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235
The Private Papers of Henry Ryecroft
·
George Gissing
60
XXI.
All
about
my
garden
to-day
the
birds
are
loud.
To
say
that
the
air
is
filled
with
their
song
gives
no
idea
of
the
ceaseless
piping,
whistling,
trilling,
which
at
moments
rings
to
heaven
in
a
triumphant
unison,
a
wild
accord.
Now
and
then
I
notice
one
of
the
smaller
songsters
who
seems
to
strain
his
throat
in
a
madly
joyous
endeavour
to
out-carol
all
the
rest.
It
is
a
chorus
of
praise
such
as
none
other
of
earth's
children
have
the
voice
or
the
heart
to
utter.
As
I
listen,
I
am
carried
away
by
its
glorious
rapture;
my
being
melts
in
the
tenderness
of
an
impassioned
joy;
my
eyes
are
dim
with
I
know
not
what
profound
humility.
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