36 THE HEART OF A GARDEN 
no farther away than the midmost silver branch of the 
still leafless walnut-tree; yet the mournful triumph of 
his strange song is touched to magic by that charmed 
quality of distance, of faint remoteness, that is his and 
his alone. He would seem to call from some lost Para¬ 
dise, some forgotten age of gold that at rare moments you 
may almost think to remember. “Over the Mountains 
of the Moon, down the Valley of the Shadow. . . 
Where is the clue, and what the watchword ? But the 
blackbird knows both, believe me. 
