Half an hour afterwards, two of the magistrates riding away from the
town pass a small tavern on the outskirts. A travelling van is outside,
and from the chimney on its roof thin smoke arises. There is a little
group at the doorway, and among them stands the late prisoner. Oby holds
a foaming tankard in one hand, and touches his battered hat, as the
magistrates go by, with a gesture of sly humility.
CHAPTER IX
LUKE, THE RABBIT CONTRACTOR: THE BROOK-PATH
The waggon-track leading to the Upper Woods almost always presented
something of interest, and often of beauty. The solitude of the place
seemed to have attracted flowers and ferns as well as wild animals and
birds. For though flowers have no power of motion, yet seeds have a
negative choice and lie dormant where they do not find a kindly welcome.
But those carried hither by the birds or winds took root and flourished,
secure from the rude ploughshare or the sharp scythe.
The slow rumble of waggon-wheels seldom disturbed the dreamy silence, or
interrupted the song of the birds; so seldom that large docks and
thistles grew calmly beside the ruts untouched by hoofs. From the thick
hedges on either side trailing brambles and briars stretched far out,
and here and there was a fallen branch, broken off by the winds, whose
leaves had turned brown and withered while all else was green.
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