THE SPRING SONG
‘I heard among the solitary hills
Low breathings coming after me, and sounds
Of undistinguishable motion, steps
Almost as silent as the turf they trod.’
――_Wordsworth._
‘Piping down the valleys wild,
Piping songs of pleasant glee,
On a cloud I saw a child.’
――_Blake._
Grif was awakened by a din of many voices. He opened his eyes in the
sweet colourless light of dawn, and his ears to the loud choristers who
sang above him, pouring out a stream of joyous, careless notes, and
exulting each one in his own music. He could see some of the singers as
they flitted between the branches, he could hear the brushing of their
wings:――the light grew stronger and more silvery.
Pouncer slept on through all the clamour, but Grif rose and stretched
himself and climbed out of the hollow. Though his bed had been soft
and warm enough, he felt rather stiff and uncomfortable. Below him,
about a hundred yards away, lay the river――grey, with a whitish
mist above it:――and beyond the river were fields, looking strangely
solitary in the new daylight. Close to him a large grey hare squatted
on his haunches, gazing at him more in surprise than alarm; a squirrel
gambolled in the branches of a fir-tree; and the birds fluttered about
him, darting over the grass, as if quite heedless of his presence.
He somehow felt that it was not yet the human hour. All the creatures
seemed to know this and to ignore him. Above the fields a delicate
scarlet flush was rising, staining the sky, spreading rapidly, and
always growing brighter. The scarlet faded into a green cloud of light,
and streaks of gold fire shot up, like the streaming banners of the
approaching sun. To Grif, standing there on the bank above the river,
the sound of the tremendous chariot wheels was clearly audible, and the
beating hoofs of the great flaming horses, rushing upward, an immense
wind and fire in their manes. Before their headlong course the white
mist broke and fled in a host of shadowy phantoms, with waving arms and
pale tossing hair. He saw them as a white army retreating in disorder:
and the light, dazzling, glorious, flowed on and on, spread abroad,
resistless, effortless, as an incoming tide.
The fields reflected it; the dew on the grass blazed like a carpet of
precious gems; it beat downward and upward; the last lingering remnant
of the misty host vanished; and Grif stood, a solitary witness of
their rout, on the golden threshold of the summer morning. His eyes
were filled with a flickering, unearthly beauty; his whole being was
possessed by it as by a soundless, smokeless flame. The birds had
ceased to sing: it was the hour of breakfast and all were busy. But
Grif’s own voice arose and he sang the song of the river. The hare had
disappeared, and Grif returned to Pouncer.
Curiously enough he had no feeling of loneliness or anxiety. It was a
sign perhaps of that independence, or detachment, of which Miss Johnson
had warned Aunt Caroline, when she had alluded to his habit of picking
up with strangers. It is true he knew more or less where he was, and
had no doubt but that an hour or two’s walking would bring him safely
to the Glebe; but he was conscious of no particular eagerness to start;
the adventure had come to him, and he felt perfectly content to see it
out.
When he awoke for the second time it was in the full heat of day.
Above him a dark horse-chestnut spread its broad branches like a
gigantic umbrella, through which the sun streamed in green bands of
fire. The brown soil showed between thin blades of tender green grass.
From somewhere behind him came the monotonous crooning of a ring-dove.
He called to Pouncer and ran down to the river.
Morning lay in splendour over the world. The sun was high in the
heavens, and the trees threw dark shadows on the mossy ground. On the
other side of the river was a sea of waving cornfields. The smoke from
a cottage, dark-blue, almost purple, drifted lazily against the sky,
and in the river itself the sky and the clouds were reflected, and the
green banks that stood high above the surface. A waterfowl swam into a
leafy clump of willows; the scent of meadowsweet hung drowsily on the
air; a wagtail pruned his feathers as he stood perched on an old stump;
and a rat, sitting up on his hind legs, nibbled delicately at the stems
of the grasses. The banks were gay with flowers and creepers, blue
forget-me-nots, white hemlock, the small pink blossom of the gypsywort,
the ruddy heads of docks and sorrels. Grif undressed and bathed, while
Pouncer plunged in after him; and boy and dog splashed in the sweet
cold water, and let it wash away the dust of their journey, and all
the weariness and trouble of yesterday.
They sat on the bank to dry. A sleepy barge passed, gliding through the
summer, while the water lapped faintly against its broad bow, and the
old brown horse plodded on with lowered head.
