Lost

Purple heath, golden gorse, and tufts of broom. Tall pines with
branches like steps to tempt you to climb. Regular precipices after
climbing above the sand-pit, from which you could jump into the soft
sand, and then slide and roll down to the bottom. Once I jumped upon a
little promontory high above the slope, and it gave way, and I slid down
on about a ton of matted root and earth and sand.

Then we climbed to the sand-martins' nests, and slipped down or rolled
down, and climbed again, and along ledges, and thrust in our arms, but
nesting was over for the year, and the swift little birds made their
nurseries beyond our reach, for we did not find the bottom of one single
hole.

Shock was full of fun, and shouted and threw sand at Juno, who barked,
and made believe to bite him, and rolled over and over with him down
some slope, to be half buried in the sand at the bottom.

We soon forgot all about Ike, but we once smelt a whiff of tobacco,
which seemed to be mingled with the sweet scent of the pines in the hot
sunshine.

There were butterflies, too, red admirals, that came flitting into the
sandy bottom, and settled on the face of the sandy cliff, but always
sailed away before we got near. Then we went out on to the wild
heathery waste to the south, and chased lizards in the dry short growth.
Then Shock uttered an excited cry and drew back Juno, who was sniffing,
and struck two or three rapid blows at something, ending by stooping and
raising a little writhing serpent by the tail.