On Easter Saturday the roadsides and copses by the little river Nadder were full of children gathering primroses; they might have filled a thousand baskets without the flowers being missed, so abundant were they in that place.

Cold though it was the whole air was laden with the delicious fragrance.

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.