Blue, blue . . . . blue was the air! Hope quivered in the sunshine, and love in their hearts. . . .
Into the grassy plains the shepherds drove their flocks, and they sang because the sky was blue.
On the border of the wood, where endless plains extended, there lived in a grotto between rocks, a holy hermit who was a hundred years old.
How many seasons had he seen sink into the pits of the Past . . . .!
How many times had he heard the Lenten song of the shepherds! Wrapped in contemplation, he heard them singing. They sang because the sky was blue. The lark was soaring because the world trilled with hope. . . . They sang because fleecy lambs were sporting again in the meadows. They sang because they were young and loved the shepherdesses. They sang of blue sky, of hope, of lambs, and love. . . .
The hermit continued deep in thought. . . .
Every spring it was the same song, and he had never sung with them. Never had he
