The one-eyed carrier cracked his
whip, the piebald horse jogged forward. The nineteenth century,
with its turmoil, fell away behind us; the distant hills, creeping
nearer, swallowed us up, and we became but a moving speck upon the
face of the quiet earth.
Late in the afternoon we arrived at a village, the memory of which
had been growing in my mind. It lies in the triangle formed by the
sloping walls of three great fells, and not even the telegraph wire
has reached it yet, to murmur to it whispers of the restless world-
-or had not at the time of which I write. Nought disturbs it save,
once a day, the one-eyed carrier--if he and his piebald mare have
not yet laid their ancient bones to rest--who, passing through,
leaves a few letters and parcels to be called for by the people of
the scattered hill-farms round about. It is the meeting-place of
two noisy brooks. Through the sleepy days and the hushed nights,
one hears them ever chattering to themselves as children playing
alone some game of make-believe. Coming from their far-off homes
among the hills, they mingle their waters here, and journey on in
company, and then their converse is more serious, as becomes those
who have joined hands and are moving onward towards life together.
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