Outside, the vivid green of the fields is dimmed by falling sleet and the back fells — when we get a glimpse of them through the shroud of cloud — are white. Across an angry lowring sky, the black-headed gulls fly screaming in scattered parties.
On the front steps alights a red breast in true wintry fashion. But somewhere in the gully a blackbird sings a short bewildered song in protest against the biting, cutting sleet; and a perky little hedge sparrow trills cheerily on the garden hedge. In the little wood, the first daffodil beats its disconsolate petals to and fro in the blast.
I lie beside a raging fire, the doors, all shut close to keep out the cold. A little vase of primroses — the first — scents the room deliciously. In a basket on the hearth lies a poor little chilled lamb —- one of triplets — while its milk keeps warm on the hob. Outside there is the sound of dogs barking, men’s voices and the bleating of sheep. They are bringing in the ewes and lambs to shelter near the house. It is the last week of March, and seasonable.