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Updated: May 20, 2025
A thrush on a bough below began to flute softly, trying its tones before it burst forth, giving full voice to its enthusiasm in one clear call, eloquent of life and love and longing, and all expressed in just three notes crotchet, quaver, crotchet and rest which shortly shaped themselves to a word in my heart, a word of just three syllables, the accent being on the penultimate "E-vad-ne!
E-vad-ne!" Good Heavens! I roused myself. Not a proper state of mind certainly for a man of my years and pursuits. Why, how old was I? Thirty-five not so old in one way, yet ten years older at least than stop sickly sentimentality. "Life is real, life is earnest," and there must be no dreams of scented gorse, of posing in daffodil draperies, for me. No. Yes, I felt it. I delighted to do so.
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