A few steps farther on a fox broke almost under their bare feet, yapped, and trotted off. ‘Ah, Mus’ Reynolds--Mus’ Reynolds’--Dan was quoting from old Hobden,--‘if I knowed all you knowed, I’d know something.’ [See ‘The Winged Hats’ in PUCK OF POOK’S HILL.] I say,’--Una lowered her voice--‘you know that funny feeling of things having happened before. I felt it when you said “Mus’ Reynolds.”’ ‘So did I,’ Dan began. ‘What is it?’ They faced each other, stammering with excitement. ‘Wait a shake! I’ll remember in a minute. Wasn’t it something about a fox--last year? Oh, I nearly had it then!’ Dan cried. ‘Be quiet!’ said Una, prancing excitedly. ‘There was something happened before we met the fox last year. Hills! Broken Hills--the play at the theatre--see what you see--’ ‘I remember now,’ Dan shouted. ‘It’s as plain as the nose on your face--Pook’s Hill--Puck’s Hill--Puck!’ ‘I remember, too,’ said Una. ‘And it’s Midsummer Day again!’ The young fern on a knoll rustled, and Puck walked out, chewing a green-topped rush. ‘Good Midsummer Morning to you! Here’s a happy meeting,’ said he. They shook hands all round, and asked questions. ‘You’ve wintered well,’ he said after a while, and looked them up and down. ‘Nothing much wrong with you, seemingly.’ ‘They’ve put us into boots,’ said Una. ‘Look at my feet--they’re all pale white, and my toes are squidged together awfully.’ ‘Yes--boots make a difference.’ Puck wriggled his brown, square, hairy foot, and cropped a dandelion flower between the big toe and the next. ‘I could do that--last year,’ Dan said dismally, as he tried and failed. ‘And boots simply ruin one’s climbing.’ ‘There must be some advantage to them, I suppose,’said Puck, or folk wouldn’t wear them. Shall we come this way?’ They sauntered along side by side till they reached the gate at the far end of the hillside. Here they halted just like cattle, and let the sun warm their backs while they listened to the flies in the wood. ‘Little Lindens is awake,’ said Una, as she hung with her chin on the top rail. ‘See the chimney smoke?’ ‘Today’s Thursday, isn’t it?’ Puck turned to look at the old pink farmhouse across the little valley. ‘Mrs Vincey’s baking day. Bread should rise well this weather.’ He yawned, and that set them both yawning. The bracken about rustled and ticked and shook in every direction. They felt that little crowds were stealing past. ‘Doesn’t that sound like--er--the People of the Hills?’ said Una. ‘It’s the birds and wild things drawing up to the woods before people get about,’ said Puck, as though he were Ridley the keeper. ‘Oh, we know that. I only said it sounded like.’ ‘As I remember ‘em, the People of the Hills used to make more noise. They’d settle down for the day rather like small birds settling down for the night. But that was in the days when they carried the high hand. Oh, me! The deeds that I’ve had act and part in, you’d scarcely believe!’