The weather continued to get brighter and colder, and suddenly the world was full of colour again, and the light was so bright that Algy’s eyes could hardly adjust to it after months of gloomy grey half-light. He set off into the sunshine, and flew over to a high point on the north coast, where he found a fine spot to sunbathe which was sheltered from the bitter north-east wind. The sea had turned deep blue, and he could see for miles in every direction. It was a truly glorious late-winter afternoon!

This is the time of year when Algy is able to watch beautiful Hebridean sunsets over the sea and islands from his own tree, and he recites to himself:

          This is the land the sunset washes,
          These are the banks of the Yellow Sea;
          Where it rose, or whither it rushes,
          These are the western mystery!

          Night after night her purple traffic
          Strews the landing with opal bales;
          Merchantmen poise upon horizons,
          Dip, and vanish with fairy sails.

[Algy is reciting Emily Dickinson’s poem This is the land the sunset washes.]