Just now it is the summer of things; there is life and music
everywhere--in the stones themselves, and I live to-day beating out
the rhythmical hammer-song of The Ring. There is real physical joy
in the rise and swing of the arm, in the jar of a fair stroke, the
split and scatter of the quartz: I am learning to be ambidextrous,
for why should Esau sell his birthright when there is enough for
both? Then the rest-hour comes, bringing the luxurious ache of
tired but not weary limbs; and I lie outstretched and renew my
strength, sometimes with my face deep-nestled in the cool green
grass, sometimes on my back looking up into the blue sky which no
wise man would wish to fathom.
The birds have no fear of me; am I not also of the brown brethren
in my sober fustian livery? They share my meals--at least the
little dun-coated Franciscans do; the blackbirds and thrushes care
not a whit for such simple food as crumbs, but with legs well apart
and claws tense with purchase they disinter poor brother worm,
having first mocked him with sound of rain. The robin that lives
by the gate regards my heap of stones as subject to his special
inspection. He sits atop and practises the trill of his summer
song until it shrills above and through the metallic clang of my
strokes; and when I pause he cocks his tail, with a humorous
twinkle of his round eye which means--"What! shirking, big
brother?"--and I fall, ashamed, to my mending of roads.
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