When all the World is Young. 61 



the slopes. Wood violets open shyly their pale eyes, 

 as if conscious of their lost perfume. 



Leaves that promise a very blaze of colour are 

 springing everywhere among the thickets. The bright 

 foliage of the hawthorn, the bronzed palms of the 

 sycamore, the swaying canopies of woodbine, and the 

 feathery tufts upon the larch, seem to fill the glade 

 with a soft green mist and to tinge the very air with 

 their tender tone. 



The wood is all astir with life and music. Chaffinch 

 and oxeye, wren and robin, missel-thrush and black- 

 bird, are singing all day long on every side, and not a 

 note too much, nor ever out of tune. 



Among the swaying elm boughs overhead a willow- 

 warbler, just come back, utters at intervals his gentle 

 song. The quiet little cadence rippling down through 

 the branches has in it almost a murmur of regret, as if 

 for summer lands too soon forsaken. 



It is a quiet spot. There is indeed a pathway here, 

 but so seldom is it used that a thrush has built un- 

 disturbed so near the way that you might touch her 

 with your hand in passing. She is sitting even now. 

 Over the rim of the nest you can see her tail erect, 

 her sharp bright eye that is conscious of your every 

 movement. She will let you almost touch her if you 

 approach her softly, but, just before you can stroke 

 her smooth brown back, she glides away from under 

 your hand, leaving to your mercy the bright blue eggs 

 warm from the pressure of her tender breast. 



