Some bird twittering in a
tree overhead, buttered toast in a neat pile placed carefully over hot
water to keep it warm; honey, heavy home-made cake, perhaps the local
weekly paper with the "Do you know that ..." column demanding one's
critical attention. One's annoyed because to-morrow some tiresome
fellow's coming to luncheon, because one wishes to buy some china that
one can't afford, because the wife of the Precentor said to the Dean's
sister that young Trenchard would be an old man in a year or two....
One sips one's tea, the organ leads the chants, the sun sinks below
the wall.... That! This! ... there's the Forest road hot like red-hot
iron under the sun; it winds away into the Forest, but so far as the
eye can see it is covered with things that have been left by flying
men--_such_ articles! Swords, daggers, rifles, cartridge-cases, of
course, but also books, letters, a hair-brush, underclothes,
newspapers, these tilings in thick, tangled profusion, rifles in
heaps, cartridge-cases by the hundred! Under the sun up and down the
road there are dead and dying, Russians and Austrians together.
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