Stick Cutting While I was cutting hazel sticks, lopping them
off and trimming them with a hedging knife, it began to rain. The first drops spattered on the hazel leaves and on my uncovered head. At the same moment I discovered a thousand flies and other insects suddenly active in the shelter of the leaves and was tempted to leave the place, but in a few minutes the rain was heavy, and I remained in cover with the misguided idea that I was right to shelter. The rain rolled from the leaves, wet my shoulders and trickled down my neck until I could bear it no longer. With a last desperate slap at the flies, I. made off. I was half way home when I remembered the hedging knife and had to retrace my steps. The rain ceased abruptly, but the hazels were so wet that I could not continue cutting without becoming soaked to the skin, and, frustrated, I went off with the knife over my shoulder, feeling my achievement very little—no more than half a dozen rods when I had hoped to cut six dozen.
Previous page
