THE first night at this cottage you may lie awake, if you are a
stranger to these hills, almost awed by the silence. Gradually you
realise that the silence is not actual absence of sound. In May and
early June the nightingales trill in the trees around; or you will hear
the owls calling to one another in the woods—a trifle weird if you do
not know what it is. At another time it is the corn-crake; or the wind
brings you the bleating of lambs down in the valley. As you listen
longer, you hear the tinkle, tinkle of the little spring that tumbles
out of a small spout into a ferny well outside the garden gate.
You take a final look out of the window to where, miles away in the
distance, a lighthouse flashes at fixed intervals. It seems strangely
companionable, even though it is so far off. And then you close your
eyes—unconscious that you have fallen asleep—only to open them again in
a minute, as you think. Someone is speaking.
You detect Ursula’s voice in a stage whisper through the keyhole.
“I say—aren’t you ever going to get up?”
You rub your eyes. It certainly is morning! And you such a poor
sleeper, possibly one of those who “never had a wink of sleep all
night, and such horrid dreams.” The plaintive voice continues at the
keyhole:
“I planted out nine hundred and thirty-seven wallflower seedlings
yesterday, and I want to cover them up with fern before the sun gets
too strong. If you’ll get up you can gather the bracken, while I creep
around on all fours covering them up. See? Virginia is busy thinning
out the turnips. And SHE is never any good at getting up early, you
know!”