A SYMPHONY OF SPUING XV 



in their conjugal f elicit;). The uoood-pigeons coo on heed- 

 less of their surroundings ; theij give themselves up to their 

 mutual tenderness atul like the lovers in La Fontaine's 



fable : 



Us se sont I'lin a I'autre un inoiidc toujoitrs beau, 



Toujours divers, toujours nouveau... 



But now the shadows are lengthening on the pelds ; the 

 sky reflects a deeper azure hue in the ponds ; the thickets 

 assume a redder tint and the first twinkling star trembles 

 above the horizon. The voices grow fainter and fainter, 

 the birds fall asleep near their nests. You would think 

 that the concert is going to end, but it is only a temporary 

 hush, a cleverly managed pause to prepare the entrance 

 of the grand artist of spring. 



The nightingale sings, and Nature herself seems to be 

 listening. The admii-ab/c strains of this master solist fll 

 up the whole interval from night-fall to day-break. Beside 

 him all other performers retire into shade ; listening to 

 him, you forget their humble songs , just as the sweet 

 scented, milk-white lily of the valley obliterates the 

 remembrance of April flowerets. With the song of t/ie 

 nightingale the enchantment of fairy-land, begins to reign 

 in the woods. His hymn is the song of tyrannical, violent, 

 passionate, tender and sensuous love. You never grow 

 tired of hearing this song, you would have it lust forever. 



But nothing lasts forever. Towards the middle of June 

 the breath of the master artist grows sho/ter, and when 



