"There is a merry, frolicsome breeze--a rude one, in truth, for it
winds my skirt about my limbs and blows my hair over my ears and eyes;
and yet I love it, for it means no harm, and its crisp touch braces my
body and gives me the taste of life.

"From my elevated standpoint I see the distant horizon, miles and miles
away. Far off upon my right the clouds lie in long grey strata, like
closely-piled packs of wool, but on my left the remoter sky is washed
in silver, with here and there a rent revealing wonderfully delicate
tints of blue.

"Overhead the wool-packs have been burst open by the wind which is
tearing them apart and scattering their contents over the deep blue
zenith. They are dazzlingly white, whether heaped together in massive
bulk, or drawn out--as so many of them are--into transparent fluff
which drifts in the rapid air current like down of thistles.

"The morning is cold and the air is keen, so that the sky-line is
sharply defined and hints a threat of rain. But who cares about the
evil of the hour after next when there are so many glories to delight
the present sense? See, the sky-line of which I speak is dusky purple
and reddish-brown, but broad, flat washes of verdigris stretch up to
it, with here and there a yellow patch betokening fields of grain, and
in the foreground meadows and pastures of brighter hue.

"In front of me is a clump of trees--fine, tall trees they are, with
shining grey boles--standing erect and strong in spite of the fury of
the gales. Sycamore and beech and elm, majestic, beautiful. I hear
the cawing of the rooks from out the dark shadows.

"I climb over the wall a little farther on and walk fifty paces
forward. I now see a grey Hall, a dear old place, stone-roofed and
low, with tiny old-world window-panes around which the dark-hued ivy
clings tenaciously. There are brightly coloured flower-beds in front,
and a green lawn to one side, and a cluster of beeches stands sentinel
before the closed door. For the door, alas! is closed, and as I look a
thick thundercloud hangs over the house, and I turn away depressed and
seek the sunshine on the other side.

"And now it is waste land upon which my delighted eyes rest, and the
west wind brings to my nostrils the scent of the moors. Waste land!
Who shall dare to call that russet-coloured hillside with the streaks
of green upon it, waste? That stretch of country, bracken-covered,
ending in the long expanse of heath which is