SURREY

White mist was so thick on the down at sunrise that only a bleat told of the whereabouts of sheep and lambs. Their hearing is acute and the lambs, now well-grown, were first to catch the slight sound of a footfall on the turf. One came forward, then another, “wickering”; the call was more of inquiry than of fear. If you stand motionless, curiosity impels them; presently your hand may lose itself in stringy wool, outwardly wet but dry and almost hot near the skin. Fleece catches rather than absorbs moisture. The chalk path to the hill was firm, dry, and dusty. Thistles held no dew, but the wool wetted the fingers with dampness which came out of enough cloud to promise warmth for the rest of the day.

Wool on the wire that feeds on fog Read more

A tomtit was hard at work in the orchard, clinging head downward to apple boughs just below the buds, dashing down among half a dozen sparrows and scattering them: a pair of starlings, astonished, hopped aside, then flew to a tall poplar branch and whistled plaintively in long-drawn notes. Where the ditch is deepest and thorn roots straggle across the bank blackbirds have finished building and the hen has begun to lay. Just as the sun yellowed all the air between the trees her mate started to sing. He first ran half up a scale, like a musician tuning. There was a long pause. Then for a great while, from a distance in the wood border where a few delicate anemones are in flower, you heard him.