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Updated: May 11, 2025
The plumes of the woodland are alight; and beyond them, over the open, 'tis a race with the long-thrown shadows; a race across the heaths and up the hills, till, at the farthest bourne of mounted eastern cloud, the heralds of the sun lay rosy fingers and rest. Sweet are the shy recesses of the woodland. The ray treads softly there.
The plumes of the woodland are alight; and beyond them, over the open, 'tis a race with the long-thrown shadows; a race across the heaths and up the hills, till, at the farthest bourne of mounted eastern cloud, the heralds of the sun lay rosy fingers and rest. Sweet are the shy recesses of the woodland. The ray treads softly there.
It was a dog's silent, striving determination to be there when the finish came a dog's disregard of all object or objective but his master's but a long-thrown stride, and a crafty, beady eye that promised more usefulness than a dog's when called on. The first word spoken was when Rosemary drew rein a little more than half-way along the palace wall. "Are you tired yet, Joanna?"
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