CHAPTER III.
"She was beautiful as the lily-bosomed Houri that gladdens the visions of the poet when, soothed to dreams of pleasantness and peace, the downy pinions of Sleep wave over his turbulent soul!"—From the Arabic.
All the flowers at Chetwoode are rejoicing; their heads are high uplifted, their sweetest perfumes are making still more sweet the soft, coquettish wind that, stealing past them, snatches their kisses ere they know.
It is a glorious day, full of life, and happy sunshine, and music from the throats of many birds. All the tenors and sopranos and contraltos of the air seem to be having one vast concert, and are filling the woods with melody.
In the morning a little laughing, loving shower came tumbling down into the earth's embrace, where it was caught gladly and kept forever,—a little baby shower, on which the sunbeams smiled, knowing that it had neither power nor wish to kill them.
But now the greedy earth has grasped it, and others, knowing its fate, fear to follow, and only the pretty sparkling jewels that tremble on the grass tell of its having been.
In the very centre of the great lawn that stretches beyond the pleasure-grounds stands a mighty oak. Its huge branches throw their arms far and wide, making a shelter beneath them for all who may choose to come and seek there for shade. Around its base pretty rustic chairs are standing in somewhat dissipated order, while on its topmost bough a crow is swaying and swinging as the soft wind rushes by, making an inky blot upon the brilliant green, as it were a patch upon the cheek of a court belle.
Over all the land from his lofty perch this crow can see,—can mark the smiling fields, the yellowing corn, the many antlered deer in the Park, the laughing brooklets, the gurgling streams that now in the great heat go lazily and stumble sleepily over every pebble in their way.
He can see his neighbors' houses, perhaps his own snug nest, and all the beauty and richness and warmth of an English landscape.
But presently—being a bird of unformed tastes or unappreciative, or perhaps fickle—he tires of looking, and flapping heavily his black wings, rises slowly and sails away.