doings of the
countryside. If, however, I wish to be quiet she sits silently by my
side, as only a real friend can. But whether she talks or is silent
her knitting needles never stop their musical clatter. What she does
with all the stockings is beyond my knowledge, but I believe Sar'-Ann
could tell me if she would, and I am sure all this knitting contributes
no little to Mother Hubbard's happiness.

So I lean back in my chair and feast upon the scene before me and am
satisfied. I wonder if it would appeal to many as it does to me.
Probably not, for, after all, I suppose there are many more beautiful
places than Windyridge, but I have never travelled and so cannot
compare them. Then again, this is Yorkshire and I am "Yorkshire," and
that explains something. Still, I ought to try to write down what it
is that impresses me, so I will paint as well as I can the picture that
is spread before me as I sit.

First of all, as a fitting foreground, the garden--past its best, I can
see, but still gay with all the wild profusion of Flora's providing;
plants whose names are as yet unknown to me, but which are a constant
delight to sight and smell. Then the road, with its border of cool,
green grass, winding down into the valley between hedges of hawthorn
and holly--ragged, untidy hedges, brown and green where the sun catches
them, blue-grey and confused in the shadows. Beyond them a stretch of
fields--meadow and pasture, and the brown and kindly face of Mother
Earth dipping steeply down to meet the trees which fill the narrow
valley, and are just beginning to catch the colours of the sunset.
Footpaths cross the fields, and I see at times those who tread them and
climb the stiles between the rough grey walls; and I promise myself
many a good time there, but not yet.

On the other side, beyond the trees, the climb is stiffer, and the
hills rise, as it sometimes seems, into the low-lying clouds. I can
see a few houses under the shelter of a clump of chestnuts and
sycamores, the farthest outposts of their comrades in the valley, but
far above them rises the moor, the glorious moor, heather-clad, wild,
and, but for the winding roads, as God made it. Far away to the west
it stretches, and when the day is clear I catch the glow of the gorse
and the daily decreasing hint of purple on the horizon miles away; but
in these autumn days the distance is often wrapped in a diaphanous
shawl of mist, which yet lends a charm to the glo