Rustling of straw, click of a wooden latch—A stable or a haymow there must be. 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!