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sky looked as if it had been swept; so cloudless, clear, and transparent. The sun in the midst of it, burning with delight and bliss; as well he might be, for he had just accomplished a grand piece of work! He had tripped the earth of her sad widow’s weeds, and adorned her for his bride.

There is not much use in dipping your pen in ink, for you will never be able to write down all the thoughts and feelings that come swarming up, treading on each other’s heels.

It is the second half of May, the time of the sweet lily of the valley, of syringas, of the horse-chestnut, of finches, thrushes, blackbirds, and—I don’t know what besides. It is a litany without end; you cannot sing it out.

Spring writes its own poem on earth’s face with flowery letters, and sings it with the skylark’s notes aloft in the skies. So let it be; let us not interfere.

From Záluz̓í to Suchdol (Drydale) a footpath leads of more than an hour’s walk. It winds along through fields, groves of hazel, beech, and underwood, down a slope to a meadow; on further to a brook; then through more 3em