Meadow

Of the Celestial City, so at any rate reported young Mr. Wyndham, who had traveled with me from Milan to Venice.

I lay the first night at Pieva, where Titian had the fortune to be born, and the landlord at the inn displayed a set of villainous daubs which he swore were the early works of that master.

Thence up a toilsome valley I journeyed to the Impazzon country, valley where indeed I saw my white mountains, but alas, no longer celestial, for it rained like Westmoreland for five endless days, while I kicked my heels in and in, and turned a canter of Aristo into halting English couplets.

By and by it cleared, and I headed westward towards Bozen, among the tangle of rocks where the dwarf king had once his rose garden.

Of the Celestial City, so at any rate reported young Mr. Wyndham, who had traveled with me from Milan to Venice.

I lay the first night at Pieva, where Titian had the fortune to be born, and the landlord at the inn displayed a set of villainous daubs which he swore were the early works of that master.

Thence up a toilsome valley I journeyed to the unpeasant country, valley where indeed I saw my white mountains, but alas, no longer celestial, for it rained like Westmoreland for five endless days, while I kicked my heels in and in, and turned a canter of Aristo into halting English couplets.

By and by it cleared, and I headed westward towards Bozen, among the tangle of rocks where the dwarf king had once his rose garden.

Now, settle in, make yourself comfortable, and enjoy the story.

Chapter One Mist over Millbrook Meadow early November brought to St Mary Mead that peculiar kind of stillness which is not, strictly speaking, peace.

It was a stillness with ears, a stillness that seemed to wait behind curtains, gather beneath hedges and pause at garden gates, as though the village itself had become aware of something approaching, long before any of its inhabitants had thought to give the matter a name.

By the last week of October the elms along the lane had shed their remaining leaves.

Curtains were drawn with the faintly ceremonial air of shutting out not merely the dark, but whatever the dark might contain.

It was precisely in such weather that the fog began.

At first it came lightly, almost apologetically, drifting in thin, pale ribbons from the direction of Millbrook Meadow.

By dusk it would lie low over the farmland, threading itself between the hedges and across the narrow field paths.

Chapter One: My Early Home.

The first place that I can well remember was a large, pleasant meadow with a pond of clear water in it.

Some shady trees leaned over it, and rushes and water lilies grew at the deep end.

Over the hedge on one side, we looked into a plowed field, and on the other, we looked over a gate at our master's house, which stood by the roadside.

At the top of the meadow was a grove of fir trees, and at the bottom, a running brook overhung by a steep bank.

While I was young, I lived upon my mother's milk, as I could not eat grass.

In the daytime, I ran by her side, and at night I lay down close by her.

When it was hot, we used to stand by the pond in the shade of the trees, and when it was cold, we had a nice, warm shed near the grove.

Of the Celestial City, so at any rate reported young Mr. Wyndham, who had traveled with me from Milan to Venice.

I lay the first night at Pieva, where Titian had the fortune to be born, and the landlord at the inn displayed a set of villainous daubs which he swore were the early works of that master.

Thence up a toilsome valley I journeyed to the unpeasant country, valley where indeed I saw my white mountains, but alas, no longer celestial, for it rained like Westmoreland for five endless days, while I kicked my heels in and in, and turned a canter of Aristo into halting English couplets.

By and by it cleared, and I headed westward towards Bozen, among the tangle of rocks where the dwarf king had once his rose garden.

Of the Celestial City, so at any rate reported young Mr. Wyndham, who had traveled with me from Milan to Venice.

I lay the first night at Pieva, where Titian had the fortune to be born, and the landlord at the inn displayed a set of villainous daubs which he swore were the early works of that master.

Thence up a toilsome valley I journeyed to the Impazzon country, valley where indeed I saw my white mountains, but alas, no longer celestial, for it rained like Westmoreland for five endless days, while I kicked my heels in and in, and turned a canter of Aristo into halting English couplets.

By and by it cleared, and I headed westward towards Bozen, among the tangle of rocks where the dwarf king had once his rose garden.