A hot August noon blazed over Becklington common, as I lay thinking and
thinking, staring up into the blue sky, and for all the richness of the
day, sad enough in heart.
In the valley below me the stream still splashed happily down to the
mill, and away on the far hills the white flocks were grazing peacefully
as ever.
And above my head poised and quivering sang a lark.
The Spring had rounded into maturity, and Summer, lavish and wonderful
and queenly, rested on her throne.
Why should there be war anywhere in the world? I asked.
And yet along a far frontier it flickered even now, sinister and
relentless. A little war and, to me, a silent one--yet there it rose and
fell and smouldered, and grew fierce, and in the grip of it two brave
grey eyes had closed forever.