themselves, ought to be able to sing and play so that one could
comprehend what they meant. Yet they kept harping all the while on
the same strain. He grew drowsy listening to them, and stretched
himself flat on the smooth, fine gravel to take a little nap.

But hark! What was this? The instant his head touched the ground
and his eyes closed, the trees struck up something new. Ah, now
there came rhythm and melody!

Then all that other was only a prelude, such as is played at church
before the hymn.

This was what he had felt the whole time, though he had not wanted
to say it even in his mind. The trees also knew what had happened.
It was on his account they tuned up so loudly the instant he
appeared. And now they sang of him--there was no mistaking it now,
when they thought him asleep. Perhaps they did not wish him to hear
how much they were making of him.

And what a song, what a song! He lay all the while with his eyes
shut, but could hear the better for that. Not a sound was lost to
him.

Ah, this was music! It was not just the young trees at the edge of
the road that made music now, but the whole forest. There were
organs and drums and trumpets; there were little thrush flutes and
bullfinch pipes; there were gurgling brooks and singing water-sprites,
tinkling bluebells and thrumming woodpeckers.

Never had he heard anything so beautiful, nor listened to music in