22 A FIGHT WITH THE WIND 



opinion of the wind, ninety-nine will reply at once: 

 "I hate it!" The ludicrous spectacle of a woman 

 in a high wind struggling with her skirts, her hat 

 and her hair, endeavouring to keep her furbelows 

 from flying away, and not to lose her sunshade and 

 bag or reticule at the same time, is common enough. 

 Ludicrous, I have called it, but it is also repulsive 

 and painful, since it forces on us the painful fact of 

 women's idiocy; we laugh or smile and are sad. 



Once only in my lifetime have I seen such a thing 

 and admired the spectacle of a woman's contest with 

 her old hated enemy, the wind. It was on a brilliant 

 spring morning, and I had just left St. Ives behind 

 me to walk to Zennor on the Cornish coast. The 

 blue sea on my left hand sparkled with whitest foam, 

 whilst clouds were flying across the intensely blue sky, 

 and the strong wind, which with the sunshine made 

 the day so glorious, blew the fresh, sharp, salt smeU 

 of the sea, mingled with the spicy odours of the 

 blossoming gorse, to my nostrils. I came to a point 

 where the road is cut across at right angles by a 

 narrow stony footpath running from a small farm- 

 house on my right, towards the sea, to another farm- 

 house on the inland side; and just when I arrived at 

 this point I caught sight of a young lady coming from 

 the first little house to the second; and as it was a 

 strange figure in that rude incult wilderness of rock 

 and furze, I stood still at the cross-roads and waited 

 for her to come by, so as to get a full and satisfying 

 look at her. 



She was of medium height, but looked tall on 



