"Eh! We're on the moor now sure enough," said Mrs. Medlock.
The carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them. A wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.
"It's--it's not the sea, is it?" said Mary, looking around at her companion.
"No, not it," answered Mrs. Medlock. "Nor it isn't fields nor mountains, it's just miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on it but wild ponies and sheep."
"I feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it," said Mary. "It sounds like the sea just now."
"That's the wind blowing through the bushes," Mrs. Medlock said. "It's a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there's plenty that lies it--particularly when the heather's in bloom."
--from The Secret Garden, by Frances Hodgson Burnett
ISLE OF ERISKA
photo: Dennis Hardley