258 NOVEMBER 



houses, as engaging a slope to the hill as Broadway or 

 Burford, a glorious Park and, below, a stream rarely 

 rich in bird, fish and insect life. The grasshopper 

 warblers mimic the reels of busy fishermen and the 

 dragonflies are as numerous as moths in a hayfield. You 

 have the Kennet and the Pang, whose bubbling springs 

 look to their visitors pleasure, the lazy trout lying over 

 the fount ; and then in spring the rich fish break the 

 sleepy ripple of the song of the grasshopper warbler. 

 Last, but not least, come the Downs ; and along the top 

 of them, over one delectable reach, runs &quot; the Fair Mile,&quot; 

 a place that deserves its description as surely as Tenny 

 son s goddesses, &quot; divinely tall and most divinely fair.&quot; 



Such a green road on the ridge of the Down is all the 

 more delectable for being no thoroughfare. When you 

 walk along it you practise to perfection &quot;the delicate 

 and gentle art, of never getting there.&quot; Up to its 

 neighbourhood lead deep lanes of chalk and turf that 

 serve, or should serve, only the farmers, though on some 

 days the squeak and rattle and alarm of motor-cycles 

 shatter the silence with the venom of a war explosive, and 

 the machine jumps the tracks like a maddened animal 

 from some alien world. The apostles of speed select a 

 place as proper for quiet contemplation as a nunnery, and, 

 but for them, the holy fane is &quot; quiet as a nun, breathless 

 with adoration.&quot; The proper denizens are in alarm. 

 The flocks of mingled finches swing off to other acres. 

 The timid hares, with the backward-looking eye, leave 

 their forms, and even an alert weasel scarcely crosses the 

 lane in safety. But even of the existence of finches, hares, 

 and weasels, and such &quot; plaguey wildfowl,&quot; the cyclist 

 is doubtless unaware. He is racing. 



I walked this green road, these Downs, on a day of 

 light mist and found their singular attraction hardly less 



