It was fairly early, and a hazy November sun had not yet drawn the moisture from the heather.

On the moor the few trees were bare, but the golden autumn leaves still clothed the woods in the sheltered valley that stretched below.

Masses of gossamer covered with dew-drops lay among the bracken, like fairies' washing hung out to dry.
There was a hint of hoarfrost under the bushes.

The air had that delicious invigorating quality when every breath sets the body dancing.
It was too late in the year for flowers, though here and there a little gorse lingered, or a few buttercups and hawkweeds.

After about an hour of red haziness the sun pierced the bank of mist and shone out gloriously, almost as in summer; the birds, ready to snatch a moment's joy, were flitting about tweeting and calling, a water-wagtail took a bath in a shallow pool of a stream, and a great flock of bramblings, rare visitors in those parts, paused in their migration to hold a chattering conference round an old elder tree.
The Saxons were determined to-day to go farther afield than their walks had hitherto taken them.