I kept my eye
upon it, but no sun appeared. I lit another pipe. The sky in front
of me was now a blaze of glory. I scribbled a few lines, likening
the scattered clouds to brides blushing at the approach of the
bridegroom. That would have been all right if later on they hadn't
begun to turn green: it seemed the wrong colour for a bride. Later
on still they went yellow, and that spoilt the simile past hope. One
cannot wax poetical about a bride who at the approach of the
bridegroom turns first green and then yellow: you can only feel
sorry for her. I waited some more. The sky in front of me grew
paler every moment. I began to fear that something had happened to
that sun. If I hadn't known so much astronomy I should have said
that he had changed his mind and had gone back again. I rose with
the idea of seeing into things. He had been up apparently for hours:
he had got up at the back of me. It seemed to be nobody's fault. I
put my pipe into my pocket and strolled round to the front. The cow
was still there; she was pleased to see me, and started bellowing
again.
I heard a sound of whistling. It proceeded from a farmer's boy. I
hailed him, and he climbed a gate and came to me across the field.
He was a cheerful youth. He nodded to the cow and hoped she had had
a good night: he pronounced it "nihet."
"You know the cow?" I said.
"Well," he explained, "we don't precisely move in the sime set.
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