The nightingale sings without ceasing; the soft 'coo-coo' of the dove sounds hard by; the merry cuckoo calls as he flies from elm to elm; the wood-pigeons rise and smite their wings together over the firs.

In the mere below the coots are at play; they chase each other along the surface of the water and indulge in wild evolutions.

Everything is happy.

As the plough-boys stroll along they pluck the young succulent hawthorn leaves and nibble them.
It is the sweetest time of all for wandering in the wood.

The brambles have not yet grown so bushy as to check the passage; the thistles that in autumn will be as tall as the shoulder and thick as a walking-stick are as yet no bar; burrs do not attach themselves at every step, though the broad burdock leaves are spreading wide.