OF TO-NIGHT
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country, whose silence is made up of a multitude of little noises. Distinct above the rest was the coo of a pigeon from the clump on the flank of the Beacon Down. A cow mooed. The starlings rustled in the thatch above our heads. Somewhere a nightjar sprung its stealthy rattle, and a river bird called once. And four miles away at the station the trains whistled and rolled and puffed, the sound coming loud, caught by the funnel which is this valley, across whose mouth from N.E. to S.W. the railway line runs. Let it run!
And the air, dear God! it seemed to fill one's whole body. We could not drink enough of it.
This is a good place. It always was. But it is better now.
