George Gibbs

The Golden Bough George Gibbs

In the still evening air the dust hung golden for a moment and then slowly settled on tree and hedgerow; from a distance, faintly diminishing, the tinkle of sheep bells, the call of a bird, the sighing of a breeze, and then, silence. Against the stillness, suddenly, as though pricked upon the velvety background of the summer night, a quick, sharp staccato note near at hand, a crackle as of brittle things breaking and a large thorn bush by the side of the deserted road quivered and shook as its leaves parted and a head appeared.