The young man laughed.

He caught up his axe, held it straight out at arm's length, and
flourished it gaily.

"Twenty-five down already, and the axe as light as ever!"

The cuckoo called. The young man looked toward the top of the hill.
"A wonderful spring," he thought. "Never have the trees flowered so
blood-red and bright, nor the brook sung so merrily, nor the cuckoo
called so near. 'T would be no surprise to see the wood-sprite herself
come out from the trees."

He rested his head in his hands.

"Some say they never come nowadays, but Grandfather, he's seen them
himself. They're grown shy, now that the woods are being cleared."

"Come, strawberry blossom,
Come, raspberry blossom,
Come, little cows,
It is late."

The sound came from the other side of the hill, like a tinkle of
silver bells on a lonely winter road.

The young man's heart beat faster. He started up, and turned towards
the sound, holding his breath to listen. But he heard nothing more,
save the heavy throbbing in his breast.