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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
229
A
pathway
leads
me
by
the
winding
of
the
river
Ouse.
Far
on
every
side
stretches
a
homely
landscape,
tilth
and
pasture,
hedgerow
and
clustered
trees,
to
where
the
sky
rests
upon
the
gentle
hills.
Slow,
silent,
the
river
lapses
between
its
daisied
banks,
its
grey-green
osier
beds.
Yonder
is
the
little
town
of
St.
Neots.
In
all
England
no
simpler
bit
of
rural
scenery;
in
all
the
world
nothing
of
its
kind
more
beautiful.
Cattle
are
lowing
amid
the
rich
meadows.
Here
one
may
loiter
and
dream
in
utter
restfulness,
whilst
the
great
white
clouds
mirror
themselves
in
the
water
as
they
pass
above.
.
.
.
I
am
walking
upon
the
South
Downs.
In
the
valleys,
the
sun
lies
hot,
but
here
sings
a
breeze
which
freshens
the
forehead
and
fills
the
heart
with
gladness.
My
foot
upon
the
short,
soft
turf
has
an
unwearied
lightness;
I
feel
capable
of
walking
on
and
on,
even
to
that
farthest
horizon
where
the
white
cloud
casts
its
floating
shadow.
Below
me,
but
far
off,
is
the
summer
sea,
still,
silent,
its
ever-changing
blue
and
green
dimmed
at
the
long
limit
with
luminous
noontide
mist.
Inland
spreads
the
undulant
vastness
of
the
sheep-spotted
downs,
beyond
them
the
tillage
and
the
woods
of
Sussex
weald,
coloured
like
to
the
pure
sky
above
them,
but
in
deeper
tint.
Near
by,
all
but
hidden
among
trees
in
yon
lovely
hollow,
lies
an
old,
old
hamlet,
its
brown
roofs
decked
with
golden
lichen;
I
see
the
low
church-tower,
and
the
little
graveyard
about
it.
Meanwhile,
high
in
the
heaven,
a
lark
is
singing.
It
descends;
it
drops
to
its
nest,
and
I
could
dream
that
half
the
happiness
of
its
exultant
song
was
love
of
England.
.
.
.
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