This time is more observable because it follows a period of the opposite
tendency, a period of heaviness, and rest, and silence, when no bird
sings and no quadruped plays, for about half an hour of the afternoon.
Then suddenly, without any alteration of the light, or weather, or even
temperature, or anything else that we know of, a change of mood flashes
into every living creature, a spirit of life, and activity, and stir,
and desire to use their own voice and hear their neighbour's. The usual
beginning is to come out first into a place that cannot knock their
heads, and there to run a little way, and after that to hop, and take
a peep for any people around, and espying none--or only one of the very
few admitted to be friends--speedily to dismiss all misgivings, take a
very little bit of food, if handy (more as a duty to one's family than
oneself, for the all-important supper-time is not come yet), and then,
if gifted by the Lord with wings--for what bird can stoop at such a
moment to believe that his own grandfather made them?--up to the topmost
spray that feathers in the breeze, and pour upon the grateful air the
voice of free thanksgiving. But an if the blade behind the heart is
still unplumed for flying, and only gentle flax or fur blows out on the
wind, instead of beating it, does the owner of four legs sit and sulk,
like a man defrauded of his merits? He answers the question with a skip
and jump; ere a man can look twice at him he has cut a caper, frolicked
an intricate dance upon the grass, and brightened his eyes for another
round of joy.
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