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
[_As if calling to a laggard._] Come along! We shan't get home till
morning!
AN IMPATIENT VOICE
Are you ready?
ANOTHER VOICE
Fasten the shutters!
MAN'S VOICE
All right!
WOMAN'S VOICE
My sunshade!
MAN'S VOICE
[_Through the cracking of the whip._] Gee up!
THE MANAGER
The wagon to the jingling of the harness rattles off, jolting out
ditties. A turn in the road cuts off the unfinished song.--They are
gone, quite gone. The performance can begin.
Some philosophers would say there was not a soul left, but we humbly
believe that there are hearts.
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