A mile or so from Birling Gap, when we had climbed high above the ocean, the road broke sharply from our upland and slithered down a hill to Eastdean; and it seemed a pretty village from above, with spire and smoking chimneys. But a man with long legs came flapping down the path and he advised us to cut a corner through an oak wood at the left and to follow a lane and fence which presently would bring us by a shorter walk to open meadows and the town of Friston.

It was a wood of massive trees, for it was sheltered by the hill and unfretted by the wind. One in the mood of Arthur Rackham might think that fairy creatures lay in the tangled roots. And to thread this path when twilight fades to darkness would be to realize that hour when it is almost fairy time on earth and little heads peep out to learn whether yet the common world is off to sleep.

All the morning a windmill had teased us on this rim of northern hills and now, popping from the wood at Friston, suddenly we came upon it. It was in bad repair and lay off from work, like a windmill which had heard about the dole; but if ever it took the whim to swing its arms at night when fancy is the sharpest, it would have seemed a giant to any rural don of slender wit. By day, however, it was a beast of excellent good nature and we lay down beside it for a rest. At our elbow was a graveyard of moldy stones, and close at hand an ancient church. In a hollow where the two roads forked was a pond, and here a cow stood kneedeep in the mud and whisked at flies.

From Friston the road followed a line of high land in a

westerly direction, with a range of distant hills in prospect across the meadows to the north. Below us in a grove of blackest shadow was Westdean, which seemed but a manor house and farm buildings grouped about. Then presently our road pitched downhill to the marshy level of the Cuckmere River.

It is a lazy stream, wandering without ambition through meadowland. The ocean is but a mile to the south but its vast excitement is unguessed.

Streams hurry on their upper courses and they leap downward from the hills, eager to reach the lower world and bear their part in brave adventure. They sing of the mighty tasks that will be theirs, of the roar of cities and the ships, of storm and tide upon the sea. -Never yet a rill did flow

But longed into the world of men to go.

But when they have grown their beard and the task is nearly at their hand, they fall perversely to sleepy ways. Their ambition is lost when they feel the salty tang that borders on the sea.

At the Cuckmere River we turned south on a narrow road. And here Bill cried out "Oh, my soul!" and sat down abruptly through sheer fatigue. "You go on," he said. "I have lived many years and found life good. It is a pleasant spot. Here let me die."

The valley is flat and marshy. There are trees in the creasing of the hills, for the woods come down to drink along the stream. But the high land is mostly bare and open to the sun.

This is but a few feet above

the ocean and must once have been an inlet for smaller

vessels. Alfriston, up the river, where we were bound, was once a smuggling town, and this road of ours from the beach of Cuckmere Haven was the route of unlicensed midnight travel.

And hereabouts, when we had prodded Bill to action, we came upon a tavern. To our piteous appeal the

Nor was he averse to a second mug of beer at Bill's expense bar was opened and we sat as usual in a shadow far from the window for our mugs of beer.

A traveling salesman, also, broke the law with us. His line was woolen goods and millinery. He lived at Lewes, several miles away, and he picked up orders among the small shops of the countryside, with a box of samples on his motor in place of tonneau. Nor was he averse to a second mug of beer at Bill's expense. Busi

ness was bad, he told us, and it was his desire to get out to Canada. He had visited the exhibition at Wembley, and had fretted since. If things fell right for him he would shortly pack his bag and be off to the grainfields of the west. Meantime he idled for an hour with us. And in this he seemed like the Cuckmere River which also lay stagnant within the sound of the ambitious ocean-dreaming cheaply of the world that opened at the shoulder of the hill where white sails chased the sun to their adventure in the west.

NOTHER two miles upstream brought us to
Alfriston. We reached the town by footbridge

A

and by a path that lay between brick walls and opened on the village street. English tourists passed us on the bridge and they inquired if we could direct them to a certain church hereabouts which is said to be the smallest in the British Isles. For a moment we wavered whether we would go with them in search of it, but a ghastly smile crossed Bill's face and our excursion was given up. He leaned upon his elbows to ease the weight against his feet and looked with a dark eye upon the stream.

"I'd rather fling myself over," he cried out, "and rest there in the mud. You and Beezer go."

Alfriston is famous as an ancient town of smugglers,