Their feathers became wee, accurate,
tuning-forks for all existence. They understood that everything in the
whole world sang; that no rose leaf fluttered to the earth, no rabbit
twitched its ears, no mouse its tail, no single bluebell waved a head
towards its bluer neighbour, without this exquisite accompaniment of
fairy music.
"Listen, listen!" the Tramp repeated softly from time to time,
watching their faces keenly. "Listen, and you'll hear him calling...!"
And this fairy humming, having so marvellously attuned their hearing,
then led them on to the larger, louder sounds; they pricked their ears
up, as the saying goes; they noticed the deeper music everywhere. For
the morning breeze was rustling and whispering among the leaves and
blades of grass with a thousand happy voices. It was the ordinary
summer sound of moving air that no one pays attention to.
"Oh, that!" exclaimed Uncle Felix. "I hadn't noticed it." He felt
ashamed. He who had taught them the beauty of the self-advertising
Night-Wind, had somehow missed and overlooked the wonder--the
searching, yearning beauty--of this meek, incomparable music: because
it was so usual.
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