of joy and a sudden sense of pathos ? It 

 is a note apart from the symphony to 

 which the summer has moved across the 

 fields and homes of men ; it has no kinship 

 with those flooding, liquid melodies which 

 poured from feathered throats through the 

 long golden days; there is a strain in it 

 that was never caught under blue skies and 

 in the safe nesting of the familiar fields; 

 it is the voice of solitude suddenly break- 

 ing into sound ; it is the speech of that 

 other world so near our doors, and yet 

 removed from us by uncounted centuries 

 and unexplored experiences. 



The spell of silence has been broken, 

 and I venture softly toward the hidden 

 fountain from which this unworldly song 

 has flowed; but I am too slow and too 

 late, and it remains to me a disembodied 

 voice singing the "old, familiar things" of 

 a past which becomes more and more dis- 

 tinct as I linger in the shadows of this 

 ancient place. As I walk slowly on, there 

 grows upon me the sense of a life which 

 for the most part makes no sound, and 

 96 



rr/H 



