Homely Tragedy. 249 



insects innumerable, bronze and gilded flies, and 

 spiders that hang out their golden webs to the dews 

 of morning. These are festooned from stone to 

 stone, and are productions of the night. Weasels 

 love the old wall, mice hide beneath it, and from it 

 in spring the hedgehog rolls, its spines covered with 

 dead oak leaves. Sometimes the fox, as it leaves 

 its green "benk" in the crags, runs along its 

 summit. Harebells nod at its foot, as do green- 

 smelling brackens. Mountain blackbirds perch 

 upon it, and stonechats and pipits. 



Half-way down the wall, on its near side, is a 

 sad green spot. Beside it we have thrown up a 

 loose, lone cairn. It happened in winter when 

 the fells were white. The snows had fallen 

 thickly for many days ; all the deep holes were 

 filled up, and the mountain road was no longer 

 to be seen. The wall tops stood as white ridges 

 on the otherwise smooth surface. Only the 

 crags hung in shaggy, snowy masses, black seams 

 and scars picking out the dread ravines. Nature 

 was sombre and still. It seemed as though her 

 pulse had ceased to beat. The softly winnowed 

 snowflakes still fell, and not even the wing of a 

 bird of prey wafted the cold, thin air. It had 

 gone hard with the sheep. Hundreds were 

 buried in the snow, and would have to be dug 

 out. They sought the site of the old wall, and 

 fell into the deepest drifts. Only the hardy 

 goatlike herdwicks instinctively climbed to the 



