The train runs so fast.
So it does; too fast to let you look long at one thing: but in return, it lets you see so many more things in a given time than the slow old coaches and posters did .-- Well?
what is it?
I wanted to ask you a question, but you won't listen to me.
Won't I?
I suppose I was dreaming with my eyes open.

You see, I have been so often along this line--and through this country, too, long before the line was made--that I cannot pass it without its seeming full of memories--perhaps of ghosts.
Of real ghosts?
As real ghosts, I suspect, as any one on earth ever saw; faces and scenes which have printed themselves so deeply on one's brain, that when one passes the same place, long years after, they start up again, out of fields and roadsides, as if they were alive once more, and need sound sense to send them back again into their place as things which are past for ever, for good and ill.

But what did you want to know?
Why, I am so tired of looking out of the window.

It is all the same: fields and hedges, hedges and fields; and I want to talk.
Fields and hedges, hedges and fields?
Peace and plenty, plenty and peace.

However, it may seem dull, now that the grass is cut; but you would not have said so two months ago, when the fields were all golden- green with buttercups, and the whitethorn hedges like crested waves of snow.