Only in the country can one become truly acquainted with the night . There it has the solemn calm of the infinite . The dim wide fields lie in silence , wrapped in the holy mystery of darkness . A wind , loosened from wild places far away , steals out to blow over dewy , star-lit , immemorial hills . The air in the pastures is sweet with the hush of dreams , and one may rest here like a child on its mother 's breast . `` Is n't it wonderful ? '' breathed the Story Girl as we went down the long hill . `` Do you know , I can forgive Sara Ray now . I thought tonight I never could -- but now it does n't matter any more . I can even see how funny it was . Oh , was n't it funny ? ` DEAD ' in that squeaky little voice of Sara 's ! I 'll just behave to her tomorrow as if nothing had happened . It seems so long ago now , here in the night . '' Neither of us ever forgot the subtle delight of that stolen walk . A spell of glamour was over us . The breezes whispered strange secrets of elf-haunted glens , and the hollows where the ferns grew were brimmed with mystery and romance . Ghostlike scents crept out of the meadows to meet us , and the fir wood before we came to the church was a living sweetness of Junebells growing in abundance . Junebells have another and more scientific name , of course . But who could desire a better name than Junebells ?
They are so perfect in their way that they seem to epitomize the very scent and charm XXXXX the forest , as if the old wood 's daintiest thoughts had materialized in blossom ; and not all the roses by Bendameer 's stream are as fragrant as a shallow sheet of Junebells under the boughs of fir .
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