74 mature StuMea in Berkshire. 



tions born of silence and of shadow, rising like the 

 sighing of the evergreens, to fill the soul at once 

 with joy over its sweetness, and with sadness be- 

 cause that sweetness must be so evanescent. When 

 one has heard the song of the thrush there is no 

 richer draught of joy in store for him in any sound 

 of the woods. There is nothing to surpass it, save 

 the ineffable ecstasy of the silence which reigns in 

 their deepest shades. 



There can be no more fitting climax to the pleas- 

 ures of a day in the fields than to hear the thrush. 

 It is the Angelus of nature. Let us go silently 

 home. 



