... I awoke to low singing. The room was grey and seemed to lift with me, and the walls to widen. It was as if I had caught the old house just waking from a sleep of its own. The phenomenon of the singing lived in my mind. I don't know the song--a rapid bird-like improvisation possibly--two voices hushed, but a vibration of clear liquid joy. I went to the window. The earth was still asleep--a pearl-grey world of dripping trees in a kind of listening ecstasy--two beings below on the lawn--a lawn that was grey with dew. It was like looking down upon a cloud from the Matterhorn. These two beings--one in a veil of rose, one in a veil of gold--were dancing upon the cloud, dancing bare-armed and limbed, their voices interpreting some soft harmony that seemed to come from the break of day upon the sphere. It was not for me--yet I could not draw back from the vines. I brought only thankfulness to it--sharing the joy in the dim of a room, in the dim of a mere man's heart. Yet all I could contain came to me from the mother and child. They knelt in the grass, the song more hushed, bringing up to their faces and shoulders hands that dripped with the holy distillations of the night--a wash in dew and day, their song a prayer, their dance a sacred rite.... I should have thought it the gift of dreams, but there was a starry track of deep green across the lawn, where their bare feet had broken the sheen of dew. ... I dwelt with souls--that was the truth. I sat at breakfast with souls, dew-washed, speaking to each other and to me from that long road of life which we lose for a squalid by-way when we put on the garments of the world.... They talked again about what the birds hear in the morning. They said that what the birds sing is their interpretation of the great song of daybreak--that the earth does not meet her Lord Sun in silence.... And then I knew that the song I heard was their interpretation--think of it--a child of seven eating buttered toast. And I knew that power is a song--that the singing of the kettle is the song of steam, that the inimitable _t'sing_ of an electric burner when the current first charges through, is the awakening song of steel and carbon to their native capacity and direction. The same is in the heart of a boy when he finds his task--the same is in the order of a master and in the making of his poem.... These two hear it--the song of Mother Earth as the floods of light pour out and over her from the East. Here was a mother who knew how to play. She had launched somehow into a sphere of her own making--doubtless having found life of the world insupportable. I had thought much about bringing up children, about unfolding the child, and here it was being worked out with brimming joy.... It was all too natural to be called education. It was nature--it was liberation, rather--a new and higher meaning of naturalness.