I was there to hear him sing his wild notes to the listening waste--singing them, as his pretty fashion is, up in the air, suspended on quickly vibrating wings like a great black and white moth.

But he was in no singing mood, and at last, in desperation, I fled to Salisbury to wait for loitering spring in that unattractive town.
The streets were cold as the open plain, and there was no comfort indoors; to haunt the cathedral during those vacant days was the only occupation left to me.

There was some shelter to be had under the walls, and the empty, vast interior would seem almost cosy on coming in from the wind.

At service my due feet never failed, while morning, noon, and evening I paced the smooth level green by the hour, standing at intervals to gaze up at the immense pile with its central soaring spire, asking myself why I had never greatly liked it in the past and did not like it much better now when grown familiar with it.

Undoubtedly it is one of the noblest structures of its kind in England--even my eyes that look coldly on most buildings could see it; and I could admire, even reverence, but could not love.