will be warm and happy.

Out of the window I can see hens pecking in an orchard, and an old grey
pony browsing. The leaves are yellow, and there's no wind.

The old man and the old lady to whom the cottage belong have brought me
in some little "remèdes," which Tim refuses to let me have. One is what
the old man (an ex-chemist) calls "salicite de métal," and the other is
what the old lady calls a "remède de bonne femme." You rub yourself with
it all over every two hours!

Tick, tick, tick, tick. Lovely! The old clock is rumbling. It is about
to strike twelve.

It has struck twelve--no, not struck twelve, rather it has buzzed
twelve, like some old happy bee.

The hens are still pecking about in the orchard, and the grey pony is
rubbing himself against a tree.

All so cosy and delicious. Now for a doze.


_November 7._

[Sidenote: DOZING]

Here's a poem. It's called

HENS.