A SYMPHONY OF SPRING XIII 



the full-blown fruit trees of the orchard, from the low 

 banks of the river, from the shady glens of the forest , a 

 marvelloiis ensemble fills the resonant atmosphere: the 

 trills of the goldfinch, the chirping of the linnet and the 

 titmouse, the runs of the thrush, the tremolo of the hoo- 

 poo, the interlude of the bullfinch, the soft shrill of the 

 wren and the nut-hatch. Then, at inter\'als, breaking in 

 upon this unceasing variety of sound , two grave deep, 

 dreamy, redoubled notes ring through t/ie t/iickness of 

 the forest. 



It is the voice of the cuckoo, that invisible, fanciful 

 singer that you hear almost at the same time in all the 

 nooks and corners of the wood, and his song seems to 

 rythm the /light of time. You think him quite near, you 

 seek him and suddenly his sonorous aj)j)eal bursts forth 

 from afar. It is he who throws a melancholy note into 

 this concert of universal joy. T/iis full and mysterious 

 double note, which ever seems to die away and which 

 constantly resounds again, is like an echo of vanished 

 springs and of forgotten friendships. It seems to sigh ; 

 « Remember .^ remember .^ Give a thought to those who /lave 

 gone for ever, to the memory of those beloved beings who 

 can no more taste the rapture of the revival of nature. 

 Time flies and carries you along... For you also, sp/ing 

 will not bloom always .^ » But in .spite of the prognostics 

 of this melancholy , caj)ii(ious warncr, the /oijful /ne//i- 

 ment of the light-hearted tribe bursts fortli ever and anon 



