which she carried in her hand. It is only when one has heard much
music that he understands the morning wind, and knows that it is a
living thing about which he can say such things as that; one needs
only to train his ear and he can hear its footsteps upon the
meadows, and hear it calling to him from the tops of the trees.

The girl was the very spirit of the wind at that moment, and she
seemed to feel that some music was needed. She glanced up again at
the bobolink, who had ceased his song; she nodded to him once as if
for a challenge, and then, still leaning back upon the breeze, and
keeping time with the flower in her hand, she broke out into a happy
song:

"I heard a streamlet gushing
From out its rocky bed,
Far down the valley rushing,
So fresh and clear it sped."

But then, as if even Schubert were not equal to the fullness of her
heart, or because the language of joy has no words, she left the
song unfinished and swept on in a wild carol that rose and swelled
and made the forest echo. The bobolink listened and then flew on to
listen again, while still the girl poured out her breathless music,
a mad volley of soaring melody; it seemed fairly to lift her from
her feet, and she was half dancing as she went. There came another
gust of wind and took her in its arms; and the streamlet fled before
her; and thus the three, in one wild burst of happiness, swept into
the woodland together.

There in its shadows the girl stopped short, her song cut in half by