rise, the_ MANAGER
_precipitately shouts, "Stop!--Do not raise it yet!" Then again bending
his ear, continues making note of the noises, clear or confused, single
or combined, that from this onward come without stop from behind
the curtain._

A magpie cawing flies away. Great wooden shoes come running over flags.
A courtyard, is it?--If so above a valley--from whence that softened
clamour of birds and barking dogs.

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