"The inner slope of the green fosse is inclined at an angle pleasant
to recline on, with the head just below the edge, in the summer
sunshine. A faint sound as of a sea heard in a dream--a sibilant
"sish-sish"--passes along outside, dying away and coming again as a
fresh wave of the wind rushes through the bennets and the dry grass.
There is the happy hum of bees--who love the hills--as they speed by
laden with their golden harvest, a drowsy warmth, and the delicious
odour of wild thyme. Behind, the fosse sinks and the rampart rises
high and steep--two butterflies are wheeling in uncertain flight over
the summit. It is only necessary to raise the head a little way, and
the cod breeze refreshes the cheek--cool at this height, while the
plains beneath glow under the heat."