COUNTRY LIFE
A PAIR of wheatears on the heather-banks at the side of the road are a sign that summer will soon be over the moor. Already the air is softer, and there is a subtle change in the colour of the turf; but to make the season plain comes a school of cyclists who have panted tip the far hill, and struggled to get their machines over the ridge, and past the high lake and the sharp turn where the snow-plough was used little more than a month ago. They are a sign of summer, and each one with his peaked cap and white jacket, each with his armament of chromium=plated lamps and bells, is a copy of the next. At the top of the rise they clamber stiffly on to their saddles, ride up and down as they stand on their pedals to gain speed and then, gathering momen- tum,-sail off with the wind forcing their peaks down or almost pushing the caps from their heads. In a few minutes they have sped like a flight of birds two or three miles across the moor. When they ,have gone, the road is deserted until another, school reaches the top, and once more the grit spurts from beneath wheels, the bells jingle and vibrate on the uneven surface, and the white jackets puff up as the air fills them, makihg each rider look fatter than he is.
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