Meadows of Asphodel. 57 



This sunny morning has tempted him from his winter 

 sleep to make the most of the last few weeks of his 

 brief existence. 



In the topmost branches of a beech, that lifts its 

 slender column high above the underwood, a party of 

 linnets have alighted. They are singing all at once, 

 and as the spray that bends beneath their weight 

 swings gently in the wind, the rhythm of their song 

 seems just in keeping with the dreamy motion. 



From the depths of a broad holly bush below there 

 comes the note of a restless blackbird, whose mate is 

 perhaps by this time sitting on her eggs in the friendly 

 shelter of the prickly bush. 



Presently something startles him outright, and he 

 dashes headlong from cover with a shriek of terror 

 loud enough to frighten all the birds in the valley. 



In old days, so runs the legend, some master of the 

 Black Art surprised in his cavern a white bird un- 

 earthing with irreverent bill the treasures concealed 

 beneath the floor. Still the unhappy bird wears 

 the suit of sable to which, by the wand of the 

 enchanter, was changed his garb of snow. Still 

 the blackbird repeats the scream he uttered as 

 he fled headlong from the terrible presence. Still 

 to his beak there clings a trace of the magician's 

 gold. 



Close by, the footfall of a bird stirs among the 

 withered leaves, and presently a robin flies up into 

 the dwarf oak-tree overhead, and flits uneasily from 



