“Let’s go up to the mill,” he said. “Come on.”

The first boy went on. His bare feet made no sound, falling softer than leaves in the thin dust. In the orchard bees sounded like a wind getting up, a sound caught by a spell just under crescendo and sustained. The lane went along the wall, arched over, shattered with bloom, dissolving into trees. Sunlight slanted into it, sparse and eager. Yellow butterflies flickered along the shade like flecks of sun.

—William Faulkner, THE SOUND AND THE FURY