Grey bare hills surrounded the waste:  a partridge called far off:  evening was drawing in.  He rose wearily, and yet with a certain fervour, as one that pursues With devotion a lamentable quest.  Looking round him as he left his resting-place he saw a cabbage or two that after some while had come back to what was a field and had sprouted on the edge of a shell-hole.  A yellowing convolvulus climbed up a dead weed.  Weeds, grass and tumbled earth were all about him.  It would be no better when he went on.  Still he went on.  A flower or two peeped up among the weeds.  He stood up and looked at the landscape and drew no hope from that, the shattered trunk of a stricken tree leered near him, white trenches scarred the hillside.  He followed an old trench through a hedge of elder, passed under more wire, by a great rusty shell that had not burst, passed by a dug-out where something grey seemed to lie down at the bottom of many steps.  Black fungi grew near the entrance.  He went on and on over shell-holes, passing round them where they were deep, stepping into or over the small ones.  Little burrs clutched at him; he went rustling on, the only sound in the waste but the clicking of shattered iron.  Now he was among nettles.  He came by many small unnatural valleys.  He passed more trenches only guarded by fungi.  While it was light he followed little paths, marvelling who made them.  Once he got into a trench.  Dandelions leaned across it as though to bar his way, believing man to have gone and to have no right to return.  Weeds thronged, in thousands here.  It was the day of the weeds.  It was only they that seemed to triumph in those fields deserted of man.  He passed on down the trench and never knew whose trench it once had been.  Frightful shells had smashed it here and there, and had twisted iron as though round gigantic fingers that had twiddled it idly a moment and let it drop to lie in the rain for ever.  He passed more dug-outs and black fungi, watching them; and then he left the trench, going straight on over the open:  again dead grasses hissed about his feet, sometimes small wire sang faintly He passed through a belt of nettles and thence to dead grass again.  And now the light of the afternoon was beginning to dwindle away.  He had intended to reach his journey’s end by daylight, for he was past the time of life when one wanders after dark, but he had not contemplated the difficulty of walking over that road, or dreamed that lanes he knew could be so foundered and merged, in that mournful desolate moor.

Evening was filling fast, still he kept on.  It was the time when the cornstacks would once have begun to grow indistinct, and slowly turn grey in the greyness, and homesteads one by one would have lit their innumerable lights.  But evening now came down on a dreary desolation:  and a cold wind arose; and the traveller heard the mournful sound of iron flapping on broken things, and knew that this was the sound that would haunt the waste for ever.