“Is he very old, mummie? How old is he?”
“I don’t know, but he’s a very great deal older than you are.”
“I s’poses,” observed Robin meditatively, slightly wrinkling his little nose where the freckles were. “Well, mummie?”
“Old people don’t generally like to move about much, but I think it would be very good for you and me to go into the country while father’s away.”
And taking Robin on her knees, and putting her arms round him, Rosamund began to tell him about the country, developing enthusiasm as she talked, bending over the little fair head that was so dear to her—the little fair head which contained Robin’s dear little thoughts, funny and very touching, but every one of them dear.
She described to Robin the Spring as it is in the English country, frail and fragrant, washed by showers that come and go with a waywardness that seems very conscious, warmed by sunbeams not fully grown up and therefore not able to do the work of the sunbeams of summer. She told him of the rainbow that is set in the clouds like a promise made from a very great distance, and of the pale and innocent flowers of Spring: primroses, periwinkles, violets, cowslips, flowers of dells in the budding woods, and of clearings round which the trees stand on guard about the safe little daisies and wild hyacinths and wild crocuses; flowers of the sloping meadows that go down to the streams of Spring. And all along the streams the twigs are budding; the yellow “lambs’ tails” swing in the breeze, as if answering to the white lambs’ tails that are wagging in the fields. The thrush sings in the copse, and in his piercing sweet note is the sound of Spring.
Bending over Robin, Rosamund imitated the note of the thrush, and Robin stared up at her with ardent eyes.
“Does Mr. Thrush ever do that?”
“I’ve never heard him do it.”
And she went on talking about the Spring.