Only the disciples of magic like getting their feet wet, and being furiously happy on an empty stomach.
Sarah Brown went to her window.

The newborn trembling slants of smoke went up from the houses of the island.

There was a sky of that quiet design which suffices half a day unchanged.

A garden of quite a good many yards lay behind the house; it contained no potatoes or anything useful, only long, very green grass, and a may tree, and a witch dancing.

The extraordinary music to which she was dancing was partly the braying of a neighbouring donkey, and partly her own erratic singing.
She danced, as you may imagine, in a very far from grown-up way, rather like a baby that has thought of a new funny way of annoying its Nana; and she sang, too, like a child that inadvertently bursts into loud tuneless song, because it is morning and yet too early to get up.