DRIVING 129 
and you watch on the lower stretch of down opposite 
how the shepherd guides the sheep, down past the 
chalk-pit cutting like a white wound in the hill, 
through the junipers and straggling patches of gorse 
to the great yew-tree overhanging the gateway, till the 
flock pours like a stream of oil into the turnip field 
where they are to feed. A feeling of contentment 
spreads over you as you survey the great fence of 
thorn in front of you, so big and thick that a dozen 
or so of stunted oaks and hollies are almost lost in it, 
while not a speck of sky shows through till ten feet 
from the ground. A white butterfly, the last of the 
year, comes dancing down the stubble, settles on the 
fence, uneasily flickers over the top, and disappears. 
Aimlessly you push the safety bolt of your gun up 
and down as the barrels lie at ease in the palm of your 
left hand, and lazily you wonder whether that bit of 
bright red down the fence is an autumn leaf, or a bit of 
cloth, or what; and then whether the birds will come 
to the right or left of the big holly, or over the tall 
spray of briar which sticks up, still bearing one bright 
golden leaf, just where the butterfly disappeared ! 
And the butterfly takes you back to the summer, 
and you dream fora spell. Is it of the big trout you 
lost in the Test, or is it of the night she looked so 
heavenly as the diamonds flashed on her white skin 
K 
