Chapter III

Little by little, however, the snowstorms grew rarer, stray sunbeams pierced the murkiness of the heavens, and a verdant down, at first light as a vapour, but which presently grew denser and soon took on the solidity and sheen of satin, hemmed round the sombre garment of the fields. A mildness filled the air—something restful, calm, and kindly, that was like a benediction, something the winds distilled, the sun diffused, the growing grass and humming insects and fragrant violets spread abroad, something which, like a river fed by a myriad rippling rills, gushed forth along the torrent-bed of creation.

A door seemed to open in the sooty firmament of winter, and this portal, rolling back on golden hinges, suddenly revealed the sun in his splendour, like a king stepping forth to bring peace to the peoples. Then sounded the first chord in the plain-song of the woods; waters, sky, and earth joined in the harmony with a deep, long-drawn note that rose and swelled, sobbed and sighed, grew louder and louder, assumed the majestic breadth of an orchestral symphony, and waxing gradually, ended by filling the depths and heights of air with a mighty diapason, as if all mouths, all voices, all breaths were raised together in one vast unison.

I leave you to guess if the goldfinch lifted up _his_ voice in this universal hymn of praise!

So it was true, then! The sun had indeed returned! A fine lacework of filmy greenery began to clothe the tree boles, and the water-springs to sparkle in the shy recesses of the forest; the air was free; once more he and his comrades could laugh and sing, flit idly to and fro, pilfer and steal, plunder the orchards, peck the flowers, drink in from a drop of dew intoxication to last the livelong day, and revel in that twice-blessed existence that is full of a fine frenzy of delight to make the thrushes envious.

Good-bye to the winter covert, the crevice in the protecting bough, the moss that still keeps the impress of his little body! Nothing will satisfy him now but the wild fields of space; and with a bold sweep of wing the masterful goldfinch has left his dolorous refuge, never to return. A second piece of ingratitude, another act of forgetfulness! Yes, it must be allowed a little bird’s head has small room in it for remembrance.