OF RICHARD JEFFERIES 



the note leads him and completes itself. 

 It is a song which strives to express 

 the singer's keen delight, the singer's 

 exquisite appreciation of the loveliness of 

 the days ; the golden glory of the meadow, 

 the light, the luxurious shadows, the 

 indolent clouds reclining on their azure 

 couch. Such thoughts can only be ex- 

 pressed in fragments, like a sculptor's 

 chips, thrown off as the inspiration seizes 

 him, not mechanically sawn to a set 

 line. Now and again the blackbird feels 

 the beauty of the time, the large white 

 daisy stars, the grass with yellow-dusted 

 tips, the air which comes so softly un- 

 perceived by any precedent rustle of 

 the hedge, the water which runs slower, 

 held awhile by rootlet, flag, and forget- 

 me-not. He feels the beauty of the 

 time, and he must say it. His notes 

 come like wild-flowers, not sown in 

 order. The sunshine opens and shuts 

 the stops of his instrument. — ' The 



113 h 



