And so with the pageant of Nature.  If the pageant stopped, the wonder itself would stop.  I should have no sudden shock of delight at hearing the first call of the cuckoo in spring or seeing my hawthorn hedge burst into snowy blossoms.  I should no longer remark the jolly clatter of the rooks in the February trees which forms the prologue of spring, nor look out for the coming of the first primrose or the arrival of the first swallow.  I should cease, it is true, to have the pangs of “Farewell,” but I should cease also to have the ecstasy of “Hail.”  I should have my Grecian urn, but I should have lost the magic of the living world.

By the time I had reached the gate I had buried my regrets for the vanished hawthorn.  I knew that to-morrow I should find new miracles in the hedgerows—­the wild rose and the honeysuckle, and after them the blackberries, and after these again the bright-hued hips and haws.  And though the cuckoo’s note should fail him, there would remain the thrush, and after the thrush that constant little fellow in the red waistcoat would keep the song going through the dark winter days.