About at a distance of a few yards, their red feathers ruffled
by the wind; further away a wood-pile; behind it a pigsty sheltered
by bushes, and on the ground, among the dead weeds, a chopping-block,
some broken bricks, little heaps of rusty iron, and other litter. Each
plot had its own litter and objects and animals.
On the steeply sloping sides of the road the young grass was springing
up everywhere among the old rubbish of dead grass and leaves and sticks
and stems. More conspicuous than the grass blades, green as verdigris,
were the arrow-shaped leaves of the arum or cuckoo-pint. But there were
no flowers yet except the wild strawberry, and these so few and small
that only the eager eyes of the little children, seeking for spring,
might find them.
Nor was the village less attractive in its sounds than in the natural
pleasing disorder of its aspect and the sheltering warmth of its
street. In the fields and by the skimpy hedges perfect silence reigned;
only the wind blowing in your face filled your ears with a rushing
aerial sound like that which lives in a seashell. Coming back from this
open bleak silent world, the village street seemed vocal with bird
voices.
