The Rains.
89
priate to the owl are the words of the poet (to the nightingale) —
“Sweet bird, that shunn’st the noise of folly.
Most musical, most melancholy.”
The very name too, ooloo, is a sweet symphony. The frogs jeered as we passed. One of us recalled the lines —
“You shall have most delightful melodies as soon as you lay to your oars.
“From whom?
“From swans — the frogs — wondrous ones.”
And so through a chorus of exulting batrachians, home again to the solid earth, the noise of men, and the multitudinous chirping of birds.
