The hart's-tongue ferns, matted all over the steep banks, hang down like the tongues of thirsty dogs.

The bees blunder sleepily from flower to flower.

The black and crimson butterflies take short flights and long panting rests.

Even the late wild roses seem less saucily cheerful than usual, and the branching ferns on the hillsides look as though they were cast in bronze.
I have seen it all just so a thousand times, and have passed down from the sweet blowing wind above to the crisp breath of the sea below, without wakening the little valley from its sleep.
But on one such day it had a very rude awakening.

For, without a moment's warning, half the population of the Island came pouring down the steep way towards the sea.