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Updated: June 18, 2025
Only then can one hope to be different; only so can one climb the weary ladder of patience and faith. March 28, 1889. Low-hung ragged grey skies, heaven smeared with watery vapours fleeting, broken and mournful, from the west these above me, as I stand by the old lichened gate of the high wind-swept field at the top of the wold.
They could see the tiger's outline now the lithe, low-hung body, the tail that twitched up and down. "Then pull the trigger," Warwick whispered. The whole jungle world rocked and trembled from the violence of the report.
There were shimmering gleams of pearly white and ivory yellow, under beardy trails of moss old as the marble out of which it grew. And over high walls, delicate branches of acacia and tamarisk beckoned us, above low-hung drapery of wistaria, that dropped purple tassels to the lapping water's edge.
In this happy frame of mind she presently entered the low-hung, swift-motored car, settled herself on the luxurious cushions and said "Home, at once!" to Herrick. He nodded, but did not speak. He felt, in truth, somewhat incapable of quite incoherent speech.
It was October now, and a sharp night frost warned them of the hard white moons to come. Quonab, as he broke the ice in a tin cup and glanced at the low-hung sun, said: "The leaves are falling fast; snow comes soon; we need another line of traps." He stopped suddenly; stared across the lake.
They descended to a subterranean chamber where, in a pit lighted by low-hung shaded globes, men in shirt sleeves clicked the red and white balls on a score of tables. Rows of leather-upholstered chairs gave comfort to spectators. They commandeered seats and lighted cigarettes. "Look," Stubby said. "There's Norman Gower." Young Gower sat across a corner from them. He was in evening clothes.
Southey's "April Day." "All day the low-hung clouds have dropped Their garnered fullness down. All day a soft gray mist hath wrapped Hill, valley, grove and town." Bryant's "Death of the Flowers;" Campbell's "Lochiel's Warning;" and the trial scene from Shakespeare's Merchant of Venice. All these became favorite reading exercises in later years.
On arriving at Axe Station for the previous Christmas holidays, he had seen two low-hung lamps brilliantly flashing instead of the higher and less powerful lamps of the dogcart, and there had been no light-reflecting flanks of a horse in front of the lamps. The dark figure sitting behind the lamps proved to be his mother. His mother herself had driven him home.
"You take the picture and keep your opinions to yourself," snapped Shirley whose hearing was highly trained. The man lapsed into silence. For two hours they fumed and perspired and swore, under the intense heat of the low-hung mercury lamps, until at last a test proved they had the right combination.
I knew that he must have taken it from some low-hung nest, but taken it in innocence, for he looked at it with solicitude as an object of tender and fragile beauty. He had never given a thought to the mother's days of patient brooding, nor that he was robbing the summer world of one bird's flight and one bird's song. "Did you hear the whippoorwills singing last night, Daddy?" I asked.
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