When
he looked to his first book for comfort he found the same horrid
phenomenon taking place in its familiar pages. Sometimes when he was
disheartened by his fruitless efforts he slipped out into the
streets, fixing his attention on concrete objects to rest his tired
mind. But he could not help noticing that London had discovered the
secret which made his intellectual life a torment. The streets were
more than a mere assemblage of houses, London herself was more than a
tangled skein of streets, and overhead heaven was more than a
meeting-place of individual stars. What was this secret that made
words into a book, houses into cities, and restless and measurable
stars into an unchanging and immeasurable universe?
The Bird In The Garden
The room in which the Burchell family lived in Love Street, S.E., was
underground and depended for light and air on a grating let into the
pavement above.
Uncle John, who was a queer one, had filled the area with green
plants and creepers in boxes and tins hanging from the grating, so
that the room itself obtained very little light indeed, but there
was always a nice bright green place for the people sitting in it to
look at. Toby, who had peeped into the areas of other little boys,
knew that his was of quite exceptional beauty, and it was with a
certain awe that he helped Uncle John to tend the plants in the
morning, watering them and taking the pieces of paper and straws
that had fallen through the grating from their hair.
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