COUNTRY LIFE
FROST makes the fire bright, they say. The fire was burning clearly, and the embers of the logs were bright, but if one sits by a wood-fire on a frosty afternoon sleep is certain, and so I went out. There was no mist. The stream in the glen frothed and rushed away. Up on one of the farms a tractor was buzzing along bringing in a load of swedes. A crow perched on the tip of a dead tree and cawed harshly, cawing three or four times in succession and then pausing before cawing again. Frost was in the air. I could bear sounds from places far away, the voices of some children going uphill to their home, someone splitting sticks, a pail being banged on a gate to bring in pigs or calves. An old man came slowly down the road. He had his hands in his waistcoat-pockets and his Cheeks were red. We exchanged greetings and agreed that it would be a cold night. A flight of starlings rushed past, going over the bill and appearing as black dots against the sky in which a smouldering sun was setting. Refreshed, I returned to the log-fire, and in no time the effect of the cold air had worn off and I was dosing again.
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