(12/13) The Year at Thrush Green Read Online Free Page A
Author: Miss Read
Tags: England, Country Life, Country Life - England, Pastoral Fiction, Thrush Green (Imaginary Place)
Albert! Kit has cleared the snow from the pens, I know, but I should appreciate it if you would check that they all have plenty of dry bedding. And I've got some cabbage leaves here which they'll all enjoy.'
She made her way into the larder, and Albert was about to nip to the sink with his unwanted drink when Dotty returned with a large basket.
'I'll do it right away,' promised Albert, taking the basket and making for the door.
Dotty watched him stumping towards the chicken run, and then turned back to the table.
'There!' she exclaimed, seeing Albert's mug. 'He forgot his delicious blackcurrant!'
For the rest of January the fields around Thrush Green lay white and unblemished, stretching their glistening purity as far as the eye could see.
But at Thrush Green and Lulling the scene was different.
Here the snow was pock-marked with drips from the trees, and stained by the traffic which had thrown slush upon it.
Each day it shrank a little in the hour or two of comparative warmth at midday. The piles of besmirched snow at the roadsides dwindled slowly. The crisp crunchiness had vanished, and boots now squelched rather than squeaked as their wearers went their way.
It was still bitterly cold at night when frost came with the darkness. The first excitement about the snow had long vanished, giving way to a feeling of endurance and a longing for spring.
On the last evening of the month Harold Shoosmith went upstairs to draw the curtains in the bedroom. A new moon, a silver crescent, was rising above the houses across Thrush Green. He opened a window and looked out.
Everything was still. The lights from the Two Pheasants shone upon a black-and-white world. Nathaniel Patten's statue threw a black stain across the snow around him.
Harold's face grew cold. His breath blew a little cloud into the silence about him.
Suddenly, from the bare branches of a lilac tree the stillness was broken by the sweet sad song of a robin.
Gently, Harold shut the window.
February
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
A.C. Swinburne
On the second day of the new month the wind changed course and turned from north-east to south-west, much to the relief of everyone.
Now the snow shrank faster, revealing the brown ploughed fields around Thrush Green, and the gardens which had been hidden for so long.
With the thaw came floods. The River Pleshy which bisected Lulling overflowed its banks and spread sheets of water across the meadows beside it. At the lowest point in the town, near the ancient bridge which spanned the Pleshy, the water was two feet deep at one time, and the cellars of the adjacent houses were full of muddy water in which floated such things as deck chairs, garden tables, demoted chests of drawers and other household flotsam, together with beer barrels and smaller kegs.
At Thrush Green the last of the snow slid from the roofs with soft plops, and little rivers gurgled along the gutters and down the hill to join the floods in Lulling High Street. Wellington boots were the only sensible footwear as people slid and squelched their way around.
But it was warm again. The sun shone, lighting the dripping trees into chandeliers of shining droplets. The snowdrops were out, and the stubby green noses of later bulbs pushed above the glistening earth. Nature was on the move again, and everyone rejoiced.
Molly Curdle, making her way across the green from her house to her father's, breathed in the fresh air with rapture. It seemed a very long time since she had been outside and able to enjoy a world beyond that of her own kitchen and that of Joan Young's. The return of colour to the view was particularly welcome. The harsh light from the unrelenting snow everywhere had had a depressing effect, and to see green grass, brown earth, and one or two brave early flowers such as snowdrops and the yellow fronds of witch-hazel raised the spirits of all who had been housebound for so long.
Albert Piggott was not in,
She made her way into the larder, and Albert was about to nip to the sink with his unwanted drink when Dotty returned with a large basket.
'I'll do it right away,' promised Albert, taking the basket and making for the door.
Dotty watched him stumping towards the chicken run, and then turned back to the table.
'There!' she exclaimed, seeing Albert's mug. 'He forgot his delicious blackcurrant!'
For the rest of January the fields around Thrush Green lay white and unblemished, stretching their glistening purity as far as the eye could see.
But at Thrush Green and Lulling the scene was different.
Here the snow was pock-marked with drips from the trees, and stained by the traffic which had thrown slush upon it.
Each day it shrank a little in the hour or two of comparative warmth at midday. The piles of besmirched snow at the roadsides dwindled slowly. The crisp crunchiness had vanished, and boots now squelched rather than squeaked as their wearers went their way.
It was still bitterly cold at night when frost came with the darkness. The first excitement about the snow had long vanished, giving way to a feeling of endurance and a longing for spring.
On the last evening of the month Harold Shoosmith went upstairs to draw the curtains in the bedroom. A new moon, a silver crescent, was rising above the houses across Thrush Green. He opened a window and looked out.
Everything was still. The lights from the Two Pheasants shone upon a black-and-white world. Nathaniel Patten's statue threw a black stain across the snow around him.
Harold's face grew cold. His breath blew a little cloud into the silence about him.
Suddenly, from the bare branches of a lilac tree the stillness was broken by the sweet sad song of a robin.
Gently, Harold shut the window.
February
And in green underwood and cover
Blossom by blossom the spring begins.
A.C. Swinburne
On the second day of the new month the wind changed course and turned from north-east to south-west, much to the relief of everyone.
Now the snow shrank faster, revealing the brown ploughed fields around Thrush Green, and the gardens which had been hidden for so long.
With the thaw came floods. The River Pleshy which bisected Lulling overflowed its banks and spread sheets of water across the meadows beside it. At the lowest point in the town, near the ancient bridge which spanned the Pleshy, the water was two feet deep at one time, and the cellars of the adjacent houses were full of muddy water in which floated such things as deck chairs, garden tables, demoted chests of drawers and other household flotsam, together with beer barrels and smaller kegs.
At Thrush Green the last of the snow slid from the roofs with soft plops, and little rivers gurgled along the gutters and down the hill to join the floods in Lulling High Street. Wellington boots were the only sensible footwear as people slid and squelched their way around.
But it was warm again. The sun shone, lighting the dripping trees into chandeliers of shining droplets. The snowdrops were out, and the stubby green noses of later bulbs pushed above the glistening earth. Nature was on the move again, and everyone rejoiced.
Molly Curdle, making her way across the green from her house to her father's, breathed in the fresh air with rapture. It seemed a very long time since she had been outside and able to enjoy a world beyond that of her own kitchen and that of Joan Young's. The return of colour to the view was particularly welcome. The harsh light from the unrelenting snow everywhere had had a depressing effect, and to see green grass, brown earth, and one or two brave early flowers such as snowdrops and the yellow fronds of witch-hazel raised the spirits of all who had been housebound for so long.
Albert Piggott was not in,
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