Then, as he stooped above the river, like a little river god, hugging
his knees, Grif saw a dragon-fly floating on the surface. Its green and
yellow body flashed in the sunlight, but its gauzy wings had become wet
and useless, so that it could not rise. He knew it would float there
till a fish or a bird got it, or till it was drowned. He tried to reach
it, but it was too far from the bank. There was nothing for it but to
go in again.
When he had rescued the dragon-fly he put it on a dock-leaf in the
sun, where its wings would dry quickly. He lay watching it, for it was
indeed an extraordinary beast, with great eyes and mouth, and splendid,
mailed coat, green and yellow, barred with black lines. It lay still
for a while as if exhausted, but presently its silvery transparent
wings unfolded, and next moment it had sprung into the air. Grif,
watching its brilliant flight, felt inclined to clap his hands. He
wondered if it could think, if it knew that it had come safely through
a desperate adventure. It would be pleasant to understand the thoughts
and language of all these creatures who shared his world, and were
really so close to him:――in many ways, he felt, almost closer than
human beings....
A little lower down, the bank had fallen in, leaving a shallow sandy
beach, now dry, for the channel had shrunk after a long spell of
rainless weather. Grif, on his hands and knees, began to build a city
in the clean yellow sand. He built houses and a church, and set a wall
all round; but Pouncer, growing weary of inactivity, rushed upon the
church and demolished it, sending the glittering sand flying in all
directions as he scratched and burrowed. Then Grif lay down on the bank
and wet Pouncer lay beside him, with his big head between his paws, and
his round dark eyes full of gentleness and innocence. The activities of
the night had been nothing to Pouncer, but they had left his master not
very energetic, and he wanted to lie still for a little before starting
on his homeward journey. He was hungry, but the biscuits and cheese had
been finished long ago, and there was nothing for it now but to wait in
patience.
He grew drowsy. Overhead a lark was singing, singing; and the clear
notes floated down in a kind of dreamy rapture. Of all music, Grif felt
sure, a lark’s song must be the most beautiful. He turned on his side,
and the bulldog snuffed at him and licked his forehead once or twice.
He was getting sleepier and sleepier, but it was so delicious lying
here in this half-dreaming, half-waking state, that he could not resist
the temptation to remain a little longer. His eyes were nearly closed,
like a cat’s eyes when it sits in the sun. He seemed to see, through
the green dimness of the trees, a whiteness as of some one moving, some
bather like himself perhaps, but more probably a faun or a wood-boy.
And he knew that it was not really either one or the other, but, like
many little boys, he could continue knowing and not knowing at the same
time, while the idle dreams that flitted through his mind seemed to be
pictures he could watch, pictures he did not try to create, but which
came on the wings of the wind, like floating thistle-down.
Somewhere among the tall rushes by the water a flute was being played.
It played a strange tune,――sad, yet with a certain gaiety singing
through it, and with an odd little twirl at the end. The tune was
repeated three times, the second time quite close to him, but the third
time it seemed to drift farther and farther over the fields, till he
had to complete the final trill in his imagination.
Grif was very happy. Now that the music was ended he had the clearest
sense of its reality. This feeling came upon him in a flash of
astonishment, for while he had actually been listening it had all
seemed a part of a dream. Now it was as if a warm physical touch on
his cheek had awakened him. Where had the music gone to? He only knew
that it had crossed the river and floated over the fields. Yet, if he
had had wings or an aeroplane, he was sure he could have followed it.
And he was sure it would have led him to some definite place, which he
would have recognized at once as _the_ place, the end of his journey,
the home of his hidden friend.
But nature reminded him that he was getting extremely hungry, and
he thought of the house so near, and of all the good things houses
contain. He would go and ask for something to eat, and ask them to
drive him home, for, more than he felt hungry, he felt suddenly and
strangely tired. Once he had hit on this plan he did not hesitate.
His view of the world was socialistic, though perhaps not one which
most socialists would have recognized. Where there were houses there
was food, and both food and houses were for every one. Also, when the
houses were large, there were usually motor-cars, and motor-cars, too,
were for every one. His simple philosophy was based on these premises,
and he lived according to his philosophy, nor had it ever yet failed
him. Therefore it was without the least sense of doing anything unusual
that he rang at the hall-door and went in to lunch.