“Well now, I do be s’prised to hear ’ee a-say that,” he replied. “For the on’y time I were up to Lunnon—I went for a day scursion—d’you know my legs did that hake when I got back, I were a week getting over it. It were all along o’ they flat stones what they do have up there; why, if you believe me, I was a-near toppling over every other minute. There weren’t ne’er a blessed thing to catch holt onter with your toes! I felt as though the pavemint was a-coming up to knock my head. Now on these here roads o’ ourn you can’t slip far, because there’s always summat of a rock or big stone to trip up agin.”
For myself, however, I sometimes think I would prefer the said rocks and stones if they were boiled a bit, and then mangled.
At last we reached the crest of the hill, and paused to get our breath. The silence was awe-inspiring. At all other times there is a persistent hum of insects, or cheep of birds, or the rustling of leaves and swaying grasses—movement and sound somewhere, night as well as day. But when the earth has been swept by the magic of frost, then there is silence indeed. From where we stood, we might have been alone on the very edge of the world. No house was visible, and although we knew that the little village lay in the valley below us, we could see nothing of it.
All was grey, merging into indigo in the depths of the coombes. Grey were the trees on the farther hills, grey unrelieved by the lights and shadows that gaily chase each other over the steeps in sunny weather, as the white clouds sail across the sky above them.
Near at hand the trees took on more individuality. The straight columns of the larches were mysterious-looking and awe-inspiring, suggesting regiments of soldiers suddenly called to a halt. Pale grey beeches, that in damp weather show a vivid emerald green down the north side of their huge trunks, where moss flourishes undisturbed, were now stretching out strong bare arms over the carpet of many years’ leaves lying thickly beneath them. Silver birch stems gleamed in contrast to the glossy dark green of innumerable aged yews that dotted the woods—ancient inhabitants, indeed, standing hoary and heroic like some dark-visaged guardians of the forest, among a host of newcomers of a far younger generation.
But while we were standing there, a sound suddenly broke the stillness, a sound I have heard hundreds of times on those hills, yet never without an eerie feeling. It begins far away, a low undertone murmur; gradually it comes nearer and nearer, getting louder and louder, till it becomes almost a roar, and then—diminuendo—it passes on and is finally lost in the far distance.
It is only the wind as it suddenly rushes through the river gorge; but as it tears at the forests on the hillsides, and lashes the branches together, it produces a strangely uncanny sound, more especially when the trees are bare and extremely vibrant.