quiet protected static soil loss

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appreciate Washington 's Olympic Park , admire a man named Gordon Hampton .

He is diligently pursuing a peaceful city , he said the city should leave a quiet place , where the biggest noise is the sound of leaves fall . In this city ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], have no quiet , and only here, only . However, it is so fragile,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], so the need to protect , so easy like hands ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], like sand , and slowly drain. Hampton Park has become quiet

Sound. In the park , the lowest decibel sound is 26 dB , the noise is alder leaves falling down the sound.

However, Hampton also satisfied, because he found the flights through the skies above the park , although only a few flights a day , but he can not stand the sound of these flights . He protested to the airline and ask them to modify the route so that planes do not fly over the park over .

this airline , it is an unacceptable requirement. However, Hampton 's stubborn and insisted , so airlines have to make concessions on all flights routes were modified .

I can not go to Hampton ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], Washington,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], USA This is known as the To find a quiet place ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], and then , like the protection of their own lives , protecting it.
( Editor : sammy)
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[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

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The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box--
"We shall see some more of them by-and-by."
"More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked.
"There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm."
We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people's voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.
I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts.