his little native song; and a blackbird whistling the song he has caught
by ear, implies, we may presume, a wicker cage.

The rattling of a wagon run out of a shed--the dripping of a bucket
drawn up overfull--the patter of doves' feet alighting on a roof--Surely
it is a farmyard--unless it be a mill!

Rustling of straw, click of a wooden latch--A stable or a haymow there
must be. The locust shrills: the weather then is fine.--Church-bells
ring: it is Sunday then.--Chatter of jays: the woods cannot be far!

Hark! Nature with the scattered voices of a fair midsummer day is
composing--in a dream!--the most mysterious of overtures--harmonised by
evening distance and the wind!

And all these sounds--song of a passing girl--laughter of children
jogged by the donkey trotting--faraway gun-reports and hunting-horns
--these sounds describe a holiday.

A window opens, a door closes--The harness shakes its bells. Is it not
plain in sight, the old farmyard?--The dog sleeps, the cat but
feigns to sleep.

Sunday!--Farmer and farmer's wife are starting for the fair. The old
horse paws the ground--

A ROUGH VOICE
[_Behind the curtain, through the horse's pawing._] Whoa, Dapple!

ANOTHER VOICE