TPmbere tbe /roocfttng^btrt) Stnas 



drowsy phrases of a nocturne, all but un- 

 earthly in its sweetness, blown through the 

 perfumed stillness of the Southern wood. 

 Sometimes the birds hold a sort of idyllic 

 contest, a number of them fluting here, 

 there, yonder, till one might fancy that 

 the spirits of the tuneful shepherds known 

 to Theocritus and his friends were ham- 

 mocking in the boscage round about. 



These cheerful and brilliant concerts 

 give the idly straying archer a fine back- 

 ground for his reveries. He indulges in 

 vague poetic reflections not to be seriously 

 recorded. The consciousness of anachron- 

 ism, of being for the time immensely re- 

 mote from contemporary sympathy, is 

 stimulating. It completes recreation. 

 With his bow on his shoulder, the string 

 lying slack, and his quiver rustling at his 

 side, he lives the life of Arcadia, yet is 

 perfectly aware of playing a part with his 

 own whim for audience. Aimless, well- 

 nigh thoughtless, he treads at random the 

 invisible yet perfectly apparent paths of the 

 wilderness. 



To stroll thus is to realize the ethereal. 

 94 



