the custom to teach children, it was neither interesting nor instructive. But if it did her good in no other way, it was a lesson of patience, and Maia had worked hard at it. She now began to say it over to herself from the beginning in a low monotonous voice, her eyes closed as she half lay, half sat, leaning her head on the trunk of one of the great trees. It seemed to her that her poetry went wonderfully well. Never before had it sounded to her so musical. She really felt quite a pleasure in softly murmuring the lines, and quite unconsciously they seemed to set themselves to an air she had often been sung to sleep to by her nurse when a very little girl, till to her surprise Maia found herself singing in a low but exquisitely sweet voice.
'I never knew I could sing so beautifully,' she thought to herself; 'I must tell Rollo about it.' But she did not feel inclined to wake him up to listen to it. She had indeed forgotten all about him being asleep at her side—she had forgotten everything but the beauty of her song and the pleasure of her newly-discovered talent. And on and on she sang, like the bewitched Princess, though what she was singing about she could not by this time have told, till all of a sudden she became aware that she was not singing alone—or, at least, not without an accompaniment. For all through her singing, sometimes rising above it, sometimes gently sinking below, was a sweet trilling warble, purer and clearer than the sound of a running brook, softer and mellower than the music of any instrument Maia had ever heard.
'What can it be?' thought Maia. She half determined to open her eyes to look, but she refrained from a vague fear that if she did so it might perhaps scare the music away. But unconsciously she had stopped singing, and just then a new sound as of innumerable wings close to her made her forget all in her curiosity to see what it was. She opened her eyes in time to see fluttering downwards an immense flock of birds—birds of every shape and colour, though none of them were very big, the largest being about the size of a parrot. There lay Rollo, fast asleep, in the midst of the crowd of feathered creatures, and something—an instinct she could not explain—made Maia quickly shut her eyes again. She was not afraid, but she felt sure the birds would not have come so near had they not thought her asleep too. So she remained perfectly still, leaning her head against the trunk of the tree and covering her face with her hand, so that she could peep out between the fingers while yet seeming to be asleep.
The flutter gradually ceased, and the great flock of birds settled softly on the ground. Then began a clear chirping which, to Maia's delight, as she listened with all her ears, gradually seemed to shape itself into words which she could understand.
'Do you think they liked our music?' piped a bird, or several birds together—it was impossible to say which.
'I think so,' answered some other; 'he'—and Maia understood that they were speaking of Rollo—'has heard it but dimly—he is farther away. But she was nearer us and will not forget it.'
'They seem good children,' said in a more squeaky tone a black and white bird, hopping forward a little by himself. He appeared to Maia to be some kind of crow or raven, but she disliked his rather patronising tone.
'Good children,' she said to herself. 'What business has an old crow to talk of us as good children!'
'Ah, yes!' replied a little brown bird which had established itself on a twig just above Rollo's head. 'If they had not been so, you may be sure she would have had nothing to do with them, instead of making them as happy as she can, and giving orders all through the forest that they are to be entertained. I hear they amused themselves very well at the squirrels' the other day.'
'Ah, indeed! A party?'
'Oh, no—just a simple gambolade. Had it been a party, of course our services would have been retained for the music.'
'Naturally,' replied the little brown bird. 'Of course no musical entertainment would be complete without you, Mr. Crow.'
The old black bird giggled. He seemed quite flattered, and was evidently on the point of replying to his small brown friend by some amiable speech, when a soft cooing voice interrupted him. It was that of a wood-pigeon, who, with two or three companions, came hopping up to them.
'What are we to do?' she said. 'Shall we warble a slumber-song for them? They are sleeping still.'
The old crow glanced at the children.
'I fancy they have had enough music for to-day,' he said. 'I think we should consult together seriously about what we can do for their entertainment. It won't do to let the squirrels be the only ones to show them attention. Besides, children who come to our woods and amuse themselves without ever robbing a nest, catching a butterfly, or causing the slightest alarm to even a hare—such children deserve to be rewarded.'
'What can we do for them?' chirruped a brisk little robin. 'We have given them a concert, which has had the effect'—and he made a patronising little bow in the direction of Rollo and Maia—'the effect—of sending them to sleep.'
'I beg your pardon,' said a sparrow pertly. 'They were asleep before our serenade began. It was intended to lull their slumbers. That was her desire.'
'Doubtless,' said the crow snappishly. 'Mr. Sparrow is always the best informed as to matters in the highest quarters. And, of course—considering his world-wide fame as a songster——'
'No sparring—no satirical remarks, gentlemen,' put in a bird who had not yet spoken. It was a blackbird, and all listened to him with respect. 'We should give example of nothing but peace and unity to these unfeathered visitors of ours, otherwise they might carry away a most mistaken idea of our habits and principles and of the happiness in which we live.'
'Certainly—certainly,' agreed the crow. 'It was but a little amiable repartee, Mr. Blackbird. My young friend Sparrow has not quite thrown off the—the slight—sharpness of tone acquired, almost unconsciously, by a long residence in cities.'
'And you, my respected friend,' observed the sparrow, 'are naturally—but we can all make allowance for each other—not altogether indisposed to croak. But these are trifling matters in no way interfering with the genuine brotherliness and good feeling in which we all live together in this favoured land.'
A gentle but general buzz, or twitter rather, of applause greeted this speech.
'And now to business,' said the robin. 'What are we to arrange for the amusement of our young friends?'
'A remark reached my ears—I may explain, in passing, that some members of my family have a little nest just under the eaves of the castle, and—and—I now and then hear snatches of conversation—not, of course, that we are given to eavesdropping—of course, none of my family could be suspected of such a thing—but, as I was saying, a remark reached my ears that our young friends would like to visit what, in human language, would be called our king's palace—that is to say, the eyrie of the great eagle at the summit of the forest,' said a swallow, posing his awkward body ungracefully on one leg and looking round for approval.
'Nothing easier,' replied the robin. 'We are much obliged to you for the suggestion, Mr. Swallow. If it meets with approval in the highest quarters, I vote that we should carry it out.'
Another twitter of approval greeted this speech.
'And when shall the visit take place?' asked the wood-pigeon softly, 'and how shall it be accomplished?'
'As to when, that is not for us to decide,' said the robin. 'As to how, I should certainly think a voyage through the air would be far the greatest novelty and amusement. And this, by laying our wings all together, we can easily arrange. The first thing we have to do is to submit the idea for approval, and then we can all meet together again and fix the details. But now I think we should be on the wing to regain our nests. Besides, our young friends will be awaking soon. It would not do for them to see us here assembled in such numbers. It might alarm them.'
'That is true,' said the crow. 'Their education in some respects has been neglected. They have not enjoyed the unusual advantages of Waldo and Silva. But still—they are very good children, in their way.'
This last speech made Maia so angry that, forgetting all pretence of being asleep,