MOORLAND IDYLLS. 



Away down in the valley a nightingale was 

 pouring his full throat among the oak-brush ; 

 but we hardly heeded him. Up -on the 

 open moorland, in the twilight solitude, that 

 grey bird of dusk sat keening and sobbing 

 his monotonous love-plaint ; and it moved 

 us more than alt the nightingale's gamut. 

 I think it must be because we feel in- 

 stinctively he is in terrible earnest. Those 

 profound catches in the throat are the very 

 note of true love ; they have in them some- 

 thing of high human passion. And we 

 could see the bird himself, too, on his half- 

 leafless perch, craning his neck as he 

 crooned, and looking eagerly for his lady- 

 love. It was a delicious moment. We mur- 

 mured as we sat George Meredith's lines 



" Lovely are the curves of the white owl sweeping 



Wavy in the dusk lit by one large star. 

 Lone on the fir-branch, his rattle-note unvaried, 

 Brooding o'er the gloom, spins the brown eve-jar." 



We were fortunate indeed in our mise-en- 

 scene; for the poet's picture had realized 



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