A country ‘roadside’ railway station seemed deserted upon a warm August afternoon.  It was all but concealed on that level ground by the hedges and trees of the fields with which it was surrounded.  There was no sound of man or wheels, and nothing moving upon the platform.  On the low green banks of the rail, where the mast-like telegraph poles stood, the broad leaves of the coltsfoot almost covered the earth, and were dusty with the sand whirled up an hour since behind the rushing express.  By the footpath, higher up under the close-cropped hedge, the yarrow flourished, lifting its white flower beside the trodden soil.  The heavy boots of the platelayers walking to and fro to their work on the permanent way brushed against it, and crushed the venturous fibres of the creeping cinquefoil that stretched into the path.  From the yellow standing wheat the sparrows rose in a bevy, and settled upon the hedge, chirping merrily.  Farther away, where a meadow had been lately mown, the swallows glided to and fro, but just above the short grass, round and round, under the shadow of the solitary oaks.  Over the green aftermath is the swallows’ favourite haunt when the day, though passing fair, does not look like settled weather.  For lack of such weather the reapers have not yet entered the ripening corn.

But, for the hour, the sun shines brightly, and a narrow line along the upper surfaces of the metals, burnished by the polishing friction of a thousand wheels, glints like silver under the rays.  The red brick of the booking-office looks redder and more staring under the fierce light.  The door is locked, and there is no waiting-room in which to take shelter; nothing but a projecting roof over a part of the platform.  On the lintel is the stationmaster’s name painted in small white letters, like the name of the landlord over the doorway of an inn.  Two corded boxes lie on the platform, and near them stand half a dozen rusty milk tins, empty.  With the exception of a tortoiseshell cat basking in the sunshine, there seems nothing living in the station, and the long endless rails stretching on either side in a straight line are vacant.  For hours during the day the place slumbers, and a passenger gliding by in the express may well wonder why a station was built at all in the midst of trees and hedges without so much as a single visible house.

But by night and very early in the morning there is bustle enough.  Then the white painted cattle pen yonder, from which the animals are forced into the cattle trucks, is full of frightened beasts, lowing doubtfully, and only goaded in by the resounding blows upon their backs.  Then the sheep file in in more patient ranks, but also doubtful and bleating as they go.  An engine snorts to and fro, shunting coal waggons on to the siding—­coal for the traction engines, and to be consumed in threshing out the golden harvest around.  Signalmen, with red and green lights, rush hither and thither, the bull’s-eyes now concealed by the trucks, and now flashing out brightly like strange will-o’-the-wisps.  At intervals long and heavy goods trains go by, causing the solid earth to tremble.