THE DOWNS IN WINTER 39 



top of the down range. The pond just by the 

 Chanctonbury Ring is one of the most out-of-the- 

 way. I wanted to inspect that which so long as 

 local memory serves has always helped itself to 

 plenty of water, taking toll from clouds, dews, 

 and rains. That, however, we w^ere destined to 

 leave unvisited because of the mists — but another 

 sheep-pond, almost as remote from the madding 

 crowd's beats or runs, also ignoble strife, was 

 being decorated, a shepherd's boy heaving stones, 

 lumps of chalk, and bits of turf stubbed out by 

 his heels on to the surface, just thawing for the 

 time. Wonderful, is it not ? 



Holiday we were making and holiday we 

 made, because we were there on purpose, also 

 the best of what we could see between Findon 

 and ever so much farther east. How far east 

 we were when a hawk as big- as an eao^le occurred 

 I won't say, because if I did so much as hint at 

 the locality sportsmen might go to slaughter the 

 creature. The bird may have been a real eagle, 

 his size was so great. A couple of rooks who 

 resented his company as an intrusion were to him 

 or her in like proportion as the little birds who 

 heckle a sparrowhawk are to that small highway- 

 man, so you may guess what a great fellow our 

 specimen was. Of views we had none — no grand 

 outlook over the sea, no proper comprehension of 

 the high hills and deep dales, no pleasant feel in 

 footing it on the turf, which was frozen iron-hard, 

 nor pick-me-up touch from the glorious, strong 

 air in which the hale and lung-sound ought to 

 live for ever — a tonic the weak should take as a 

 sure curative worth a guinea a bottle for home 

 consumption, and cheap at that. 



Good old Sol did his best to beat the bitter 



