Close By A Ploughed Field Of About Forty Acres Was The
Camping-Ground Of An Army Of Peewits; They Were Travellers
From The North Perhaps, And Were Quietly Resting, Sprinkled
Over The Whole Area.
More abundant were the small birds in
mixed flocks or hordes - finches, buntings, and larks in
thousands on thousands, with a sprinkling of pipits and pied
and grey wagtails, all busily feeding on the stubble and fresh
ploughed land.
Thickly and evenly distributed, they appeared
to the vision ranging over the brown level expanse as minute
animated and variously coloured clods - black and brown and
grey and yellow and olive-green.
It was a rare pleasure to be in this company, to revel in
their astonishing numbers, to feast my soul on them as it
were - little birds in such multitudes that ten thousand
Frenchmen and Italians might have gorged to repletion on their
small succulent bodies - and to reflect that they were safe
from persecution so long as they remained here in England.
This is something for an Englishman to be proud of.
After spending two hours at Crux Easton, with that dense
immovable fog close by, I at length took the plunge to get to
Highclere. What a change! I was at once where all form and
colour and melody had been blotted out. My clothes were hoary
with clinging mist, my fingers numb with cold, and Highclere,
its scattered cottages appearing like dim smudges through the
whiteness, was the dreariest village on earth.
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