DRIVING 127 
or fronting the white roads, lies Newmarket, the out- 
lines of its buildings not yet distinct amid the blue 
smoke of its breakfast fires and the golden haze of 
this glorious autumn morning. Away and beyond the 
town the long thin lines of black green belt intersect 
the rolling stubbles and fallows of Six-Mile Bottom, 
Dullingham, or Cheveley, until, melting in the far 
distance, a faint cloud of brownish smoke mingles 
with the azure atmosphere that aptly hangs over the 
Light Blue University. 
Or change the time and scéne; the actors and 
the characters the same. The grass crackles as you 
shift your feet to keep them warm, crushing the 
frosted splinters from the blades ; the gorse, coated 
in crystal globules, sends down a powdery shower as 
you kick it, revealing its spiked clusters underneath, 
green, warm, and living, or tawny and dead, but 
clasping the golden blossom which, like the kiss, is 
never out of season. The black green belt of firs 
against the northern blue in front sways lightly as the 
breeze comes to it from the east, turning your eyes to 
where, far on the right, the village with its square 
church tower guards the heath. Beyond again, with- 
out a break or. undulation, without a hill or hollow, 
stubble, heath, and fallow stretch away, until, melting 
in a still grey bar, you know the ocean ; unbroken. 
