When daylight faded the village was very
dark--no lamp for the visitors--and very silent, only the low
murmur of the sea on the shingle was audible, and the gurgling
sound of a swift streamlet flowing from the hill above and
hurrying through the village to mingle with the Branscombe
lower down in the meadows. Such a profound darkness and quiet
one expects in an inland agricultural village; here, where
there were visitors from many distant towns, it was novel and
infinitely refreshing.
No sooner was it dark than all were in bed and asleep; not one
square path of yellow light was visible. To enjoy the
sensation I went out and sat down, and listened alone to the
liquid rippling, warbling sound of the swift-flowing
streamlet--that sweet low music of running water to which the
reed-warbler had listened thousands of years ago, striving to
imitate it, until his running rippling song was perfect.
A fresh surprise and pleasure awaited me when I explored the
coast east of the village; it was bold and precipitous in
places, and from the summit of the cliff a very fine view of
the coast-line on either hand could be obtained. Best of all,
the face of the cliff itself was the breeding-place of some
hundreds of herring-gulls. The eggs at the period of my visit
were not yet hatched, but highly incubated, and at that stage
both parents are almost constantly at home, as if in a state
of anxious suspense.
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