An oak tree or an elm, perhaps, was more his
model.
"Do," the Tramp corrected him, swaying as he said it. "Swing with a
thing if you want to understand it. Copy it, and you catch its
meaning. That's rhythm!" He made an astonishing mouthful of the word.
The children overheard it.
"How do you spell it?" Judy asked.
"I don't," he replied; "I do it. Once you get into the"--he took a
great breath--"rhythm of a thing, you begin to like it. See?"
And he went on swaying his big shoulders in imitation of the rustling
reeds. All four swayed together then, holding their feathers before
them like little flying banners. More than ever, they seemed things
growing out of the earth, out of the very ditch. The movement brought
a delicious, soothing sense of peace and safety over them; earth, air,
and sunshine all belonged to them, plenty for everybody, no need to
get there first and snatch at the best places. There was no hurry,
life had just begun. They seemed to have dug a hole in space and
curled up cosily inside it. They whispered curious natural things to
one another. "A wren is settling on my hair," said Judy: "a butterfly
on my neck," said Uncle Felix: "a mouse," Tim mentioned, "is making
its nest in my trousers pocket.
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