
The view from the top of Watership Down, looking north. |
From chapter 18, 'Watership Down':
'The light, full and
smooth, lay like a gold rind over the turf, the furze and yew bushes, the
few wind-stunted thorn trees. From the ridge, the light seemed to cover all
the slope below, drowsy and still. But down in the grass itself, between the bushes,
in that thick forest trodden by the beetle, the spider and the hunting shrew,
the moving light was like a wind that danced among them and set them to scurrying
and weaving. The red rays flickered in and out of the grass stems, flashing
minutely on membranous wings, casting long shadows behind the thinnest of
filamentary legs, breaking each patch of bare soil into a myriad individual
grains. The insects buzzed, whined, hummed, stridulated, and droned as the
air grew warmer in the sunset. Louder yet calmer than they, among the trees,
sounded the yellowhammer, the linnet and greenfinch. The larks went up,
twittering in the scented air above the down. From the summit, the apparent
immobility of the vast blue distance was broken, here and there, by wisps
of smoke and tiny, momentary flashes of glass. Far below lay the fields green
with wheat, the flat pastures grazed by horses, the darker greens of the
woods. They too, like the hillside jungle, were tumultuous with evening,
but from the remote height turned to stillness, their fierceness tempered
by the air that lay between
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