ns have stolen into sight.

So easy is the outline of the ridge, so broad and flowing are the
slopes, that those who have not mounted them cannot grasp the idea of
their real height and steepness. The copse upon the summit yonder looks
but a short stroll distant; how much you would be deceived did you
attempt to walk thither! The ascent here in front seems nothing, but you
must rest before you have reached a third of the way up. Ditchling
Beacon there, on the left, is the very highest above the sea of the
whole mighty range, but so great is the mass of the hill that the glance
does not realise it.

Hope dwells there, somewhere, mayhap, in the breeze, in the sward, or
the pale cups of the harebells. Now, having gazed at these, we can lean
back on the cushions and wait patiently for the sea. There is nothing
else, except the noble sycamores on the left hand just before the train
draws into the station.

The clean dry brick pavements are scarcely less crowded than those of
London, but as you drive through the town, now and then there is a
glimpse of a greenish mist afar off between the houses. The green mist
thickens in one spot almost at the horizon; or is it the dark nebulous
sails of a vessel? Then the foam suddenly appears close at hand--a white
streak seems to run from house to house, reflecting the sunlight: and
this is Brighton.

"How different the sea looks away from the pier!" It is a new pleasure
to those who have been full of gaiety to see, for once, the sea itself.
Westwards, a mile beyond Hove, beyond the coastguard cottages, turn
aside from the road, and go up on the rough path along the ridge of
shingle. The hills are away on the right, the sea on the left; the yards
of the ships in the basin slant across the sky in front.

With a quick, sudden heave the summer sea, calm and gleaming, runs a
little way up the side of the groyne, and again retires. There is scarce
a gurgle or a bubble, but the solid timbers are polished and smooth
where the storms have worn them with pebbles. From a grassy spot ahead
a bird rises, marked with white, and another follows it; they are
wheatears; they frequent the land by the low beach in the autumn.

A shrill but feeble pipe is the cry of the sandpiper, disturbed on his
moist feeding-ground. Among the stones by the waste places there are
pale-green wrinkled leaves, and the large yellow petals of the
sea-poppy. The bright colour is pleasant, but it is a flower best left
un