Up the Hill and Over

E-text prepared by Brendan Lane, Charlie Kirschner, and the Prooject
Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
ISABEL ECCLESTONE MACKAY Author of The House of Windows, etc.
The road runs back and the road runs on, But the air has a scent of clover . And another day brings another dawn, When we're up the hill and over .
From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles, From Wombleton to Wimbleton is fifteen miles, From Wombleton to Wimbleton, From Wimbleton to Wombleton, From Wombleton—to Wimbleton—is fif—teen miles!
The cheery singing ended abruptly with the collapse of the singer upon a particularly inviting slope of grass. He was very dusty. He was very hot. The way from Wimbleton to Wombleton seemed suddenly extraordinarily long and tiresome. The slope was green and cool. Just below it slept a cool, green pool, deep, delicious—a swimming pool such as dreams are made of.
If there were no one about—but there was some one about. Further down the slope, and stretched at full length upon it, lay a small boy. Near the small boy lay a packet of school books.
The wayfarer's lips relaxed in an appreciative smile.
Little boy, he called, somewhat hoarsely on account of the dust in his throat, little boy, can you tell me how far it is from here to Wimbleton?
Apparently the little boy was deaf.
The questioner raised his voice, or if you can oblige me with the exact distance to Wombleton, he went on earnestly, that will do quite as well.
No answer, civil or otherwise, from the youth by the pool. Only a convulsive wiggle intended to cover the undefended position of the school books.