Little Lindens stands. The old farmhouse weather-tiled to the ground took almost the colour of a blood-ruby in the afternoon light. The pigeons pecked at the mortar in the chimney-stacks; the bees that had lived under the tiles since it was built filled the hot August air with their booming; and the smell of the box-tree by the dairy- window mixed with the smell of earth after rain bread after baking and a tickle of wood-smoke. The farmer's wife came to the door baby on arm shaded her brows against... read more
