The third path kept on westward to a dusky tract of pine-woods about two miles from the town. No newly-sprouting verdure was visible amid this sombre foliage; but there was a glistening through it all like the smile on a dark face, and the neighboring air was embalmed with its fine resinous perfume.
Out from this wood came sounds of laughter and many voices, some shrill and childish, others deeper voices of men, or softer voices of women. Occasionally might be heard a fitful song that broke off and began again, only to break and begin once more, as though the singer’s hands were busy. Yet so dense was the border of the wood with thick, low-growing branches that, had you gone even so near as to step on their shadows, and slip on the smooth hollows full of cones and needles they had let fall, not a person would you have seen.
A girlish voice burst out singing:
“‘The year’s at the spring,
And day’s at the morn;
Morning’s at seven;
The hillside’s dew-pearled.
The lark’s on the wing,
The snail’s on the thorn;
God’s in his heaven—
All’s right with the world!’
Only day is not at the morn,” the voice added correctingly; “for it is near sunset. But,” singing again,
“‘The year’s at the spring;
The lark’s on the wing;
God’s in his heaven—
And all’s right with the world!’
—which may be called making a posy out of a poem.”
A young man’s voice spoke: “All will soon be wrong in a part of the world, Pippa, if I do not call the sheep to fold.” And immediately a loud bugle-call sounded through the forest, and died away in receding echoes.
Presently a Maying-party came trooping forth into sight.
First, stooping low under the boughs, a score of boys and girls appeared, their cheeks bright with exercise and pure air, their silken hair dishevelled. After them followed, more sedately, a group of youths and maidens, “Pippa,” otherwise Lily Carthusen, and the bugler, among them. All these young people were decked with wreaths of ground pine around their hats, waists, and arms, and they carried hands full of Mayflowers.