Mbere tbe /IDocfttng^birD Sings 



with a cooling touch, and passes on into 

 the woods of oak and pine, to send back a 

 half-wintry moan from the dusky foliage. 

 The Gulf-tides are but slight, and the surf 

 is a mere ripple, for there are outlying 

 islands all along, seeming to hang between 

 sea and sky a protecting curtain against 

 outside forces. If the breeze turns about 

 and blows from the land, it comes filtered 

 and purified through leagues of resinous 

 forest. At such a time the fragrances are 

 many, running through all shades from 

 the evanescent balm of liquid amber to 

 the acicular pungence of tar. 



All around the mocking-birds sing, and 

 it may be that a negro, with a voice as 

 sweet as a flute's, warbles lazily a stanza 

 in patois which might be from the spring 

 song of Bertrand de Born : 



E platz me quant aug la baudor 

 Dels auzels que fan retentir 

 Lor cant per lo boscatge, etc. 



Indeed, this is the place for reading old 

 ballaeds^and chansons; there is a sugges- 

 tion of five hundred years ago in its en- 

 68 



