It was very loud, for the stream's current was still high with the spring rains.
The rustle of the trees which grew on the river-bank was also discernible, and might have been the rustle of the garments of nymphs tossed about their supple limbs by the warm breeze.

In fact, a like fancy occurred to Anderson as he sat there mounting his butterflies.
"I don't wonder those old Greeks had their tales about nymphs closeted in trees," he thought, for the rustle of the green boughs had suggested the rustle of women's draperies.
Then he remembered how Charlotte Carroll's skirts had rustled as she went out of the store that last afternoon when he had spoken to her.
There was a soft crispness of ruffling lawns and laces, a most delicate sound, a maidenly sound which had not been unlike the sound of the young leaves of the willows overfolding and interlacing with one another when the soft breeze swelled high.

Now and then all the afternoon came a slow, soft wave of warm wind out of the west, and all sounds deepened before it, even the purring song of the cat seemed to increase, and possibly did, from the unconscious assertion of his own voice in the peaceful and somnolent chorus of nature.

It was only spring as yet, but the effect was as of a long summer afternoon.

Anderson, who was always keenly sensitive to all phases of nature and all atmospheric conditions, was affected by it.