222 " CHOPIN" IN THE DUSK. 



Dairy mple, as Kate handed me a cup of tea, 

 " that poets should invariably consider the 

 nightingale's song melancholy. The bird was 

 so far supposed to learn in suffering what it 

 taught in music as tq wear a thorn stuck in 

 its breast when it wished to perform." 



" I believe they used to eat them in ancient 

 Rome," returned Mr. Dalrymple, who was 

 rather of a prosaic turn. 



Kate has gone over to the window. 



Gug-g-g-terru-teru-teru-r-r-r. 



" It would be a shame to eat a bird that 

 sings like that," my cousin says. 



I cannot hear Philomel as steadily as I could 

 wish, so I cross the room to the window also. 



CRAIK, CRAIK. 



The brute, or another of the same mood, I 

 declare, has run up the lawn, and has rasped 

 his instrument so loudly under the very spot 

 where we are, that we both start and discover 

 that we are holding each other by the hand 

 we didn't know it until that moment. 



" Willie, why do you make me spoon so ? I 

 must play my < Tarentelle,' and you mustn't 

 stand near the piano." 



