Count y Life
IT is only a second's job to put a match to a gorse hush. In less than a minute the flames have run through it and the black skeleton remains, smoking and smouldering and reveal- ing those secret places that once sheltered the rabbit or the field mouse. Putting fire to a gorse bush is one thing, but on a hot summer's day, when the grass is dry and a forest of tall weeds stands swaying gently in the breeze, one should think a little. The gorse bush was crackling before it was appa- rent that the fire was in a hurry. Off it went uphill, among the pine trees. The tall weeds crumbled to potash and the flames ran to the ' foot of the cliff. Hours of work to be done with a scythe had been cancelled out. It was a good thing, or it seemed a good thing, until the peaty earth began to smoulder. The wind that swept the smoke away in fascinating trails blew into the pine needles until they glowed like coals. It, took quite a while, struggling uphill with a five-gallon drum of water, before the hidden fire was put out. In the process of putting it out I became covered in sooty streaks and had a feeling that the job might have been pleasanter, if a little longer, had the attack been made with a blade rather than with flame. What was the use of remorse ? I rubbed a grimy hand across my face, thankful that the trees had suffered no damage.
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