The hush which enveloped Thrush Green threw its spell over the excited little boy and his pace slowed down as soon as he emerged from his own garden. There was no breeze now. The bright caravans, the trees, the daisy-spangled grass of Thrush Green lay, like a painted back cloth, motionless and unreal. It was an enchanted world, doubly arresting to the child who had been house-bound for several days.
He looked, with new wonder, at the blossoming cherry tree, which overhung the low stone wall of the next-door garden. For the first time he nocited, with a thrill of joy, the delicate white flowers suspended by threadlike stalks to the black tracery of the boughs. Those threads, he realized suddenly, would dangle cherries later where the flowers now danced, and he would be able to hang them over his ears and waggle his head gently from side to side for the pleasure of feeling the firm glossy berries nudging his cheek. It was a moment of poignant discovery for young Paul , and he felt a thrill of piride as he realized that he knew now exactly how the cherries came to be. In the future they would be doubly beautiful, for he would remember the glory of that pendant snow even as he sensuously enjoyed the feel of the fruit against his face and the cool freshness in his mouth as he bit it.
Read, Miss. Thrush Green. Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1959. pp.87-88.