More and more clearly the scene suggests itself—­Magically sound creates an atmosphere!—­A sheep bell tinkles intermittently—­Since there is grazing, we may look for grass.

A tree, too—­a tree must rustle in the breeze, for a bullfinch warbles his little native song; and a blackbird whistling the song he has caught by ear, implies, we may presume, a wicker cage.

The rattling of a wagon run out of a shed—­the dripping of a bucket drawn up overfull—­the patter of doves’ feet alighting on a roof—­Surely it is a farmyard—­unless it be a mill!

Rustling of straw, click of a wooden latch—­A stable or a haymow there must be.  The locust shrills:  the weather then is fine.—­Church-bells ring:  it is Sunday then.—­Chatter of jays:  the woods cannot be far!

Hark!  Nature with the scattered voices of a fair midsummer day is composing—­in a dream!—­the most mysterious of overtures—­harmonised by evening distance and the wind!

And all these sounds—­song of a passing girl—­laughter of children jogged by the donkey trotting—­faraway gun-reports and hunting-horns —­these sounds describe a holiday.

A window opens, a door closes—­The harness shakes its bells.  Is it not plain in sight, the old farmyard?—­The dog sleeps, the cat but feigns to sleep.

Sunday!—­Farmer and farmer’s wife are starting for the fair.  The old horse paws the ground—­

A Rough voice
[Behind the curtain, through the horse’s pawing.] Whoa, Dapple!

Another voice [As if calling to a laggard.] Come along!  We shan’t get home till morning!

AN IMPATIENT VOICE
Are you ready?

ANOTHER VOICE
Fasten the shutters!

MAN’S VOICE
All right!

WOMAN’S VOICE
My sunshade!

MAN’S VOICE
[Through the cracking of the whip.] Gee up!

THE MANAGER The wagon to the jingling of the harness rattles off, jolting out ditties.  A turn in the road cuts off the unfinished song.—­They are gone, quite gone.  The performance can begin.

Some philosophers would say there was not a soul left, but we humbly believe that there are hearts.  Man in leaving does not take with him all drama.  One can laugh and suffer without him. [He listens again.]

Ardently humming, a velvety bumblebee hovers—­then is still; he has plunged into a flower—­Let us begin.  Pray note that Aesop’s hump to-night does duty as prompter’s box!

The members of our company are small, but—­[Calling toward the flies.] Alexander! [To the audience.] He is my chief machinist. [Calling again.] Let it down!

A VOICE
[From the flies.] It’s coming, sir!

MANAGER
We have lowered between the audience and the stage an invisible screen
of magnifying glass—­

But there the violins are tuning up:  Scraping of crystal bows, picking of strings!—­Hush!  Let the footlights now leap into brightness, for at a signal from their little leader the crickets’ orchestra have briskly fallen to!