"There he is," replied the fairy, pointing upward. "He's watching you.
That's Clement's voice you hear."

"Clement's voice," exclaimed Sarah Brown. "Singing like that? Why, he
sounds perfectly happy."

"Perfectly happy," mocked the fairy. "His family only sings like that
when it's upset. Perfectly happy indeed! Can't you understand tragedy
when you hear it?"

Sarah Brown with despairing care tucked the nest up under a bean, and
replaced the unbroken egg.

"Do you mean to tell me, then," she said, after a busy painful pause,
"that Shelley probably misunderstood that lark he wrote a poem about? He
called it a blithe spirit, you know, because it sang. Do you suppose it
wasn't one?"

"Certainly not," said the fairy. "I don't know the actual facts of the
case, but without a doubt your friend Shelley was standing on the
unfortunate bird's nest all the time he was writing his poem."

Sarah Brown, with a deep sigh, began hoeing again.

Fifty beans yet.

She had altogether ceased to find pleasure in the day. Pain is an
extinguisher that can put out the sun. She had ceased to find pleasure
in the singing of the birds, the voice of the pigeon sounded to her no
more than an unbeautiful falsetto growl. She was irritated by the fact