TRIPPERS A T STONEHENGE 2 1 1 



puce- and purple -coloured clouds floated overhead; 

 the brutal staccato notes of a banjo strummed to 

 the air of a music-hall song stale by some three or 

 four seasons ; a cyclist struck a match on a sarsen 

 stone ; watches were consulted — and the sun re- 

 fused to rise to the occasion. That is to say, for 

 the twelfth time or so consecutively, according to 

 local accounts, the morning was too cloudy for the 

 sunrise to be seen. So, tired and disappointed, all 

 trooped back to Amesbury, the snapshotters disgusted 

 beyond measure, and breakfasted, or refreshed in 

 various ways, according to individual tastes, at the 

 unholy hour of half-past four o'clock in the morning. 

 Those who say that Stonehenge will remain a 

 monument to all time speak without a knowledge of 

 the facts. In reality the larger stones are disin- 

 tegrating ; slowly, perhaps, but none the less surely. 

 They are weatherworn, and some of them very 

 decrepit. Frosts have chipped and cracked them, and 

 other extremes of climate have found out the soft 

 places in the sandstone. Also, modern facilities for 

 reaching such out-of-the-way spots as this used to be 

 have brought so many visitors of all kinds here that, 

 in one way and another Stonehenge is bound to 

 sufter. It is now the proper thing for every one who 

 visits Stonehenge to be photographed by the photo- 

 grapher who sits there for that purpose all day long 

 and every day ; and although there is no occasion 

 for such insane fury, the picnic parties generally 

 contrive to smash beer and lemonade bottles against 

 the stones until the turf is thickly strewn with 

 broken glass. ]\Iodernity also likes to range itself 



