"It's like spring," Felicia said; "like little
leaves fluttering."
"Yes, it is," Ken agreed. "It's a song of some sort, I think--that is,
it ought to have words. And it's spring, all right. It's like--it's
like--"
"It's like those toads!" Kirk said suddenly. "Don't you know? Like
little bells and flutes, far off--and fairies."
The Maestro clapped his hands.
"I have not forgotten how, then," he said. "It _has_ words, Kenelm. I
hope--I hope that you will not be very angry with me."
He played the first twinkling measures again, and then began to sing:
"Down in the marshes the sounds begin
Of a far-away fairy violin,
Faint and reedy and cobweb thin."
Cobweb thin, the accompaniment took up the
plaintive chirping till the Maestro sang the
second verse.
"I say," said Ken, bolt upright in his chair. "I _say_!"
"_Are_ you angry?" asked the Maestro. He flung out his hands in a
pleading gesture. "Will he forgive me, Kirk?"
"Why, why--it's beautiful, sir!" Ken stammered. "It's only--that I
don't see how you ever got hold of those words. It was just a thing I
made up to amuse Kirk. He made me say it to him over and over, about
fifty-nine times, I should say, till I'm sure I was perfectly sick of
it."
"Having heard it fifty-nine times," said the old gentleman, "he was able
to repeat it to me, and I took the opportunity to write it off on a bit
of paper, because, my dear boy, I liked it."
"A lovely, scrumptious tune," said Kirk.
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