In the baking sunshine, while the countryside was enjoying its Sabbath-day’s rest from toil, she led them out to a large, sweet-smelling haystack. Farther they were not allowed to follow her.
She placed them in a hollow, which she made deep and roomy, at the foot of the stack. It was as if she understood that they needed to see something fresh and for a time get right away from their gloomy grave-home. They spent the afternoon lying together in the sweet yielding hay.... Presently the babies fell asleep, and Grey Puss stole away.
Oh, the luxury of lying at rest on a summer day, dozing in the soft, warm breeze as it sighs between hill and dale; to escape for once from one’s tail and the never-ceasing crawling of one’s paws; to float body and soul along a broad, shining river of light and not know a single want or care!
The whisper of the reeds from the pond, the song of the larks from the heavens, the whistle of the wild chervil stems, and the rustle of the osier leaves, unite in a hymn of peace, caressing and soothing the slumberers’ ears—until the booming of a passing bee calls them back to consciousness for two long, drowsy seconds....
“Ears—must you hear? Eyes—must you see? Nose—must you smell?”
“No, no—just rest, slumber, sleep....”
The fluff of the dandelion floats slowly past; over them chases the swift, scythe-winged swallow; while the lark’s eternal, monotonous song slowly mends the thread broken by the kittens when they fell asleep.
They wake; glide imperceptibly from the far into the near; yawn and stretch each limb; and finally open their eyes, saturated with the sweetness of that kind of repose which urges instant action.
The heat of the sun toasts them until their fur sparkles.... They get up and look at once for something to do.