e knew no more than I did why it was done; but he was in some
unthinkable prehistoric tradition, because he wanted to do it. He became
so acute in sensibility that he could not bear to pass any broad breezy
hill of grass on which there was not a white horse. He could hardly keep
his hands off the hills. He could hardly leave any of the living grass
alone.

Then I left off wondering why the primitive man made so many white
horses. I left off troubling in what sense the ordinary eternal man had
sought to scar or deface the hills. I was content to know that he did
want it; for I had seen him wanting it.

The Long Bow

I find myself still sitting in front of the last book by Mr. H. G.
Wells, I say stunned with admiration, my family says sleepy with
fatigue. I still feel vaguely all the things in Mr. Wells's book which
I agree with; and I still feel vividly the one thing that I deny. I deny
that biology can destroy the sense of truth, which alone can even desire
biology. No truth which I find can deny that I am seeking the truth. My
mind cannot find anything which denies my mind... But what is all this?
This is no sort of talk for a genial essay. Let us change the subject;
let us have a romance or a fable or a fairy tale.

Come, let us tell each other stories. There was once a king who was very
fond of listening to stories, like the king in the Arabian Nights.
The only difference was that, unlike that cynical Oriental, this king
believed all the stories that he heard. It is hardly necessary to add
that he lived in England. His face had not the swarthy secrecy of the
tyrant of the thousand tales; on the contrary, his eyes were as big and
innocent as two blue moons; and when his yellow beard turned totally
white he seemed to be growing younger. Above him hung still his heavy
sword and horn, to remind men that he had been a tall hunter and warrior
in his time: indeed, with that rusted sword he had wrecked armies.
But he was one of those who will never know the world, even when they
conquer it. Besides his love of this old Chaucerian pastime of the
telling of tales, he was, like many old English kings, specially
interested in the art of the bow. He gathered round him great archers of
the stature of Ulysses and Robin Hood, and to four of these he gave
the whole government of his kingdom. They did not mind governing his
kingdom; but they were sometimes a little bored with the necessity
of telling him stories. None of the