An artist's heart would have
leaped with joy at the sight, but all his skill and oriental
colours would have made nothing of it, for all visible nature
was part of the picture, the wide wooded earth and the blue
sky beyond and above the bird, and the sunshine that glorified
all.
On the other side of the hedge there were groups of fine old
beech trees and, strange to see, just beyond the green slope
and coloured trees, was the great whiteness of the fog which
had advanced thus far and now appeared motionless. I went
down and walked by the side of the bank of mist, feeling its
clammy coldness on one cheek while the other was fanned by the
warm bright air. Seen at a distance of a couple of hundred
yards, the appearance was that of a beautiful pearly-white
cloud resting upon the earth. Many fogs had I seen, but never
one like this, so substantial-looking, so sharply defined,
standing like a vast white wall or flat-topped hill at the
foot of the green sunlit slope! I had the fancy that if I had
been an artist in sculpture, and rapid modeller, by using the
edge of my hand as a knife I could have roughly carved out a
human figure, then drawing it gently out of the mass proceeded
to press and work it to a better shape, the shape, let us say,
of a beautiful woman. Then, if it were done excellently, and
some man-mocking deity, or power of the air, happened to be
looking on, he would breathe life and intelligence into it,
and send it, or her, abroad to mix with human kind and
complicate their affairs.
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