‘Don’t you wish,’ said the little girl meditatively, ’that men and women had voices more like the birds?’ The idea had never occurred to me before, but I understood in a moment what she meant, and sympathised with her.  Nature of course has been unkind to the lords and ladies of creation in this one matter of voice.

‘Yes, I do.’  I said.

‘I’m so glad you do,’ said she.  ’I’ve so often thought what a pity it is that God did not let men and women talk and sing as the birds do.  I believe He did let ’em talk like that in the Garden of Eden, don’t you?’

‘I think it very likely,’ I said.

’Men’s voices are so rough mostly and women’s voices are so sharp mostly, that it’s sometimes a little hard to love ’em as you love the birds.’

‘It is,’ I said.

’Don’t you think the poor birds must sometimes feel very much distressed at hearing the voices of men and women, especially when they all talk together?’

The idea seemed so original and yet so true that it made me laugh; we both laughed.  At that moment there came a still louder, noisier clamour of voices from the villagers.

‘The rooks mayn’t mind.’ said the little girl, pointing upwards to the large rookery close by. whence came a noise marvellously like that made by the field-workers.  ’But I’m afraid the blackbirds and thrushes can’t like it.  I do so wonder what they say about it.’

After we had left the rookery behind us and the noise of the villagers had grown fainter, we stood and listened to the blackbirds and thrushes.  She looked so joyous that I could not help saying, ‘Little girl, I think you’re very happy, ain’t you?’

‘Not quite,’ she said, as though answering a question she had just been putting to herself.  ‘There’s not enough wind.’

‘Then do you like wind?’ I said in surprise and delight.

‘Oh, I love it!’ she said rapturously.  ’I can’t be quite happy without wind, can you?  I like to run up the hills in the wind and sing to it.  That’s when I am happiest.  I couldn’t live long without the wind.’

Now it had been a deep-rooted conviction of mine that none but the gulls and I really and truly liked the wind.  ‘Fishermen are muffs,’ I used to say; ’they talk about the wind as though it were an enemy, just because it drowns one or two of ’em now and then.  Anybody can like sunshine; muffs can like sunshine; it takes a gull or a man to like the wind!’

Such had been my egotism.  But here was a girl who liked it!  We reached the gate of the garden in front of Tom’s cottage, and then we both stopped, looking over the neatly-kept flower-garden and the white thatched cottage behind it, up the walls of which the grape-vine leaves were absorbing the brilliance of the sunlight and softening it.  Wynne was a gardener as well as an organist, and had gardens both in the front and at the back of his cottage, which was surrounded by fruit-trees.  Drunkard as he was, his two passions, music and gardening, saved him from absolute degradation and ruin.  His garden was beautifully kept, and I have seen him deftly pruning his vines when in such a state of drink that it was wonderful how he managed to hold a priming-knife.  Winifred opened the gate, and we passed in.  Wynne’s little terrier, Snap, came barking to meet us.