Marsh at Dusk.
Night was coming down over the marsh. Three or four gulls passed silently above me and far away a bird rose by a clump of dead trees and perched on a branch of one of them, so that for a little while I could see him against the sky. The ground heaved under my feet and I could smell the sour breath of the bog that escaped at the pressure of my tread. A moth fluttered into my face and fluttered away again, leaving me blinking and stumbling among clumps of round rushes. I began to wish that I had started for home sooner, for I had a drain to cross and was not too sure of my path. When I came to the drain the water was like ink. One foot got wet, but once I was safely across I found a ridge of stones and followed it to firmer ground, where all that stood between me and the road was a strand or two of barbed wire stretching between alder trees. The fence sagged and I floundered in soft black earth but in a minute I was on the road, clattering along to make up for lost time and not a little relieved that the marsh was behind-me.
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