Excerpt from Donal Grant
It was a lovely morning in the first of summer. Yes, we English, whatever we may end with, always begin with the weather, and not without reason. We have more moods, though less subject to them, I hope, than the Italians. Therefore we are put in the middle of weather. They have no weather; where there is so little change, there is at least little to call weather. Weather is the moods of the world, and we need weather good and bad - at one time healing sympathizer with mood, at another fit expression for, at yet another fit corrective to, mood. God only knows in how many ways he causes weather to serve us.
It was a lovely morning in the first of summer. Donal Grant was on a hillside, descending a path to the valley below - a sheep-track of which he knew every winding as well as any boy his half-mile to and from school. But he had never before gone down the hill with the feeling that he was not about to go up it again. He was on his way to pastures very new, and in the distance only negatively inviting.
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