Harvest ruled the world, and the fields in the valley and on the hillside were dotted with stooks and stacks.
It was a day on which it was good to be alive, and, if a little subdued, yet they were both in good spirits.
The poet's latest volume, ahead of the autumn rush of poetry and fiction, had been favourably criticised.
It was stronger, happier, more real, said the critics, than any other from his pen.
If not great, said they, it was at any rate graceful, and even, in some places, vigorous. Therefore was the poet happy.
And Tommy—well, there was the sun and the wind, good red blood in his arteries, and no care in his heart—and though he could not have told you so, these, no doubt, were strong enough reasons for the buoyancy of his spirit.
As they climbed the green side of the downs they met a shepherd singing, a happy, irresponsible fellow, with his coat over his head, and his sleek flock browsing round him.
And as they passed him with a welcome, the poet remembered some lines which he repeated to Tommy:
Wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down,
Splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring?
I could sing it fine,
If e'er a word were mine,
But there's no words could tell it you—the song that I would sing.
Wide horizons beckoning, far beyond the hill,
Little lazy villages, sleeping in the vale,
Greatness overhead
The flock's contented tread
An' trample o' the morning wind adown the open trail.
Bitter storms o' winter-time ringing down the range,
Angel nights above the hill, beautiful with rest,
I would sing o' Life,
O' Enterprise, and Strife,
O' Love along the upland road, an' God beyond the crest.
An' this should be my matin song—magic o' the down,
Mystery, an' majesty, an' wistfulness, an' hope,
I would sing the lay
O' Destiny an' Day,
As morning mounts the hill with me, an' summer storms the slope.
But this would be my vesper song—best at last is Peace
Whispered where the valleys lie, all deep in dying gold,
Stealing through the gloam
To speed the shepherd home
With one last dreamy echo o' the music in the fold.
Wouldst a song o' shepherding, out upon the down,
Splendid days o' summer-time, an' roaring days o' spring?
I could sing it fine,
If e'er a word were mine,
But there's no words could tell it you—the song that I would sing.