2, 1 6 "CHOPIN" IN THE DUSK. 



it, is singing softly to himself somewhere in 

 the dusk. The moon, tender and white, 

 shines over the smooth reaches of the Wimple, 

 and the breath of the roses from the clus- 

 tered porch, and the aromatic odour of 

 hyacinth comes down to me as I wave my rod, 

 and the line mounted with moths, over the 

 stream at the end of the lawn. It is in the 

 ripe, rich June, and the night has a velvet 

 muffling warmth that seems to wrap all things 

 in a sleepy mantle. The very stars are quiet 

 in the sky, not radiant or twinkling, but steady 

 and dim, with a dewy gelid watchfulness. The 

 corncrake calls from the meadow, and the mute 

 bat whirls for a moment in the dreamy uncer- 

 tain* light. 



As I pursue my path up the brook, the waltz 

 sounds fainter and fainter, the scent of the 

 meadowsweet and the mint appear to come 

 between me and it, but at moments the music 

 breaks through the screen of distance and the 

 distraction of the plants, while the Wimple 

 murmurs to its sedges, and the nightingale, with 

 short intervals of rest, continues to warble with 

 that luxurious affectation of not straining his 



