My experiences at "The Stones" had left me with the idea that
but for the distracting company the hours I spent there would
have been very sweet and precious in spite of the cloud in the
east. Why then, I asked, not go back on another morning, when
I would have the whole place to myself? If a cloud did not
matter much it would matter still less that it was not the day
of the year when the red disc flames on the watcher's sight
directly over that outstanding stone and casts first a shadow
then a ray of light on the altar. In the end I did not say
good-bye to the village on that day, but settled down to
listen to the tales of my landlady, or rather to another
instalment of her life-story and to further chapters in the
domestic history of those five small villages in one. I had
already been listening to her every evening, and at odd times
during the day, for over a week, at first with interest, then
a little impatiently. I was impatient at being kept in, so to
speak. Out-of-doors the world was full of light and heat,
full of sounds of wild birds and fragrance of flowers and
new-mown hay; there were also delightful children and some
that were anything but delightful - dirty, ragged little
urchins of the slums. For even these small rustic villages
have their slums; and it was now the time when the young birds
were fluttering out of their nests - their hunger cries could
be heard everywhere; and the ragged little barbarians were
wild with excitement, chasing and stoning the flutterers to
slay them; or when they succeeded in capturing one without
first having broken its wings or legs it was to put it in a
dirty cage in a squalid cottage to see it perish miserably in
a day or two.
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