XIV A SYMPHONY OK SPRING 



/// an cxuberdnce of .sorii^: Leaves are i^rou'i/ig, lilies of 

 the valleif perfume the air, nests are being built every- 

 where : in the grass, in the hedges, in the hollow of dead 

 trees, in the branches of green boughs, and everij one 

 thinks only of the delights of the present hour. 



Now the black and white swallows, with their pointed, 

 arrow-like wings, come out of all the streets of the village. 

 These fearless travellers come from afar and manifest 

 their Joy of being home again by the most astonishing 

 circuits. Air-drinkers as they are, they brush past the top 

 of roofs, skim along the ground , disappear under the 

 arches of the bridges and reappear .suddenly in the 

 bright sun-light ; they veer about, rise, fly up and down 

 without ever perching and hardly uttering the slightest 

 sound. The silent dance of these black gypsies is like an 

 intermezzo in the symphony of spring. It is the ballet in 

 the middle of the concert. 



Meanwhile yonder , in the forest, the singing continues. 

 From the bottom of the thicket the cooing of the wild wood- 

 pigeon, at once low and tender, loud and yet clouded 

 comes towards us. The passionate, languishing note rises, 

 falls, rises again; you seem to hear the sleepy forest utter 

 unconscious sighs in its dream. This is no longer the 

 f'oyous greeting of the sky-lark at early dawn, nor the 

 sprightly prattle of the black-bird , nor the sonorous call 

 of the cuckoo; it is the intimate talk of a loving married 

 couple, who exchange tender and caressing vows, liappy 



