The coastland times. [volume] (Mnateo [i.e. Manteo], N.C.) 1947-1959, 1956-08-03
THE HIGHER
THE FEWER
There's Always Plenty of Room
At The Top
By Il
NANCY ]. MIDGETT

Lying " OdtIlC dSdIiSt q 0AONot-
ness brought on by loss of sleep
the night before when running
round the house shutting windows
against the thunder storm, L was
nearly lulled fast asleep by the
works of some Industrious neigh
bour who was cutting the grass
in his garden.
The sweet scent of the newly
mown grass took me back to
ambles through the countryside,
both in the spring of the. year,
when the earth gives forth its
fresh clean smells as if the frosts
and SHOWS had cancelled out all
the impurities of the dying fall,
and the warming sun, with the
breezes, still cool but not enough
to send me hurrying on my way,
and in the fullness of summer
when the sound of the bees in the
flowers and wild blossoms and the
strong heady scents, called me to
stop, choose a shady spot where
/ could look out over the sunlit
countryside, and just look and
listen.
l must admit / miss the ability
in this part of the world to just
take a dime or twenty cents worth
of bus ride or a train and arrive
where l can take a side road or
lane off the highway or main mo-
tor road, walk along until l come
to gate or stile, go through or
climb over as the case might be,
and be able to walk for the next
two or more hours, on grass or
wooded paths where, if the sounds
of traffic can still be heard they
are at least muted so that they
form the background rather than
the immediate and sometimes ear
splitting fullness of the listening
present.
Like the call to go fishing that
enters the heart or system of many
small boys and large boys for that
matter, the call to go walking
enters the blood of those who have
been brought up in the habit and
in country surroundings even if
those surroundings are within
easy travelling distance of a town
or city, as is usual in England or
the British Isles in general, Rich
ard Jeffries in his London Over
ture" writes of it as follows:
"Never go by stile without
getting over it and following the
path. But they all end in one place.
After rambling across furze and
heath, or through dark fir woods;
after lingering in the meadows
among the buttercups, or by the
copses where the pheasants crow;
after gathering June roses, or in
later days staining the lips with
blackberries, or cracking nuts, by
and by the path brings you in
sight a railway station. And the
railway. station, through some
process of mind, presently COM
pels you to go up on the platform,
and after a little putting and
revolution of wheels, you emerge
at Charing Cross, or London
Bridge, or Waterloo, or Ludgate
Hill, and with the freshness of the
meadows still clinging to your
coast, mingle with the crowd. The
inevitable end of every footpath
roundabout London, is London. All
paths go thither. If it were far
away in the distant country you
might sit down in the shadow up
on the hay and fall asleep, or
dream awake hour after hour.
There would be no inclination to
move. But if you sat down on the
grass, under the ancient pollard
oak in the little mead with the
brook and the wood of which /
spoke just now as like a glade in
the enchanted forest of Alden, this
would not be possible. 1t is the
proximity of the immense city
which induces a mental, a nerve
restlessness. AS you sit and would
dream, a something plucks at your
mind with constant reminder; you
cannot dream for long, you must
up, and away, and, turn in which
direction you please, ultimately it
will lead you to London.
There is a fascination in it,
he continued; "there is a magne-
tism stronger than that of the
rock which drew the nails from
Sinbad's ship. You are like a bird
let out with a string tied to the
foot to flutter a little way and
return again. 1t is not business,
for you may have none, in the ordi-
nary sense; it is not society, il
is not pleasure. 1t is the presence
of man in his myriads. There is
something in the heart that can
not be satisfied away from it. II
is a curious thing that your next
door neighbour may be a stranger
but there are no strangers in q
vast crowd. They all seem to have
some relationship, or rather, per-
haps, they do not rouse the sense
of r,nSarva which q cingla ,,nLnox.y,,