The air was full of clouds of hurrying,
dizzy insects, speeding at a furious rate, on no particular errand, but
merely stung with the fierce joy of life and motion. In the road
crawled stout bronze-green beetles, in blind and clumsy haste, pushing
through grass-blades, tumbling over stones, waving feeble legs as they
lay helpless on their backs, with the air of an elderly clergyman
knocked down by an omnibus--and, on recovering their equilibrium,
struggling breathlessly on. The birds gobbled fiercely in all
directions, or sang loud and sweet upon the hedges. I saw half-a-dozen
cuckoos, gliding silvery grey and beating the hedges for nests.
Everything was making the most of life, in a prodigious hurry to live.
Indeed, I was very well content with the world myself as I sauntered
through the lanes. I found a favourite place, an old clunch-quarry, on
the side of a hill, where the white road comes sleepily up out of the
fen. It is a pretty place, the quarry; it is all grass-grown now, and
is full of small dingles covered with hawthorns. It is a great place
for tramps to camp in, and half the dingles have little grey circles in
them where the camping fires have been lit. I did not mind that
evidence of life, but I did not like the cast-off clothing, draggled
hats, coats, skirts, and boots that lay about. I never can fathom the
mystery of tramps' wardrobes.
Pages:
343
344
345
346
347
348
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367