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MEMORIES OF A CHESHIRE MOOR
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memory added an unnatural halo, a glory which was never there? Yet many of us still claim to be
"A lover of the moorland bare
And honest country winds,"
and it is small comfort to know that we must travel further and toil harder to satisfy our cravings. The town grows; its needs increase; it extends octopus arms, grips and demolishes the wilds. The craze for utility overrules æsthetic claims, and, too late, the public conscience awakens to the startling fact that the preservation of open space means more than sentiment—fresh air and health, the conservation of that individual energy which alone makes the citizen worthy of the city. Perhaps Carrington Moss was a better place forty years ago.
