the Worcestershire sunbonnets came to see them start, and, well supplied
with stone gingerbeer from the Queen's Head--Queen Elizabeth's head, as it
happens--off they went, Gregory beside Kink, and Hester inside reading Hans
Andersen's story of the nightingale.

The others, after waving good-bye, set their feet bravely towards the
slopes of Bredon Hill--no small undertaking, for it is very steep and the
day was hot. But the pathway is pleasant, first passing by the gardens of
the great house, where, burning blue on the wall, they saw their visitor of
the night; and then through a deep lane to a hillocky meadow, and so up to
the turf of the higher slopes, where the views begin, and where it is very
agreeable to rest.

But Robert urged them on. "It is quite flat at the top," he said, "and
there is a tower at the very edge, and a perfect place for a picnic."

Here we will leave them, climbing pantingly up, and follow the Slowcoach,
as Moses drew it steadily along the lanes at the base of the hill, between
the high hedges. At first, as I said, Kink and Gregory walked; but after a
while they both sat in front, just over the shafts, and Gregory held the
reins (he called it driving), and they discussed life--which means that
Gregory asked a thousand questions and Kink did his best to answer or
ignore them.

"It's not true, is it, that when all the cows in a field stand up it's
going to rain?"

"Don't you think Bredon Hill would be a ripping place to start to fly from?"

"Shall we stop and cook our dinner, or have cold things?"