Overhead the hollow stretch of whitish cloud formations shut out the sky and cloak the whole land in a tent that had the earth for its floor. Absent is the late pale green of heaven, the distant rims of the world are suffused into the gathering twilight. The land is barren and fruitless except for the smiling champaigns of flowers blotched intermittently throughout all the wastes. There is no wind, or breath of air, or life along this unemancipated expanse of soil. For the world and all its singing birds and budding trees and songs and mountains and summits are shut outside. There is no life here. There can never be life save for that antique brown dress, the natural and invariable garment of this particular formation of earth, which in the twilight combines to evolve a thing majestic without severity, impressive without showiness, emphatic in its admonitions, grand in its god-like simplicity. Here is an ancient permanence that even the sea cannot claim. For the sea changes, the fields change, the heavens, the rivers, the mountains, the villages, and the people all change, yet Egdon remains. ... Egdon Health. Indestructible, immassive, the inviolate stronghold of ETERNITY ... the three o'clock bell from Memorial Chapel tower toils and the Vagabond sighs, for he realizes that another chapter from Frank Wilson Cheney Hersey's literary panoramas that has made Sever 11 famous has come to an unwelcome close. The Vagabond gets up and stretches. Yes, Mr. Hersey is always entertaining and how would the literary traditions of the Hardy-Kipling-Scott group at Harvard carry on without him? But the Vagabond remembers that he must be off, for he has work to do.