The poet wiped his glasses and folded up the paper.
Then he coughed.
"I had not thought of that," he observed, meditatively.
[VI]
IN WHICH FOUR MEN MEET A TRAIN
A hot August noon blazed over Becklington common, as I lay thinking and thinking, staring up into the blue sky, and for all the richness of the day, sad enough in heart.
In the valley below me the stream still splashed happily down to the mill, and away on the far hills the white flocks were grazing peacefully as ever.
And above my head poised and quivering sang a lark.