“Sister, oh, do listen to the joyous melody of the skylark, and see, see how he mounts higher and higher, and sings as he ascends! From yon thorny bush don’t you hear the blackbird’s sweet notes? while the mellow bullfinch answers those notes from yonder sylvan grove.”
“It is love, my dearest brother, that creates this music; all this waste of melody is the heavenly voice of sweetest love.”
“Don’t say, my dear sister, that this melody is wasted. Music is never wasted when there are people listening to its soothing and joyous strains.”
“But people, Cadwgan, do not always give ear to the charming voices of these winged songsters. And are there not hundreds, and perhaps thousands, who fail to appreciate, who are never moved by, their enchanting notes?”
“That there are persons, my wise sister, who listen unmoved to the melody of birds, I would be the last to deny; but is there not an equally large number of persons who see no beauty in verdant glades, in the bubbling crystal fountain, in the rippling streamlet, and in the flowers as they open their petals to draw in the morning dewdrop?”
“As you have referred to flowers, come, dear Cadwgan, and look at my smiling blushing roses. Oh, they look so lovely! Exquisitely beautiful are they, and their perfume fills the morning air with the most delicious fragrance.”
“They are, my dear Gwenfan, most beautiful; but pray tell me the secret of your success in training them to so great a perfection.”
“That I can explain in a few words. I have nursed them well. I have paid them as much attention as I have paid to my birds, and I love them almost as much,—don’t I, pretty, smiling, blushing roses?”
“It will be hard for you to part with this lovely dwelling, won’t it, Gwenfan; especially as it is endeared to us by so many happy and hallowed associations?”
“But we shan’t leave here, brother; shall we?”