Whether so intended or not, he understood it as an apologue, typifying the soothing and genial effects of an habitual intercourse with nature in all ordinary cares and griefs; while, on the other hand, her mild influences fall short in their effect upon the ruder passions, and are altogether powerless in the dread fever-fit or deadly chill of guilt.
"Do you say," he asked, "that the nymph's race has never since been shown to any mortal?
Methinks you, by your native qualities, are as well entitled to her favor as ever your progenitor could have been.

Why have you not summoned her ?" "I called her often when I was a silly child," answered Donatello; and he added, in an inward voice, "Thank Heaven, she did not come!" "Then you never saw her ?" said the sculptor.
"Never in my life!" rejoined the Count.

"No, my dear friend, I have not seen the nymph; although here, by her fountain, I used to make many strange acquaintances; for, from my earliest childhood, I was familiar with whatever creatures haunt the woods.

You would have laughed to see the friends I had among them; yes, among the wild, nimble things, that reckon man their deadliest enemy! How it was first taught me, I cannot tell; but there was a charm--a voice, a murmur, a kind of chant--by which I called the woodland inhabitants, the furry people, and the feathered people, in a language that they seemed to understand." "I have heard of such a gift," responded the sculptor gravely, "but never before met with a person endowed with it.

Pray try the charm; and lest I should frighten your friends away, I will withdraw into this thicket, and merely peep at them." "I doubt," said Donatello, "whether they will remember my voice now.