It is wonderful how
Time runs away when all these things, and a great many others, come
in to load him down the hill, and prevent him from stopping to look
about. And I, for my part, can never conceive how people who live in
towns and cities, where neither lambs nor birds are (except in some
shop windows), nor growing corn, nor meadow grass, nor even so much
as a stick to cut, or a stile to climb and sit down upon--how these
poor folk get through their lives without being utterly weary of
them, and dying from pure indolence, is a thing God only knows, if
his mercy allows him to think of it.
LORNA DOONE.
A farm-house looks on the outside like a quiet place. No men are seen
about, front windows are closely shaded, front door locked. Go round to
the back door; nobody seems to be at home. If by chance you do find,
after long bruising of knuckles, that you have roused an inmate, it is
some withered, sad-faced old dame, who is indifferent and hopelessly
deaf, or a bare-footed, stupid urchin, who stares as if you had dropped
from another planet, and a cool "Dunno" is the sole response to all
inquiries.
All seems at a dead standstill. In reality everything and everybody is
going at full speed, transpiring and perspiring to such a degree that,
like a swiftly whirling top, it does not appear to move.
Friends think of me as not living, but simply existing, and marvel that
I can endure such monotony.
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