morning air that is like some strange, intangible, wind-blown perfume, as though the breath of the moonlit night had tarried behind, and was merging itself into the dawning warmth of the morning.
There is a nameless stir and throb of expectancy in the air, as though all nature were awaiting the advent of her master; field and meadow, flower and garden, stretching out towards his golden splendour and swift, vivifying beams.
When I have fed the animals,—who are as wide-awake as though they had the work of the world to perform, instead of nothing to fill the long hours but sleeping and eating, while, strange contradiction! the human beings who have their lives to carve out, their names to make, and their souls to save, sleep soundly and long, awakened not by the sun or the birds, or because they have had rest enough, but because (oh, prosaic reason!) they are called,—I take my way across the dew-spangled meadows, where the cows are being milked, and John the milkman and Molly the dairymaid are sitting on contiguous stools, and flirting at the top of their voices, loudly confiding to each other those gentle secrets that are usually supposed to be of a somewhat private character.
There is nobody to listen though, save the brook, the birds, and me; and as I am behind them they are not put out of countenance by discovering that I have been an involuntary listener to their love talk. After all, I dare say, flirtation at five o'clock in the morning is as agreeable and amusing as at any other time, and a great deal more sweet and wholesome than in the evening. I do not get much of a nosegay, for June, bountiful month as she is, gives not half the wild flowers that follows spring's footsteps and gem her mantle so preciously; I only find some dog roses, travellers' joy, a few ragged robins, a handful of moon daisies, some meadow-sweet, and honey-suckle.
Turning into the orchard, I run against Jack coming from the
