Atlanta semi-weekly journal. (Atlanta, Ga.) 1898-1920, 1918-03-01

From our terrace at tea time we could
look across the lawn and the roses to
the road, and the endless fields that
sloped away with their wheat and rye
ripening in the sun, over to the little
cluster of red roofs that marked the
ancient village of Tervueren, where the
legend Of st. Hubert the blessed pa
tron of dogs, had it's beginning. Further
on, where the slender spire Of an old
church pierced the tender blue sky, a
windmill lazily turned it's sails all the
afternoon; ii was long before l knew the
name of that village; I did not wish to
know it, lest the delicate charm of it de-
part on acquaintance as charm is too
apt to do with villages when one sees
them, or with mysterious roads when
one explores them, or with women.
some women-when long admired at a
distance, one is presented, and for the
first time hears them speak.
And there on the terrace after din
ner, in the long twilight, we had our
coffee, and. as the soft voluptuous night
enveloped that tranquil, peaceful world,
a nightingale poured out it's melody
from the dark thicket that was so very
near we could fancy, when we stopped
our idle talking and held our breath,
that we could hear the breathing of
that rapturous little throat. 1t would
not sing long; it knew, consummate lit
tie artist that IT was, that joy in
creased by it's moderation, and that rap
ture grows sweeter as it is withheld.
few moments singing there in the
darkness, with its hush. it's mysteries
and its low voices, and I would go up
stairs to the MS of the novel I had
dreamed of through long years of fever
Iish, and for the most part uncongenial
Ia hnrS-fha nOVal
1 thought at last l was to write.
I had never heard a nightingale sing
before that summer. Nightingales do
not sing at ward meetings nor in city
halls at home, nor in the hotels that
are all so much alike, nor even in the
galleries of Europe. But one evening
Just as the twilight was fading from
the fields--I had taken turn in the
garden-suddenly as / entered the door,
that shy, sweet melody flooded the still
evening. / knew what it was, and yet
there might be some mistake; the
ironic spirits are always playing such
shy tricks on mortals! One grows wary,
after a while-of life, of happiness
"Cest un rossignol, n'est-ce pas?'
("That is a nightingale, isn't it?D l
asked of Omer.
"Oui Excellence" he said, and the
gentle smile that was so Characteristic
of his came to his good Flemish face.
"Vous en- etes SUR" C'You are sure.D
MATS oui, Excellence; nous disons
'nichtingaT EN- Flamand." ("Certainly,
Excellency; we say 'nichtingal in tlem-
ish.')
EFT nous nightingale en- Anglis.
And we nightingale in English"
"Oui, C'est toujours la meme chose"
eyes, it is always the same thing.D
1t was convincing and 1 could accept
the miracle, just as month or so be-
fore I had accepted another miracle
that was so much like this 1 was play
ing golf with Frank Nelson, at Raven
stein; he had come over to spend the
Easter vacation of parliament with me.
| 1t was a spring day of sparkling sun
! light and warm caressing air; we were
out on the eleventh hole; we had played
| our second shots, brassies, and there re-
NAMED the mashie pitch across the
bunker 10 the slopng green. [ was ad-
dressing my ball when suddenly, almost
| from under my feet it seemed, some
thing nuttered lightly into the air and
went on into the upper ether whence