It is a call to a
banquet, it is a signal that the feast is ready. The bough would fain
hold it, but it can now assert its independence; it can now live a life
of its own.
Daily the stem relaxes its hold, till finally it lets go completely,
and down comes the painted sphere with a mellow thump to the earth,
towards which it has been nodding so long. It bounds away to seek its
bed, to hide under a leaf, or in a tuft of grass. It will now take
time to meditate and ripen! What delicious thoughts it has there
nestled with its fellows under the fence, turning acid into sugar,
and sugar into wine!
How pleasing to the touch! I love to stroke its polished rondure with
my hand, to carry it in my pocket on my tramp over the winter hills, or
through the early spring woods. You are company, you red-cheeked
spitz, or you salmon-fleshed greening! I toy with you; press your face
to mine, toss you in the air, roll you on the ground, see you shine out
where you lie amid the moss and dry leaves and sticks. You are so
alive! You glow like a ruddy flower.
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