THE DOWNS IN WINTER 49 



the town." All very well this for one who knows, 

 but likely to lead to trouble for the stranger, 

 since as soon as the light failed he might range 

 about till he dropped before he did strike the 

 telegraph or, what is the same thing, the old 

 coach road from London through Ditchling to 

 Brighton. So I suggested that it would be safer 

 to come with me, a proposition he scorned on the 

 ground that my division could not go fast enough 

 to keep him warm. 



All the same, he didn't mean getting out of 

 touch with us, and a good thing he didn't. As a 

 matter of fact, he did not know what Downs were. 

 They might be the Downs of Deal, for all he 

 knew ; and when he first beheld what I rank as 

 the most beautiful country of my experience 

 (Tommy Atkins mentioned the Himalayas, 

 which were not admitted for comparison) they 

 came as an appalling revelation. They were too 

 much for him — the silent ranges flecked with 

 white patches of hoar frost, hills upon hills slip- 

 ping down in outline from the sky to the bottom 

 of the valleys, making a sort of herring-bone 

 stitch crossing of gently slanting ridge across 

 ridge, all almost identical in ewe-necked fall, and 

 gloomier and more impressively mysterious as 

 they almost faded away from recognition in the 

 distance. Behind was the moon rising over 

 Black Cap, a burnished copper disc more glowing 

 than many a setting sun. Facing her was the 

 sun dying out in an orange and pink glory, the 

 two between them making a remarkable effect 

 with a shadow cast backwards and forwards at 

 one and at the same time, an event to be 

 remembered. Never did my favourite haunting 

 ground strike me as more romantic and precious 



D 



