“What’s that?” said Veronica, looking up as a peculiar sound struck her ear.
Chud! Then chad! and directly after, chod!
Thomas was kneeling bolt upright now, and took off his very shabby cap, and began from habit to scratch his head with the blunt point of the old weed knife.
“Don’t you hear, Thomas?” cried Veronica, keeping a rose grub in suspense between her finger and thumb; and as she spoke the sounds came at regular intervals.
“Ay, miss: sounds like some ’un a choppin’ ’ard.”
“Ah!” ejaculated Veronica, as she caught sight of a couple of men through an opening in the shrubbery at the bottom of the lawn, and she ran to where her father was busily writing down a note, speaking aloud as he went on.
“In the half-ruined capsule—”
“Papa!”
“One moment, my dear. ‘The sun causes the outer covering to contract, and assume the form of a shiny and—’”
“Papa, they’re cutting down those beautiful old trees.”