The great bough of a spreading maple tree was swaying to and fro in the summer wind, a shapely bough covered with green leaves. On it sat a little bird, swaying with the branch, singing as though the world were all summer and sunshine and there was no winter to follow--singing of brighter suns than men see shine, heaven-taught music, not understood by mortal ears, while the golden, fragrant air around seemed to grow silent and listen. For it was summertime, and the flowers were blooming; the earth was fair and smiling, the sky blue; there was a hush in the green woods and a ripple on the waters, a golden haze in the air.…
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