MA Y MUSES 109 



As successive years pass away, bearing from us 

 so many recollections of pleasant incidents, over- 

 whelming the harmonious sounds and dulling the 

 delicate pictures in the treasure-house of memory, 

 some of the sweetest of those sounds and clearest 

 pictures remain fresh and bright. Such survivals 

 do not necessarily recall the occasions of important 

 or serious decisions, but often they remind us of 

 moments when some emotion was exaggerated. 

 No conscious effort revives them, but often some 

 trivial factor sets in motion the tense chords which 

 are yet ready to vibrate in the old way. Thus in 

 the joy-time of the year, when the land is be- 

 jewelled with flowers and every voice is tuned to 

 its sweetest strain, I am reminded of a nightingale 

 that sang in a dense thicket on a slope not many 

 miles from a western city. 



In this spot everything had been left to Nature. 

 She had been the only gardener and had set all 

 the trees. Although all the lesser details of her 

 handiwork were concealed by the darkness of 

 night, the air was sweet with the perfume of wild 

 flowers. At a brief distance a stream tinkled and 

 murmured as it rippled and plunged from ledge to 



