The horses are enjoying the clover. Hurricane Bob and I are reclining among our rugs on the broad coupé. Foley is cooking a fowl and a sheep’s heart; the latter for Bob’s dinner. There are rock-looking clouds on the horizon, a thunderstorm is within a measurable distance.
How pretty those purple trailing vetches look! How sweet the song of yonder uprising lark! There is an odour of elder-flowers in the air. I hear a hen cackling at a distant farm. Probably the hen has laid an egg. Hurricane Bob is sound asleep. I think I shall read. Burns is by my elbow:
“Oh, Nature! a’ thy shows and forms
To feeling pensive hearts hae charms!
Whether the summer kindly warms
Wi’ life and light,
Or winter howls in gusty storms,
The lang dark night.”
How lovely those dog-roses are, though! They are everywhere to-day; roses in clusters, roses in garlands, wreaths and wind-tossed spray, white, crimson, or palest pink roses—roses—
“The dinner is all on the table, sir.”
“Aw—right.”
“The dinner is quite ready, sir.”
“To be sure, to be sure. Thank you, Foley.”
“Why, you have been sound asleep, sir.”