COUNTRY LIFE
AWAY ahead of me the moorland road twisted and turned, rose and jell, between banks of heather and ling and a dozen trees of rowan. The thin branches of the rowan were so laden with berries that each was bowed under its load. The contrast of red and green was wonderful, for, when September comes, the rowan berry has a beauty all its own, and the leaf sets it off. I was so early oh the road that I felt sure I was the first man to pass on foot since the night before, but, when I approached an iron gate, a shepherd rose from the shelter of a pile of stones and bade me good morning. He was a shy, kindly man and be informed me that the shooters would be over after the grouse that day, scaring his sheep in and out of the waterholes, no doubt, and making an unearthly din. I went on and in a little while came to a farm in a green hollow, a sort of oasis in the moor. An old lady watched me come down from the skyline and we exchanged. greetings. Nearly ten minutes later, when I looked back, she still stood there in her sack apron, watching me plod on. I felt I was something of an event in her day, an event important enough to interrupt her visit to a chicken run where the birds were gathered waiting to be fed.
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