Then imagine instead of the black or grey or chestnut back of the horse the soft roughness of golden fur， and the mane flying back in the wind. And then imagine you are going about twice as fast as the fastest racehorse. But this is a mount that doesn‘t need to be guided and never grows tired. He rushes on and on， never missing his footing， never hesitating， threading his way with perfect skill between tree trunks， jumping over bush and briar and the smaller streams， wading the larger， swimming the largest of all. And you are riding not on a road nor in a park nor even on the downs， but right across Narnia， in spring， down solemn avenues of beech and across sunny glades of oak， through wild orchards of snow.white cherry trees， past roaring waterfalls and mossy rocks and echoing caverns， up windy slopes alight with gorse bushes， and across the shoulders of heathery mountains and along giddy ridges and down， down， down again into wild valleys and out into acres of blue flowers.
