speculated a good deal on what Akka and the wild geese would say to him.
The wild geese were not at all sparing in their praises, but they did
not say the word he was longing to hear.

Then Sunday came again. A whole week had gone by since the boy had been
bewitched, and he was still just as little.

But he didn't appear to be giving himself any extra worry on account of
this thing. On Sunday afternoon he sat huddled together in a big, fluffy
osier-bush, down by the lake, and blew on a reed-pipe. All around him
there sat as many finches and bullfinches and starlings as the bush
could well hold--who sang songs which he tried to teach himself to play.
But the boy was not at home in this art. He blew so false that the
feathers raised themselves on the little music-masters and they shrieked
and fluttered in their despair. The boy laughed so heartily at their
excitement, that he dropped his pipe.

He began once again, and that went just as badly. Then all the little
birds wailed: "To-day you play worse than usual, Thumbietot! You don't
take one true note! Where are your thoughts, Thumbietot?"

"They are elsewhere," said the boy--and this was true. He sat there and
pondered how long he would be allowed to remain with the wild geese; or
if he should be sent home perhaps to-day.

Finally the boy threw down his pipe and jumped from the bush. He had
seen Akka, and all the wild geese, coming toward him in a long row. They
walked so uncommonly slow and dignified-like, that the boy immediately
understood that now he should learn what they intended to do with him.