. The sea at low tide recedes almost beyond
the reach of the ordinary paddler, which is as it should be except for
those that would swim. A harbour, a pier, a lighthouse, a windmill--all
these are within a few yards of each other. On the neighbouring beach,
springing from the stones, you find the yellow-horned poppy, beautiful
both in flower and leaf, and the delicate tamarisk makes a natural hedge
parallel with the sea, to Worthing on the one side, and to Bognor on the
other.

The little villages in the flats behind the eastern tamarisk
hedge--Rustington, Preston, Ferring, are, in summer, veritable sun
traps, with their white walls dazzling in radiance. Such trees as grow
about here all bow to the north-east, bent to that posture by the
prevailing south-west winds. A Sussex man, on the hills or south of
them, lost at night, has but to ascertain the outline of a tree, and he
may get his bearings. If he cannot see so much as that he has but to
feel the bark for lichen, which grows on the north east, or lee, side.

It was at Littlehampton in September, 1817, that Coleridge met Cary, the
translator of Dante. Cary was walking on the beach, reciting Homer to
his son. Up came a noticeable man with large grey eyes: "Sir, yours is a
face I should know. I am Samuel Taylor Coleridge."

[Sidenote: A CHURCH DUEL]

The county paper for February 27, 1796, has this paragraph: "On Monday
last a duel was fought betwixt Mr. R----n and Lieut. B----y, both of
Littlehampton, in a field near that place, which, after the discharge of
each a pistol, terminated without bloodshed. The dispute, we understand,
originated about a pew in the parish church."

A local proverb says that if you eat winkles in March it is as good as a
dose of medicine; which reminds me that Sussex has many wise sayings of
its own. Here is a piece of Sussex counsel in connection with the
roaring month:--

If from fleas you would be free,
On the first of March let all your windows closed be.

I quote two other rhymes:--

If you would wish your bees to thrive
Gold must be paid for every hive;
For when they're bought with other money
There will be neither swarm nor honey.

The first butterfly you see,
Cut off his head across your knee,
Bury the head under a stone
And a lot of money will be your own.

On Whit Sunday the devout Sussex man eats roast veal and gooseberry
pudding. A Sussex child bo