The ground of the wooded park is covered with dead bracken, everywhere thick, burnt a pale brown by the late suns of last year, beaten now this way and now that by winter storms, its tall stalks bent or broken; it is as though nature had strewn desolation purposely. In the gully by the roadside, leaves, mostly of beech and oak, lie foot-deep, and near them is the ungathered rotted mass of years. The grass is shooting up beautifully green, but above there is no sign of life renewing in the boughs. All at once a pleasant sound comes from near the tree-tops; it is the ring-dove beginning to sound his full and yet half-timorous call. Now it is this side of the wood, then that, and the air is so warm and still that you fancy you can hear the distant sailing of his wings. His voice coming down frequently seems like a gentle summoning of the whole vigour of spring.
