Thus I love to hear the young girl's low, merry song, floating from the window of a country-house, half-broken by the cicala, the swallow's twitter, or the rustling leaves;--I love to hear the joyous ripple of the harpsichord, bringing back, with some old music, times when that merry music stamped the hours, and took possession of them--in the heart--forever more! I love a ringing horn, even the stage-horn--now, alas! no more a sound of real life, only memory!--the thousand murmurs of a country evening; the far, clear cry of wild-geese from the clouds; the tinkling bells of cattle; every sound which brings again a glimpse of the far-glimmering plains of youth.

And that is why, standing on this round knoll, beneath the merrily-rustling cherry-trees, and listening to the murmurous song, I heard my boyhood speak to me, and felt again the old breath on my brow.

The sun died away across the old swaying woods; the rattling hone upon the scythe; the measured sweep; the mellow music--all were gone away.

The day was done, and the long twilight came--twilight, which mixes the crimson of the darkling west, the yellow moonlight in the azure east, and the red glimmering starlight overhead, into one magic light.

And so we went home merrily, with pleasant thoughts and talk; such pleasant thoughts I wish to all.