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"
Ah
,
yes
,
the
call
of
the
South
,
of
the
South
!
"
twittered
the
other
two
dreamily
.
"
Its
songs
,
its
hues
,
its
radiant
air
!
O
,
do
you
remember
--
"
and
,
forgetting
the
Rat
,
they
slid
into
passionate
reminiscence
,
while
he
listened
fascinated
,
and
his
heart
burned
within
him
.
In
himself
,
too
,
he
knew
that
it
was
vibrating
at
last
,
that
chord
hitherto
dormant
and
unsuspected
.
The
mere
chatter
of
these
southern-bound
birds
,
their
pale
and
second-hand
reports
,
had
yet
power
to
awaken
this
wild
new
sensation
and
thrill
him
through
and
through
with
it
;
what
would
one
moment
of
the
real
thing
work
in
him
--
one
passionate
touch
of
the
real
southern
sun
,
one
waft
of
the
authentic
odour
?
With
closed
eyes
he
dared
to
dream
a
moment
in
full
abandonment
,
and
when
he
looked
again
the
river
seemed
steely
and
chill
,
the
green
fields
grey
and
lightless
.
Then
his
loyal
heart
seemed
to
cry
out
on
his
weaker
self
for
its
treachery
.
"
Why
do
you
ever
come
back
,
then
,
at
all
?
"
he
demanded
of
the
swallows
jealously
.
"
What
do
you
find
to
attract
you
in
this
poor
drab
little
country
?
"
"
And
do
you
think
,
"
said
the
first
swallow
,
"
that
the
other
call
is
not
for
us
too
,
in
its
due
season
?
The
call
of
lush
meadow-grass
,
wet
orchards
,
warm
,
insect-haunted
ponds
,
of
browsing
cattle
,
of
haymaking
,
and
all
the
farm-buildings
clustering
round
the
House
of
the
perfect
Eaves
?
"
"
Do
you
suppose
,
"
asked
the
second
one
,
"
that
you
are
the
only
living
thing
that
craves
with
a
hungry
longing
to
hear
the
cuckoo
's
note
again
?
"
"
In
due
time
,
"
said
the
third
,
"
we
shall
be
home-sick
once
more
for
quiet
water-lilies
swaying
on
the
surface
of
an
English
stream
.
But
to-day
all
that
seems
pale
and
thin
and
very
far
away
.
Just
now
our
blood
dances
to
other
music
.
"
They
fell
a-twittering
among
themselves
once
more
,
and
this
time
their
intoxicating
babble
was
of
violet
seas
,
tawny
sands
,
and
lizard-haunted
walls
.
Restlessly
the
Rat
wandered
off
once
more
,
climbed
the
slope
that
rose
gently
from
the
north
bank
of
the
river
,
and
lay
looking
out
towards
the
great
ring
of
Downs
that
barred
his
vision
further
southwards
--
his
simple
horizon
hitherto
,
his
Mountains
of
the
Moon
,
his
limit
behind
which
lay
nothing
he
had
cared
to
see
or
to
know
.
To-day
,
to
him
gazing
South
with
a
new-born
need
stirring
in
his
heart
,
the
clear
sky
over
their
long
low
outline
seemed
to
pulsate
with
promise
;
to-day
,
the
unseen
was
everything
,
the
unknown
the
only
real
fact
of
life
.
On
this
side
of
the
hills
was
now
the
real
blank
,
on
the
other
lay
the
crowded
and
coloured
panorama
that
his
inner
eye
was
seeing
so
clearly
.
What
seas
lay
beyond
,
green
,
leaping
,
and
crested
!
What
sun-bathed
coasts
,
along
which
the
white
villas
glittered
against
the
olive
woods
!
What
quiet
harbours
,
thronged
with
gallant
shipping
bound
for
purple
islands
of
wine
and
spice
,
islands
set
low
in
languorous
waters
!
He
rose
and
descended
river-wards
once
more
;
then
changed
his
mind
and
sought
the
side
of
the
dusty
lane
.
There
,
lying
half-buried
in
the
thick
,
cool
under-hedge
tangle
that
bordered
it
,
he
could
muse
on
the
metalled
road
and
all
the
wondrous
world
that
it
led
to
;
on
all
the
wayfarers
,
too
,
that
might
have
trodden
it
,
and
the
fortunes
and
adventures
they
had
gone
to
seek
or
found
unseeking
--
out
there
,
beyond
--
beyond
!
