Up the Hill and Over

Up the Hill and Over, by Isabel
Ecclestone

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Ecclestone Mackay
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Title: Up the Hill and Over
Author: Isabel Ecclestone Mackay
Release Date: December 12, 2003 [eBook #10438]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1
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HILL AND OVER***
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UP THE HILL

AND OVER
BY
ISABEL ECCLESTONE MACKAY Author of "The House of
Windows," etc.

The road runs back and the road runs on, But the air has a scent of
clover. And another day brings another dawn, When we're up the hill
and over.

TO MY MOTHER
WHO MIGHT HAVE LIKED THIS BOOK HAD SHE LIVED TO
READ IT
CHAPTER I
"From Wimbleton to Wombleton is fifteen miles, From Wombleton to
Wimbleton is fifteen miles, From Wombleton to Wimbleton, From
Wimbleton to Wombleton, From Wombleton--to Wimbleton--is
fif--teen miles!"
The cheery singing ended abruptly with the collapse of the singer upon
a particularly inviting slope of grass. He was very dusty. He was very
hot. The way from Wimbleton to Wombleton seemed suddenly
extraordinarily long and tiresome. The slope was green and cool. Just
below it slept a cool, green pool, deep, delicious--a swimming pool
such as dreams are made of.
If there were no one about--but there was some one about. Further
down the slope, and stretched at full length upon it, lay a small boy.
Near the small boy lay a packet of school books.
The wayfarer's lips relaxed in an appreciative smile.

"Little boy," he called, somewhat hoarsely on account of the dust in his
throat, "little boy, can you tell me how far it is from here to
Wimbleton?"
Apparently the little boy was deaf.
The questioner raised his voice, "or if you can oblige me with the exact
distance to Wombleton," he went on earnestly, "that will do quite as
well."
No answer, civil or otherwise, from the youth by the pool. Only a
convulsive wiggle intended to cover the undefended position of the
school books.
The traveller's smile broadened but he made no further effort toward
sociability. Neither did he go away. To the dismayed eyes, watching
through the cover of some long grass, he was clearly a person devoid of
all fine feeling. Or perhaps he had never been taught not to stay where
he wasn't wanted. Mebby he didn't even know that he wasn't wanted.
In order to remove all doubt as to the latter point, the small boy's head
shot up suddenly out of the covering grass.
"What d'ye want?" he asked forbiddingly.
"Little boy," said the stranger, "I thank you. I want for nothing."
The head collapsed, but quickly came up again.
"Ain't yeh goin' anywhere?" asked a despairing voice.
"I was going, little boy, but I have stopped."
This was so true that the small boy sat up and scowled.
"I judge," went on the other, "that I am now midway between Arden,
otherwise, Wimbleton, and Arcady, sometime known as Wombleton.
The question is, which way and how? A simple sum in arithmetic
will--little boy, do not frown like that! The wind may change. Smile

nicely, and I'll tell you something."
Urged by necessity, the badgered one attempted to look pleasant.
"That's better! Now, my cheerful child, what I really want to know is
'how many miles to Babylon?'"
A reluctant grin showed that the small boy's early education had not
been utterly neglected. "Aw, what yeh givin' us?" he protested
sheepishly, "if it's Coombe you're lookin' for, it's 'bout a mile and a half
down the next holler."
"Holler?" the stranger's tone was faintly questioning. "Oh, I see. You
mean 'hollow,' which being interpreted means 'valley,' which means, I
fear, another hill. Little boy, do you want to carry a knapsack?"
"Nope."
"No? Strange that nobody seems to want to carry a knapsack. I least of
all. Well," lifting the object with disfavour, "good-day to you. I
perceive that you grow impatient for those aquatic pleasures for which
you have temporarily abjured the more severe delights of scholarship.
Little boy, I wish you a very good swim."
"Gee," muttered the small boy, "gee, ain't he the word-slinger!"
He returned to the pool but something of its charm was dissipated.
Vague thoughts of school inspectors and retribution troubled its waters.
Not that he was at all afraid of school inspectors, or that he really
suspected the stranger of being one. Still, discretion