The women stand round the pond, beating off great prancing shaggy dogs.

Gently the baby is rocked in the perambulator.

The eyes of all the nurses, mothers, and wandering women are a little glazed, absorbed.

They gently nod instead of answering when the little boys tug at their skirts, begging them to move on.
And Fanny moved, hearing some cry--a workman's whistle perhaps--high in mid-air.

Now, among the trees, it was the thrush trilling out into the warm air a flutter of jubilation, but fear seemed to spur him, Fanny thought; as if he too were anxious with such joy at his heart--as if he were watched as he sang, and pressed by tumult to sing.