It
was pleasant to see and talk with the little people occupied
with the task they loved so well, and I made up my mind to see
the result of all this flower-gathering next day in some of
the village churches in the neighbourhood--Fovant, Teffant
Evias, Chilmark, Swallowcliffe, Tisbury, and Fonthill Bishop.
I had counted on some improvement in the weather--some
bright sunshine to light up the flower-decorated interiors;
but Easter Sunday proved colder than ever, with the bitter
north-east still blowing, the grey travelling cloud still
covering the sky; and so to get the full benefit of the
bitterness I went instead to spend my day on the top of the
biggest down above the valley. That was Whitesheet Hill, and
forms the highest part of the long ridge dividing the valleys
of the Ebble and Nadder.
It was roughest and coldest up there, and suited my temper
best, for when the weather seems spiteful one finds a grim
sort of satisfaction in defying it. On a genial day it would
have been very pleasant on that lofty plain, for the flat top
of the vast down is like a plain in appearance, and the
earthworks on it show that it was once a populous habitation
of man. Now because of the wind and cloud its aspect was bare
and bleak and desolate, and after roaming about for an hour,
exploring the thickest furze patches, I began to think that my
day would have to be spent in solitude, without a living
creature to keep me company.
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