It was in the close of autumn; and every thing tempted
our lovely fair one to take the air. By the way she called upon her
inseparable friend and companion. They directed their course towards the
sea side.
Here they had not advanced far, before they entered a grove, a spot
particularly the favourite of Delia. In a little opening there was a bank
embroidered with daisies and butter-cups; a little row of willows bending
their heads forward, formed a kind of canopy; and directly before it,
there was a vista through the trees, which afforded a distant prospect of
the sea, with every here and there a vessel passing along, and the beams
of the setting sun quivered on the waves.
Delia and her companion advanced towards the well known spot. The mellow
voice of the thrush, and the clear pipe of the blackbird, diversified at
intervals with the tender notes of the nightingale, formed the most
agreable natural concert. The breast of Delia, framed for softness and
melancholy, was filled with sensations responsive to the objects around
her, and even the eternal clack of Miss Fletcher was still.
Presently, however, a new and unexpected object claimed their attention. A
note, stronger and sweeter than that of any of the native choristers of
the grove, swelled upon the air, and floated towards them. Having
approached a few paces, they stood still to listen.
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