That shows how real it is."
"They're somewhere, though," observed Judy.
They stood and watched the spade; it went in with a crunching sound;
it came out slowly with a sort of "pouf," and a load of rich, black
earth slid off it into the world of sunshine. It went in again, it
came out again; the rhythm of the movement caught them. How long they
watched it no one knew, and no one cared to know: it might have been a
moment, it may have been a year or two; so utterly had hurry vanished
out of life it seemed to them they stood and watched for ever...when
they became aware of a curious sensation, as though they felt the
whole earth turning with them. They were moving, surely. Something to
which they belonged, of which they formed a part--was moving. A windy
voice was singing just in front of them. They looked up. The words
were inaudible, but they knew it was a bit of the same old song that
every one seemed singing everywhere as though the Day itself were
singing.
The Tramp was going on.
"Hark!" said Tim. "The birds are singing. Let's go on and look."
"The world is wild with laughter," Judy cried, snatching the words
from the air about her.
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