The sun makes dancing spots of dark and light between the fluttering
leaves, and throws a changing shadow upon yon deep pool, where a grand
old beech, festooned with clematis, leans its gray trunk far over as
if to bless the stream whose waters, bubbling swiftly over the pebbles
a little higher up, calm themselves here to rest in peace. The
wood-thrush sends its plaintive, solitary note of silver-globuled
melody from the inmost forest. No other sound, save when a wagon now
and then rolls its quick rumble across a bridge, and then is gone like
some self-conscious intruder. But luxury like this is the very thief
of time. Before you are aware the waves of heat have ceased to form a
throbbing air-hive for humming insects, and the cool of early twilight
has come on, attended by lengthening shadows. And so home again along
the dewy fields, while an orchestra of crickets chirps a happy end
beneath the summer stars to the day that is done. It is in ways like
this that poets renew their souls, the old their youth, and weary
hearts, in sweet release from care, gain strength for life.
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