I had lived in the old house for about a month, when one afternoon a strange thing happened to me.  I remember the date well.  It was the afternoon of Tuesday, June 13th.  I was reading, or rather dipping here and there, in Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.  As I read, I remember that a little unripe apple, with a petal or two of blossom still clinging to it, fell upon the old yellow page.  Then I suppose I must have fallen into a dream, though it seemed to me that both my eyes and my ears were wide open, for I suddenly became aware of a beautiful young voice singing very softly somewhere among the leaves.  The singing was very frail, almost imperceptible, as though it came out of the air.  It came and went fitfully, like the elusive fragrance of sweetbrier—­as though a girl was walking to and fro, dreamily humming to herself in the still afternoon.  Yet there was no one to be seen.  The orchard had never seemed more lonely.  And another fact that struck me as strange was that the words that floated to me out of the aerial music were French, half sad, half gay snatches of some long-dead singer of old France, I looked about for the origin of the sweet sounds, but in vain.  Could it be the birds that were singing in French in this strange orchard?  Presently the voice seemed to come quite close to me, so near that it might have been the voice of a dryad singing to me out of the tree against which I was leaning.  And this time I distinctly caught the words of the sad little song: 

"Chante, rossignol, chante, Toi qui as le coeur gai; Tu as le coeur a rire, Moi, je l’ai-t-a pleurer."

But, though the voice was at my shoulder, I could see no one, and then the singing stopped with what sounded like a sob; and a moment or two later I seemed to hear a sound of sobbing far down the orchard.  Then there followed silence, and I was left to ponder on the strange occurrence.  Naturally, I decided that it was just a day-dream between sleeping and waking over the pages of an old book; yet when next day and the day after the invisible singer was in the orchard again, I could not be satisfied with such mere matter-of-fact explanation.

    "A la claire fontaine,"

went the voice to and fro through the thick orchard boughs,

"M’en allant promener, J’ai trouve l’eau si belle Que je m’y suis baigne, Lui y a longtemps que je t’aime, Jamais je ne t’oubliai."

It was certainly uncanny to hear that voice going to and fro the orchard, there somewhere amid the bright sun-dazzled boughs—­yet not a human creature to be seen—­not another house even within half a mile.  The most materialistic mind could hardly but conclude that here was something “not dreamed of in our philosophy.”  It seemed to me that the only reasonable explanation was the entirely irrational one—­that my orchard was haunted:  haunted by some beautiful young spirit, with some sorrow of lost joy that would not let her sleep quietly in her grave.