to blow its hardest. 



It is quite a relief to turn into the quarry, as into 

 harbour out of a rough sea, and to be free from that 

 bitter, searching wind which takes away the breath 

 when faced, and, when the back is turned, seems to 

 force its way through all apparel as easily as if the 

 thick overcoat were little more than chain armour. 

 Here in the quarry, what a change is there ! A few 

 flowers still linger in this sheltered spot. The yellow 

 ragwort is plentiful, and a few purple mallow flowers 

 are visible among the green leaves. The soil, however, 

 does not seem to be kindly for mallow, as the leaves, 

 though numerous, are scarcely larger than penny- 

 pieces ; the plant crouches closely to the ground, and 

 the flowers, instead of flaunting some three feet in the 

 air, upborne by a stem like a walking-stick, are nestled 

 among the leaves, and almost hidden by them. Richer 

 colouring than the mallow is, however, there. The 

 entrance to the quarry opens into ' Ragged Robin 

 Lane,'' and there, on the spot where the southern sun- 

 beams can warm and the north wind cannot touch, is 

 Ragged Robin himself, with just one or two rosy flowers 



D 



