Then when we wanted to fix it up again, the question arose, which was the north? A local light supposed to know everything, who chanced to be passing, was summoned for consultation. After carefully surveying the various corners of heaven, as though looking for enemy air-craft, he said he didn’t know as he could say ezackly which wur the north, unless he had summat to tell him (we all felt like that, too!); but if we would a-float a needle on the top of a basin of water, then either the point of the needle—or—le’s see? maybe ’twas the heye, he wasn’t quite certain which—would point to the north, for sure.
Well, all hands rushed for basins and needles, as you may suppose; because, whether it was the point or the eye didn’t matter much, since we knew the direction in which the north lay; all we wanted was the precise angle. But alas, every needle promptly sank to the bottom of the basin, without so much as a kick!
Eventually we refixed the north pole approximately, pending such time as the Head of Affairs should arrive, when I knew we could rely on the small compass at the end of his watch chain. But Virginia, who uses the weathercock more than most of us, as she sees it from her bedroom window, and says it is so useful to dress by, was lugubriously certain his watch would be stolen on the next journey down, and begged me to place the arrow—still asleep—pointing south; even an approximate south, she said, might at least help to keep her spirits up, when a northeaster was blowing.
And south it remaineth unto this day, despite all our blandishments, and probably will do so till the end of the War, when the retirement of the Food Controller—who, presumably, supervises weathercocks—may permit of our using a modicum of grease.
The old wood-house (which, by the way, was originally used for coals, though no trace of this is left upon its clean, lime-washed interior) is the first building you run across as you enter by the top gate, which is the widest entrance we possess. Here you step from the lane right into a tiny larch plantation, and the path to the cottage is arched over with the boughs of the trees, while the brown cones crunch under your boots, or roll away down the steep incline of the path when your foot touches them. It was among these trees that a small clearing was made in the distant past to accommodate this particular out-building; though why the coal-house was considered the most artistic bit of bric-à-brac to greet you as you enter the main gate is not clear.