For the first time in his life he heard the wind as
it slipped between the leaves, shaking them into rapture.
"And that," laughed the Tramp, cocking his great head to catch the
murmur of the stream beyond the lawn, "if the dust of furniture and
houses ain't blocked your ears too thickly." They stooped to listen.
"Like laughter, isn't it?" he observed, "singing and laughing mixed
together?"
They straightened up again, too full of wonder to squeeze out any
words.
"It's everywhere," said Uncle Felix, "this calling--these calling
voices. Is that where you got _your_ song from?"
"It's everywhere and always," replied the other evasively. "The birds
get their singing from it. They get everything first, of course, then
pass it on. The whole world's music comes from that, though there's
nothing--_nothing_," he added with emphasis, "to touch the singing of
a bird. He's calling everywhere and always," he went on as no one
contradicted him or ventured upon any question; "only you've got to
listen close. He calls soft and beautiful. He doesn't shout and yell
at you."
"Soft and beautiful, yes," repeated Uncle Felix below his breath, "the
small, still voices of the air and sea and earth.
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